DREAM JOURNAL

I am sorry for taking you to a cold place. I think.

Well, hold on ... I did not take you anywhere; we had talked about it, you applied, and—preceded by your thunderous reputation and proved by your own merits—were accepted. As I did the same, we are both here of our own accord and free will, chosen. But I feel at fault beyond that because I had mentioned this intellectual gathering to you when these were my religious kin.

Now, we are in a familiar place to me and an unfamiliar place to you.

I say: I am sorry for taking you to a cold place.

You say: Why should you be sorry for something you can’t control?

I’d never fault you for being cold, Darling. You’re just out of your element here.

You give me that halfway-dangerous look, say: What’s that supposed to mean?

We are on-campus at my Gulag-esque alma mater to lecture at a weekend writer's conference. We are bunking in the concrete block dorms, but sleeping separately, as the buildings are segregated by gender. Your building is a half-mile away, down the hill. Both buildings are outfitted with watchmen and strict curfew.

For that, I feel inclined to apologize too.

Because of our collegiality and friendship, I have listened to your tales of hardship and I have added the color commentary of my own woes. We have commiserated and conspired, little to no avail, and here, at my frigid former college, we find ourselves in similar circumstances to previous occurrences. Namely: confused. Allow me to teach you about my place ... or better, I’ll summarize: This institution is like all other institutions in that it would be flawless if people had never gotten involved.

Are you having trouble breathing? I ask, then keep talking. At this altitude, people get sick.

You look great in a tie, by the way. As for me, I can’t stand mine.

This is where we depart—me to my dorm, you to yours—to prepare for our lectures. And when I am alone in that cinderblock room, painted faint yellow, floored with blue industrial carpet, and I feel the ghosts of my past selves swirling about me, I remember that not only are you my colleague and friend, but my lover.

I long and pine for you.

The next morning, at the grand breakfast buffet, when you ask me where the coffee is, I tell you that I’m sorry but my people do not drink coffee. As a rule, it is not served.

You are exasperated and exhausted, and, rather adorably, you grind your toe in disgust. You are not happy about out. Hell, neither am I. But you don’t say anything more and pour yourself a cup of hot chocolate.

We go our separate ways again, you to your classroom, me to mine.

What about you gives me the uncontrollable itch for a cigarette?

Why do you make me want to break the rules?

After my lecture is over and the attendees have filed out, I gather my markers and eraser and notes and am filing everything away in my satchel when, from the corner of my eye, I sense familiarity. A man I once knew, well ...

It is Gradco, a snowboarding buddy of mine from high school. He was the leader of our small, intense posse, and the most skilled and daring of us all. He had no fear in those days; once, after we all got jobs at the ski hill, on a bet, Gradco grabbed onto the back of a ski-chair as it came around the turnbuckle with his bare hands and yelled for me to NOT stop the lift. He took off the ramp and into the air, holding on with two hands and legs dangling twenty, then thirty feet up, and I watched him go over into the next draw. Twenty minutes later he was back, riding the chairlift back down. Me and the other guy were cheering—relieved—and Gradco didn't even grin, or flinch. I never saw him holler or weep or swear. He thanked me for not turning off the lift. That would have killed him, he said.

I think of his disappearing figure still, floating up the hill, all these years later, any time I’m up high. It gives me courage.

Gradco looks downtrodden, rough. Lost all his muscle mass, and most his hair. This peanut-shell of the badass that once videotaped me when I snowboarded off his roof and bonked out on his mother’s flowerpot. This, the first boy I knew to put his hand down a girl’s panties—and tell me about it. Man, no longer. His suit hangs slack and faded.

I say: Gradco, I thought you were a seminary teacher in Arco? What are you doing here?

Gradco says: Me? What are you doing here? Last I heard, you were baling hay.

I say: For a spell, but my brain was never in it.

Gradco says: I’m no longer a seminary teacher, and I’m all tore up about it.

I say: Lay it on me, I’ll listen.

He tells me a tale of personal strife so profoundly sad and disturbing that I start to shake behind my knees. I lean against the wall and fold my arms and nod, as if I know what to do.

Finally, I say: Gradco, I too have broken many covenants, actions for which I’ve had to relinquish certain privileges and powers. We all have. Maybe it’s for the best? Let it go.

Gradco weeps. He thanks me and apologizes, in that order. We walk out of the classroom together in somewhat stable condition. But instead of following me to the rest of the conference, Gradco leaves the building. Outside, Gradco sheds his suit jacket, puts it in an institutional garbage can, and, without gloves, scrambles up a large bank of plowed parking-lot snow. Seeing Gradco return to form, albeit in small form, gives me hope.

<>

It is right after this that you return, glowing from your success, enjoying a modicum of the attention and praise you rightfully deserve—attendees from your lecture trail you, disciples of a sort, hemming and hawing and deliberating through your ideas—and I have the pleasure of watching you in this moment, powerful, in charge.

However, I am unsettled by what Gradco confided in me, and, in need to tell someone, look to you. But then, I don't want to bother you, as you were being feted and celebrated, and so I walk ahead, give you your space and time.

But then you call my name. And I sense the panic in your voice. These locals are swarming you. I break through the crowd and lead you down to your dorm—on secret desire-paths from my youth (now fallow)—and we check you in through the guard but before you go inside you say: I need a drink.

I say: In this town? Good luck with that.

You say: You brought me to this place. You said you knew it. So I don’t care the distance, you need to go collect all the vices this place has to offer—and when you have something to kill a headache, come knock at my window.

I say: How do you feel about a naughty celebration?

You say: Depends on what you come back with ...

It takes me most of the rest of the day to locate and procure all the vices of my homeland, on foot and thumbing as I was. I had to go two wards over to get most of it, and you’re lucky you sent me, as, even though I am no longer in this world, I am of this world, and I know where to look.

I hitched back with a city snowplow and, before I reached the institution, emptied my satchel’s contents—my notes and papers and pens and books—out the window and over the side.

Driver looks my way and says: Eh, it's biodegradable.

I load the vices and contraband into the leather satchel until it bulged, and what didn’t fit—two packs of JOLT caffeinated gum—I put in my coat pocket, to be revealed as a final surprise.

Because of our kinship and kismet, I know which dorm room is yours. I sense it. I smell it. I am drawn to it. Your are in the windowless basement. I am about to go in the building when the shouts of a watchman come.

The voice says: Elder! Brother! Hold up there!

I see the tall rotund man, ruddy in the face. He runs up.

He says: Foster?

I say: Ribbons?

It is, I can see, Elder Ribbons, my mission companion back in ‘01. At the time, we were both 20 years old. I was his Senior Companion one lone and dreary Ft. Wayne winter. My informal title was Trainer, which is what I did for 19 solid months. The Mission President sent me all the greenies to break. But Ribbons was different. He was nuanced and careful, could sing across two octaves, had memorized many stanzas of instruction—in two languages—and together we’d walk through the wilderness and he’d recite them until I too had them cemented in my mind.

One night, Ribbons woke me up, writhing in diabetic seizures. He hadn't eaten anything all day, and we'd been biking on ice and snow. He was lucky I’d doctored cattle because I found his emergency dose and knew how to mix the liquid with the dry tablets via syringe. I did not hesitate to bare his flanks and stab in the antidote and then call the professionals.

Ribbons was my major influence, post-mission, to attend this very institution. He had been an English major here. His dad was on faculty. But we all stopped being friends at some point, over some writing I did or didn't publish. At this point, it's all blurry. I can't recall the intense flame that burned us out ...

Now here we are, back again, on his home-turf, and this catches me off guard.

Ribbons says: You know the rules. Brethren aren’t allowed in the Sisters’ dormitory.

I say: Excuse me, Ribbons, Doctor’s Orders.

I hold up the satchel for proof.

Ribbons grabs me by the scruff of my hair. It doesn't hurt, but I'm stopped.

He says: See, Foster, that’s your problem. Without me keeping you in line, you’d have been jack squat. I’m going to search you. Can’t be too careful …

Of course, first thing he finds is the caffeinated gum, which is enough for him to call for backup. But as he does, I slip my coat. Ribbons is left standing there, unsure if he should stop talking into his shoulder mic or drop the coat.

I take my satchel and dive inside the motion-sensor door. I make my way through the dank maze of flights and hallways to you. You’re clear in the basement, last door.

No window, Darlin. And the goons are coming. As long as you allow me in your room, I’ll be safe from Ribbons and his cronies, for they too have to play by certain rules. Knowing that you distrust authority like I do, I figure you’ve probably already reinforced the door. But you open it before I can knock, as sensitive as we are to each other. You glance about to see if I’ve been tailed. You pull me inside.

Something is wrong.

There is a child lying in your bed, sweating, frothing at the mouth. She writhes in pain and suffering. It seems to have no pause or end.

You say: This little girl sought me out after saying she hoped she could trust me, that no one here can do anything for her. And she began to tell me the most god-awful story but then her tongue swelled, and she could no longer be understood. So I took off my shoe and had her bite down on it, then I washed and bathed her, and I rocked and swayed her, and I even prayed over her and kissed her head. Nothing has worked. I have little faith now.

I hear commotion down the hallway. They will take the child. They will take you.

You say: What's in the bag? Will it help?

And I freeze. I think about it.

I say: No. None of it will.

For that, I feel the need to apologize.

I say: I'll explain it to Ribbons; he owes me a favor. I saved his life one time.

You say: No, not the men! Don't let in the men!

There were no other options, though, the cinderblock-walls, windowless, just the door, one-way-in, one-way-out. The men would help us. They had power.

Then the far wall exploded, and we shielded the child. As the dust settled, through the rubble and debris, I saw a way out. We carried out the child, and escaped.

But for momentary hearing loss, we all survived. We are all fine and happy now, far from that cold place.

<>

You ask, later: What happened? Who set us free?

I don't answer. Maybe it wouldn't make sense to you.

So I never tell you what happened during our escape, but I know this to be true: Gradco saved us. Sure, I did not see him, I did not hear him, but I felt his spirit all around.