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4� 4� � 5� x 4� 6 6# 6B * 6l 4y 6B 6@ 6B 6B 6l 6B 6B 6B 6B 6B 6B The Dreamspace Theatre hulks on some weedy land well outside the city limits. Me and my tribe like to hang out there, by the front steps, but I never went in before today. There�s a big fountain in the shape of a giant penis, and the steps are made of stone so old it looks like it�s starting to flow downhill. The trees surrounding it are ideal for our giraffes to graze on. Most civilized people don�t go there any more. All I know about its origins is that it was built by some people a long time ago. As for what people, all I can tell you is they weren�t what would be considered normal or upstanding in any age. After you go by the penis fountain pouring its waters into the yoni-shaped, moss-covered pool, and advance up the extra-steep, crumbly stairs of tombstone grey, you reach a sort of patio, with some amorphous stone shapes that might have been considered sculptures at one time. Now they make an excellent roly-poly forest to roller-skate in, or just sit around on, playing guitar and drinking under the moonlight, sometimes making love. Beyond this patio is the Theatre itself: a huge bubble of stone with a small opening. We�ve all peered into this opening, even ventured in a few feet. There�s a small hallway that goes in about six feet, then cuts left and disappears into darkness and myth. I�ve heard it said many times that the whole thing is an impossible labyrinth, that if you go in you might wander for days, or maybe even never come back. I don�t know. And until yesterday, I had no intention of ever finding out first hand.
But something my boyfriend said pissed me off. We were crashed out behind our favorite stone uprising, off to the left of the main entrance, cozily concealed in the rolling hills of stone, with several feet of weeds, broken bottles, and the like to further insulate us from passersby. He was stroking my face under the warm afternoon sun, while I licked the tip of his penis, lightly, as it grew hard and slick and plump. A tiny drop of sweet moisture appeared at the end, and I kissed it just like a honeysuckle blossom. The day was beautiful. And then out of nowhere he said, �I met someone who went in there.�
�Went in where,� I murmured, still mesmerized by the presence of his penis in my face.
�In the Theatre,� he said. �It was this vagabond guy that said he used to live with the tribe across the freeway. He was all full of like, carp� diem and live to the fullest and stuff like that. And he said he went in there once.�
Something in my boyfriend�s tone of voice made me stop what I was doing and stare up at his face which had gone all dreamy.
�So?�
�So he wouldn�t say nothing about it. I asked him what it was like and he just got this sexy smile, and shook his head.�
�Oh. I see.� And that was all. But it sure ruined the picnic for me. Sexy smile, indeed. We sat there a while longer until Trish and Shay and their rowdy little boyfriends came over with a bottle of brandy and we all passed it around and acted stupid and lit a small fire out of brush from the surrounding scrubby woods. Me and my boyfriend didn�t touch each other as much as usual, and I didn�t talk much.
So this morning I decided, what�s the big deal, it can�t be that big a deal. Well, I didn�t exactly decide this, but as soon as I woke up I knew I would be going in. It was one of those things where I keep telling myself I�m going to stop and think about it, really sit still and listen, you know? And all the while I�m getting closer and closer to the door. Strangely, when I arrived just after noon, there was no one hanging out. The sky was bright and sunny as usual. Birds flitted around, clouds did their wispy thing. And just like that, heart running on high octane, I walked inside.
I went in six feet, turned left. In front of me in the gloom I could see another blank stone wall. The corridor went on to the left and right. I remembered something I had read about always taking the left path, so just to be contrary I went right. The air began to feel damp. After about twenty feet, slightly downhill, I came to a red curtain, softly glowing from behind. With tingling hand, and the honeysuckle taste of my boyfriend on the tip of my tongue�s memory, I pushed it aside.
* * *
�That�ll be $3.59,� I said, shoving the books into a bag and handing them to the customer. Without looking up, she handed me the money. I made the change without looking up, muttered a thank you, slammed the cash drawer shut, and blankly said �Hi� to the next in line. After several more minutes of this, my shift was up. I said my half-hearted goodbyes to my co-workers, and trundled out back to my car. The interior was baking hot. I rolled both windows down, ground the gears into place, and chugged out of the lot. Traffic was damnable on the way home. The temperature needle inched over to the right. I listened to someone talk on the radio about a civil war, people dying and hiding in basements, in a place I would never see. I finally made it home, and clambered up the rickety porch steps, noting for the hundredth time that the fourth one was loose and needed fixing. The mailbox contained a flyer about a missing child, and a grocery store ad. My key scraped in the lock, and i went inside. There were no messages on the machine, which was fine because I didn�t really feel up to talking or going out anyway. I really needed to vacuum. I needed new furniture. The neighbors� stereo was thumping, and immediately it began to grate on my nerves. Eventually, I thought, picking up a tile that had fallen off the kitchen wall, eventually I�ll move out of this pit. For now, though, the long unruly evening was at hand, and had to be dealt with. The sky was already turning grey. I got down the whiskey bottle from the top of the grimy fridge. A siren wailed past the open windows, followed by the deranged, dopplerized song of the ice-cream truck.
That night I couldn�t sleep. I had nervous dreams. There were a lot of elevators, ones that went sideways and around corners, and much too fast for comfort. I was in a huge glass and steel hotel. My family had a room on the thirteenth floor, but no one was around but me. I wasn�t sure where everyone had gone. Then I remembered the german shepherd. It had followed me, wetnosed, across the nighttime grass to this place, and I had hated to leave it but you couldn�t bring dogs into hotels. So I told it I would come back later with some food. I found the food in a suitcase, and tried to find my way back downstairs. The hallways were long and ornate. I ended up in a restaurant, by the pool, in someone else�s room, but I couldn�t find my way back to the lobby.
I woke up, turned over, turned over, got up, got a drink, lay back down. The heat was massive against my body. My breathing felt raw. Finally I dreamed again. The night was fresh. My giraffe was under me, strong and lithe. I leaned into his gossamer neck, and whispered encouragement. He rotated his elegant ear to show me he had heard. We roved along with the pack, moving by night.
At work the next day I was exhausted. During a lull, I said to a co-worker, a guy I was just starting to be friends with, �You know, I feel so restless lately. It�s like there�s somewhere else I�m supposed to be, something else I�m supposed to be doing, but I can�t for the life of me imagine what it is. I�ve worked here for how many years? I don�t know how much longer I can take it!�
He surprised me by saying, �Everything you need is within. You have looked everywhere but the last place. Become the master. Break out of the loop.� He had this goofy grin on his face like he wanted to be able to say he was just kidding, quoting TV shows and fortune cookies with the customary mock drama of the work place. But something about the way he looked at me said he wasn�t completely kidding. Or maybe he was. Maybe it didn�t matter. Maybe it was just that grin that arrested me: if I hadn�t been a straight guy, I might have thought that grin was sexy!
That night I poured out all the whiskey. I scrubbed out the tub, had a bath, then went to the computer. I opened up the file containing a story I had started writing some time ago, but had, as usual, abandoned. It was a story about a free-roving tribe of waifs who lived in a slightly altered, vaguely post-apocalyptic version of our world where it was possible to live off the land, free from modern civilization. They rode around on mutant giraffes. Their days were long and their nights sweet. They exhibited a bawdy, innocent bisexuality; whether one had a boyfriend or a girlfriend or both had little bearing on the person�s overall identity or social fate. They played music in the moonlight. The story�s main fault was that it didn�t have much of a plot. I had never really gotten to the point. It kept eluding me, like trying to remember a dream. But at work today, when my friend had said his piece about looking within, an image from one of my fevered dreams of the previous night had popped out, bright as new. It was this big, lurking stone structure, and when I had seen it in my dream, the words had just appeared in my mind, �Dreamspace Theatre.� I didn�t know what it meant. But now I was certain I wanted to go there. I started typing, �The Dreamspace Theatre hulks on some weedy land well outside the city limits. Me and my tribe like to hang out there, by the front steps, but I never went in before today�.�.�.��
* * *
When I finally came out it was late in the evening. The air was ragged and cool. I was exhausted but wired. I blundered around the stone polymorphs, looking for someone, anyone, to talk to. No-one from the tribe was around, though the giraffes were grazing nearby. Clouds swiped wetly across the sky. My eyes felt huge, my mouth dry. Finally, way off on the perimeter of the stone garden, I saw the glow of a tiny fire. I shuffled over there and stood respectfully back until I was invited closer. The man sitting before the fire was small and lean. He had baggy clothes and greased-back black hair. His hands, holding a long stick with which he occasionally prodded the flames, were very small and deft-looking.
�Come join,� he offered, and I gratefully sank down in a heap across from him. �I�m Vee,� he said. �I�m from the lands across the freeway. You�ve had a long journey.�
I stared at him. Briefly I wished he would smile, so I could see for myself. I was too amazed and tired to be jealous just now.
�Smoke?� he said, pulling a pack out of his shirt-sleeve. I accepted the proffered cigarette, and we both sat there and puffed for a while.
Presently I said, �There�s just one thing I want to know.�
�Oh yeah?� He raised an eyebrow.
�Yeah. What if I had gone left instead of right?�
Vee looked at me very seriously for a moment. The sun was almost down now, and the sharp lines of his face glowed mellow in the firelight. Then he laughed�he did have a sexy smile�and leaned back against the smooth rock. He crossed one foot over the other, near the fire, and looked up at the dew-bright sky. �You know,� he said at last, �if this is the best it ever gets�sitting here under the stars, watching the sky slide by�that would be all right with me.�
I threw the butt of my cigarette into the fire, looking at him, waiting for something more. But that was all he had to say. Finally, I leaned back too, and watched the fire throw its little sparks into the night. In the darkness beyond the circle of golden light, we heard the tender sounds of the giraffes munching their evening foliage.
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