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Some fiction: I wore olive green slacks and socks, burgundy shoes and belt, and a white shirt. For an eleven-year-old, I looked sharp. "'Blessed is he who believes in Me for though he may perish, he will not die but have ever lasting life,'" I said into the bathroom mirror. I knew my lines well. I should. For two weeks now, I had spent every night studying. Tonight, The Church of the Nazarene would perform its annual vacation Bible school play. This year, we would do "Children unto Jesus" and I had the most lines. I'm not kidding. I counted. I had six more lines than Janice Timmons did, and she's good. I bet she was so jealous. I brushed my teeth, bending over the sink so as not to get any toothpaste on my clothes. I then combed my hair. It's short and black, but one clump of hair always stood up straight on the left side. Mom said it was a "cow lick." I thought that's kind of gross. A cow licking hair, it gave me the creeps. Running warm water from the sink, I scooped up a handful and rubbed it onto my head until my hair stayed in place. Ready as I'd ever be, I walked into the living room. Upon seeing me, my mom stood up and yelled to my dad in the bedroom. "Dave, come in here and look at your son." "Hold on," answered my dad. "I'm busy." "You're so handsome," said my mom, picking invisible lint off my shirt. "I found it," said my dad coming into the living room. "My Frank Lloyd Wright tie." He slid it around my shirt, and pulled it tight. I couldn't breathe. "You'll knock the girls dead with this," he said. "Dad!" "Dave, don't embarrass the boy," Mom said. "Luke, you look very handsome." "Your Mom and I are going to pick up your grandparents." My dad finished straightening my tie. "You and Brian head on down to the church." I looked over at my seven-year-old brother, who was sitting at the dinning room table scribbling in a coloring book. He wore a black suit and a yellow bow tie. He looked up at me, smiling that evil smile of his that everyone thought was so cute. "Oh isn't he adorable. Look at that blonde curly hair and blue eyes. He's just an angel." That's what everyone always said about him. I knew better. "Dad, take him with you." "There's no room in the car for all of us," my dad said, grabbing his keys. "We're late as it is. Just keep an eye on him and you'll be fine." "He's a changeling," I told him. "Mark told me all about them. Fairies switched him at birth so he can do mean things to me." My father gave me a funny look, raising his eyebrows, but I continued. "Just like at Bible school. I didn't want him to go, but Mom said that he needed to learn about Jesus too. You know what he did? In front of everyone, he put two fingers together and pushed them against me. He said 'break the cheese, you're a naked Chinese.' What does that mean? He kept doing it over and over. Everyone stared at us. A woman even came up and sat with us. He started doing it to her too. I was so mad. He even did it to the preacher!" "I wonder where he got that from?" asked my mom, eyeing my dad. "He must've picked it up at preschool," said my dad, turning really red. "I bet." "That's not all, listen to this," I said. "When classes started, he had Kool-Aid and cookies and then asked to use the bathroom. He went home and didn't tell anybody. He never came back. The entire church looked for him. They even sent me home to find him." I looked over at Brian. He just kept scribbling hard with a red crayon, not paying attention. "Luke, I already told your father about it," said my mom. "He thought he had to come home to use the bathroom. He just doesn't know any better. Take him to the church. You'll be fine and we'll be there in a few minutes." "Mom!" "Just do it!" Mom snapped. "I'm in no mood to argue with you," she said in a softer tone. We left for the church. I made him walk in front of me. That way he couldn't do his finger thing. As we were walking through an alley next to a bank, Brian picked up a loose piece of the road. Black and the size of a tennis ball, he held it up and turned to me. "If you hit me with that, so help me, I'll knock the crap out of you." I said, stepping away. He leaned back, turned to the side, and sent it flying onto the rooftop above us. I hate to admit it, but I was kind of proud of the little guy. He had a heck of an arm. Something slammed me flat smack on the top of my head. Do you know what happens when you throw something on a roof and it doesn't make it over the top? It comes right back at you. I looked at the piece of road now lying in front of me, where it had landed after bouncing off my skull. Everything looked hazy. I felt warmth flowing down my face. Blood dripped onto the road. I could feel a pulsing coming from my head. I touched it. It stung, and felt sticky. It really, really hurt. I ran for the church. One of the volunteers, Belinda, let out a gasp when she saw me. She grabbed me and rushed me to the bathroom. She held a towel that somebody brought from the kitchen onto my head. She said that it wasn't that bad. Evidently, head cuts bleed a lot. Once it stopped, she cleaned my clothes off with paper towel, leaving small pieces of it all over me. I wiped my face as best as I could. When I looked in the mirror, I could see dried red specks and brown gunk covering my messed up hair. Bloodstains covered my tie and shirt. I looked like a zombie. The show was about to start. I couldn't go home and change. I took a seat on the bleachers where all the kids sat during the play. I saw Brian next to a group his own age. He didn't even look at me. I asked God for a favor. I won't tell you what, but it hasn't happened yet. To my right, Janice Timmons sat, staring at me as if I had lice. She scrunched her nose and scooted away. She, of course, looked good. She wore a pink dress with gray bows creating pigtails in her hair. She may have dressed pretty, but I still had the most lines. I was the star, not her. Not even my brother could change that. When everyone found out what had happened to me, I would get even more attention. They would also know the truth about Brian. I played the narrator. I started the whole thing. The lights dimmed, the loud crowd immediately grew quiet and the curtain opened. I stepped down from the bleachers and walked onto the stage. I heard my mom say, "What happened?" I looked up. There must have been five hundred people there. My belly felt as if worms crawled through it, and my knees got shaky. I moved up to the microphone, getting my mouth as close as possible and said in a loud voice: "God. . ." "Man. . ." "God. . ." "I don't know what in the hell my next line is." No one made a sound, except for my brother giggling. Reverend Carmichael whispered to me from behind the curtains. "'I will make you fishers of men.'" I leaned back and looked over at him. "What?" "'Fishers of men'" he said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "'I will make you fishers of men.'" Everyone laughed. I turned to see my dad squirming, and my mom hunkering down in her seat. I leaned back into the microphone. "What he said." The crowd laughed even harder at me, even Grandma Carp. Eventually, they stopped. I stood and waited, not sure of what to do next. After a minute, they started laughing again. I hadn't even done anything. "'If you follow me,'" the reverend screamed from offstage. The crowd started in again. I leaned back to see him. He frowned, and held the play wadded in his fist. "'Follow me!'" he screamed. "Where are we going?" The crowd laughed so loud I couldn't hear. The curtains closed. "I think he may have a concussion," yelled Belinda as she ran up to us from the right side of the stage. "I can do his lines," Janice Timmons said from her place on the bleachers. "I've learned everyone's lines." Oh, if I just could have gotten hold of a pigtail. A quick jerk, was that too much to ask? Belinda got my parents. My mom took me to the hospital. My dad stayed to watch Brian, and walk all the grandparents back to our house. As my mom drove, I bawled to her what Brian had done. I said that he had ruined my big night, my chance to show up Janice. By the time I finished, I breathed heavy and fast. She pulled a small packet of Kleenex from the driver's side door and handed it to me. "Blow," she said, "and wipe your face." I blew my nose, and wiped my hand over my eyes. "Do you hate me now? I embarrassed you didn't I?" "Luke, I love you. I could never hate you." She smiled. "Don't you see what you did was wrong? It's not Christian to want to show up people and you shouldn't think evil thoughts about your brother or anyone. Brian loves you too. He didn't throw the rock at you, or hit you on purpose." She reached over and ran her hand around the back of my head. "It's not about having the most lines, or being the star. It's about working together and having fun. In a way, you could look at it like this: God cares about you so much that when He saw you thinking bad things, He decided to teach you a lesson. He wants you to be humble before Him. Every now and then God has to put us in our place, and dish out some tough love. I'd say you got yours tonight. Do you understand?" "Yes," I said, and burst into tears all over again. I understood everything. I'm so stupid. Why didn't I figure this out before? Not only was my brother a changeling, but Janice was in on it too. I'd get both of them back.

My friend DL says, "I know this website you need be on. I'm on it." "Uh-huh, what kind of website?" He goes on to explain it. The website, we'll just call it Dcon, is a gay fetish site. "And, I need to be on this why?" I'm the all-American guy next door, who's only opposition to vanilla is the fact that I know DL. "Here let me show you." He commanders the computer and brings up the site with member pics. I'm not shocked. How can I be after meeting DL? Also, the members seem to look average for the most part. Okay, a few are a little out there, but the fetishes aren't anything unimaginable. "You should start a profile," he says. "You'd like it." "DL, are you trying to corrupt me?" "Yes. Is it working?" "No." "Tim . . . Are ya scared?" "No." "Then try it, you don't know until you try." "Actually, I can pretty much know without trying." "Let's just create a membership for you and if you want to delete it later you can. Come on, it'll be fun. Yah? Come on, yah?" He shakes his head like the energizer bunny on a crack and speed frenzy -- the look in his eyes matches. "Or we can save time and just not create it." "No. . . No. . . . Come on, let's do it." Darn him, he knows me well. While I have no desire to jump into a rubber suit and grab a whip, the psychology behind it all will intrigue me. He sets me up knowing the outcome. Of course, I wait until DL is safely away and no longer an influence. I jam up the music and see what is out there. I log on as the music bellows: I like black and white (dreaming of black and white) You like black and white BOY: "Excuse me Sir, are you CBT, TT, FF?" ME: No, T.I.M. BOY: ?? ME: TTYL If you're in the swing (money ain't everything) If you're in the swing. MAN: Looking for someone so down, they don't want to continue on their own and need for me to take full control of their lives. Me: That person doesn't need you, they just need some help, but couldn't we all use a little, hint, hint. Oh now can't you wait (love don't come on a plate) Oh now can't you wait MAN: I'd love to do erotic hypnotism on you? ME: Erotic hypno what? Explain? MAN: Some things can't be explained, only experienced. ME: Oh, like the itchiness of a rash. If you gotta crush (don't beat about the bush) When I gotta crush BOY: Can I come over and please you, Sir? ME: Now? BOY: Yes, Sir. If you want, Sir. ME: Can you give me an hour to get the body of the last guy buried? BOY: Yes, Sir. ME: Okay. . . . BOY: I can be there in an hour. BOY: Still there? BOY: Sir? See there chameleon Lying there in the sun MAN: You are new to this? ME: Yes, very! I'm here mainly to talk. MAN: We need to be talking in my dungeon. All things to everyone MAN: Here's my phone number, we live close! BOY: Do you play pool? Run run away Run run away Run run away CLICK Some things you shouldn't be messed with or necessarily experienced even by computer proxy. Some of the guys were very nice and I'm sure most were sincere, except for me. I was the fraud. I feel bad for having been there. My apologies if you are one and read this. BTW/ I'm going to get DL for this.

I had THAT dream again, the one where I wake up shivering under a mound of blankets in an eighty-degree room. The re-occurring dream I've had throughout life. The one I know I will have several more days to come, that is, when I'm finally able to fall asleep. In the dream, I walk into my grandmother's room. She sits up in bed and puts down a John Saul book, The God Project. "How can you be here?" I ask, "You're dead." "I have a message for you," she says. In a flash of dream frame, I'm sitting in the driver's seat of a bus, staring down an empty road. I glance into the mirror above me. It's a tour bus. A bus packed full of people, all of them pressing their faces into the windows so I can only see them from the back and side. They hardly move and no one talks. They are fixated on the whizzing scenery, or perhaps searching for something. I feel incredibly tired as if I've been going for days without end. I check the mirror once more and see a chair directly behind me, void of anyone. I stand while the vehicle is still going, step around to the chair and stretch over a metal bar to grab the steady wheel. The bus never swerves. Eventually, I relax, release my grip and sit back. Calmness fills me and I find myself joining the others on the bus, mesmerized by the scenes blurring by us. A tap to my shoulder, "Excuse me?" I turn to an elderly man who stands next to me, a perplex expression marring his face. "Who is driving the bus?" "I am," I tell him. "Really?" He looks concerned. "Don't worry. I have it all figured out. I can sit back here and if something gets in the way, I can jump up and move the bus out of danger in time to avoid catastrophe. "Yes," he says, "but wouldn't it be so much better if you controlled where you are going?" I wake up. It's the same every time. I understand it is a no-brainer. I hardly need to grab a cigar and Google Freud's journals or pay two hundred some odd bucks an hour for psychobabble when the answer is evident. The dream is telling me to take control of my life-- duh! It always happens when I go wild, have fun and for lack of a better word, frolic. Actually, there is a better word, but I chose not to use it. My inner-guilt chastises me for having the gall to smell flowers and drink lots of wine -- okay, maybe a little too much wine, but who really cares? No one gets hurt and only blue laws are broken. My subconscious cares though, holding my fantasies hostage in retaliation as if to say, "No more Jell-O pits or bar poles until you straighten your ass up! Don't mess with me. I'm your worst nightmare." Why are dreams so cryptic? Whether trying to communicate to myself or, as a friend suggests, "A cosmic message from beyond the grave. Boo! Boo!" Wouldn't a message have more punch if was blunt and to the point? By the time a dream is deciphered, if it actually is, it's probably already too late, or the moment is lost. My dreams only hint at the problem but never tell me what needs to be done or why. A far more powerful thing would be to wake up and find myself sitting next to me saying, "Look Jackass, things have got to change and here is what you need to do or else. You've already messed things up quite a bit you freaking idiot." You darn well can bet I'd take action the next morning! I'd call in to work, "Sorry boss, I'm going to be late today. Why? My astral self told me to do some things and I'm doing them. By the way, I'm supposed to stand up to you and say you're a butt sometimes and don't give me enough credit, but we can discuss that later. Right now, I have to call my dad, and then do some charities. See you this afternoon." Okay, maybe not taken to such an extreme, but there would be impact. The worst part is the symbolism. I heard a dream expert on the radio talking about what each item in a dream symbolizes: a snake is an un-resolved issue, a bear or shark is a threatening situation, babies and animals are secret pleasures etc . . . . A ghost represents a fear of the unknown. What? Really? There is a manual? Moreover, if so, does my psyche really possess this guide? Is it flipping through the pages saying, "Let's see to get my point across I'll need three dwarves, an umbrella, and a tattoo parlor. Oh what the heck, I'll throw in Queen Elizabeth playing naked twister while eating a vanilla cone to just to "F" with him." What about children? THINK OF THE CHILDREN! When I was a child, I had a nightmare. The invisible man rubbed raw hamburger into my hair. No matter where I ran or hid, a glob of ground round would plop itself onto my head. It felt greasy, sticky and just plain horrible. What was I supposed to take from this symbol? Avoid red meats and the hidden dangers of cholesterol at all costs? I was freaking six years old. I didn't know about any such thing. I only knew about Hot Wheels, Tonka, and Big Wheels. The only thing I took from it was to grab my head and scream bloody murder at the site of raw meat. "Run boy run or he's gonna get you." I skirted cookouts and ate all meat well done for years. I don't want to even think about sushi bars and I shudder at steak tartar. If I put enough thought into it, I can probably trace all my night terrors back to meatloaf nights -- not that Mom's meatloaf wouldn't classify as horrifying on its own merits. Even as a man to this day, there is something disconcerting about a woman holding a tray of meat as I find it both scary and comforting. Why can't I just dream fantastic dreams of football, luxury, and decadence and have the idol care-free lifestyle to match? Why must I punish myself for pleasure in a world rivaling Gomorrah ? The dream! That dream! The bus and the people. . . the people . . . Suddenly, I'm filled with a sense of dread. The people on the bus are familiar to me. As I study the snapshot emblazoned into my mind, I now realize I know them, at least most of them. They are all people from the past and present, family and friends, lovers and exes. Could the strangers be the ones I have yet to meet? Or am I looking to hard for meaning? I'm a freaking moron. What if the message was for me, but never about me, at least not completely. I'm so conceited and self-indulgent; I never even considered it might be about them. All those at one point or another, who have been/are/ or will be counting on me, gathered together in one place. They are depending on me to navigate us to where we need to be and I have left them waiting for so long. Perhaps it is time I took up the wheel again and aim in a direction. Only now I know I'm not tired -- I'm scared as hell. What if they don't like the trip, I can't figure out where to go, or I get lost or worst of all, fail? Perhaps I just needed to write it down. There were two children clustered at one of the windows. I don't recognize them perhaps they are. . . I just don't know yet. Though, I now know who the elderly man is.

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