Yeah, What A Dream!

The zebras all got into a group so as to ward off the lions and lionesses. They all stayed together so that you wouldn’t know which zebra was which; their stripes all looked the same. The lions and lionesses weren’t out tonight; it was too dark, and even if they did hunt after dusk, no lion or rhino or giraffe could pick out the zebra that they had seen stumble, trip or fall, as every zebra had similar stripe patterns.

One time, reader, a lion approached these zebras, circling them. Lionesses front, back, side right and side left. No zebra could break free without death winning. The lions backed off soon enough, and the zebras all won. I know this fact to be true because the lions got tired and thought, Those zebras are smart. They’re all in a dazzle, so they’re protected. No lion would ever want to mess with them!

But, reader, lions are smart, too. How do you think they catch their prey? How do you think they sneak up on their prey, surround it on all sides and then go for the kill? But not this time. The lions were like, “I’m not going to waste my time failing at attacking a bunch of zebras, when they can crush my head with one kick.” So Lion #1 backed off. One of the zebras must’ve thought, “You can see me?” The lion would’ve said, “No!” The zebras would wait until all lions left (by counting them when they could see them). When they heard the last lion leave, they would break free.

But, reader, the zebras weren’t free. Everywhere they went—the watering hole, a thick Baobab tree—you would think the poor animals would be ended. But, reader, fear not. These zebras camouflage themselves pretty good. I mean, well. Sorry, I’m writing this diary entry as I travel around Madagascar. No, no lions, zebras or other wild animals native to Africa live here; just an interesting place to be. At least I think I’m on that island those funny animals from that movie find themselves in. Anyway, I’m a little busy driving and writing at the same time—

Whoa! That was close. I shouldn’t have done that. I need to drive! Reader, I’m so sorry for scaring you. I almost hit a lemur. A zebra even came up to me, kicked at me and ran away. But, you ask, how are you in a place where zebras aren’t? Well, I am writing this world. As in making it up. Zebras and lions are together here in Madagascar. Please—it’s just made-up. Don’t always believe what you hear, but believe me.

Oh, and I’ve stopped, reader. Don’t worry—

Holy cow!

Two months and eighteen weeks later (sorry, didn’t feel like translating weeks to months here)

Hey—I’m back. Sorry—I’m a little woozy from that attack. Whew! Thought maybe I’d get a little scratch here or there, but, man, a lioness attacked me out of nowhere. One minute I’m telling the reader what’s going on in my crazy life. The next is all claws, teeth, fur, screams, skin, hands, arms and eventually the ER. I mean, I came with my team, but they deserted me a little while. But when I got attacked, both you and my pen flew out of my hand. The lioness almost had me for lunch that day. Geez, it was a fight, flight or die situation!

At least I’m back home, in Massachusetts, where I belong. My husband doesn’t want me ever going out there again. He’s too worried, especially since I ended up in the hospital so long it was my new home. I don’t know how long (I fell asleep half the time). But when I woke up and realized my writing hand was torn almost to shreds, I cried for several weeks. I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to write to you, dear reader.

“Hey, honey.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Put that journal down—”

“It’s a diary—“

“Come to the breakfast table. Let me see that puncture wound. I need to nurse it.”

I obeyed, reluctantly. When I smelled the sizzling bacon and bubbling eggs and heard the crunch of tater tots my husband had just doused with ketchup, my mouth salivated. Sitting down across from him, I looked into his eyes, but they were cold and distant. “Honey—what’s wrong?”

“You know.” He muttered, occupying himself with his scrambled eggs. I studied him. I may have my nose in my diary, but I love my husband, too. “That lion attack told me to hug and kiss and dance slowly with you more often.”

“Your nose is always in that journal.” He flicked a hand over to it. “Put it down for once. I’m not going to read about your stupid—”

“I was in Mada—”

“No, you were in Africa. Madagascar doesn’t have zebras, lions, buffalo or crocodiles.”

“I’m passionate about wildlife! You don’t understand. My life work at the university centers on my natural ability to be among animals. I’d die for those creatures!”

My husband got up to, as he said, get to work. “Do whatever you want.” He said dryly, clearing his place and soon walking out the door without a goodbye or compliment on the rest of the eggs I had scrambled for him. He didn’t touch the bacon. I ate numbly. I got up from the table, grabbed my so-called journal and grabbed a suitcase, filling it with Africa-appropriate attire and booked a flight back to my life as a safari tour guide, zoologist and photographer. My husband would come home from work, having little interest in my life with wild animals. So he got a promotion at work. He barely uttered anything about the raise he received from his boss a while ago. We had eaten in silence. I announced my big fat paycheck was coming.

No response.

I might as well turn into a zebra or a chameleon. Because I don’t exist in my own household. I am a chameleon, I found out. I blend in. I’ve talked about it with my husband. He doesn’t understand my love for animals, my passion for research or my addiction to you—

“Hey, honey. I’m home!”

That’s my husband, reader. You met him. Medium height, thin as a rail, dark-haired—

“Honey, I’m home! What’s that—honey, the bacon’s burning!”

I throw aside my journal, leap into the kitchen and rip open the oven door. Smoke’s escaping like evacuees dashing out of a country right after a bomb or shooting. The fire alarm’s screaming. My husband’s coughing, I’m coughing and some people are gawking outside. They’d be better off inside their own homes. When I had grabbed the cookie pan and threw it onto the stove, shut the oven, unlocked and threw open all the kitchen and living room doors, my husband was still coughing. I ran to him, profuse apologies spewing out of my mouth. “I can’t believe it. Sticks of ashes. All because of me!”

He coughed heavily, going over to the closest door, swinging it back and forth. The alarm went off soon enough, and I collected all that bacon, chucking them into the trash bin. Tears welled into my eyes, poured down my face but were wiped away by my husband. He looked at me, nodded and said, “It can happen to anyone, dear.”

I shook my head. “You’re not mad? I just threw away fifteen dollars. All because I didn’t check on the bacon. It’s burnt to a crisp.”

“No, I’m not mad. I just don’t eat burnt bacon.”

His voice sounded weird. Guttural, like that of a lion. I backed away, wishing I had a gun or a knife or pepper spray. I bravely snatched the fire extinguisher from the open cabinet above, warning him to stay away. He blinked at me, those eyes now large and fierce, staring at me. He started walking towards me, licking his chops. Then he lunged, teeth bared, claws out—

I jerked up in bed.

“Honey, take the trash out. It smells.”

This time, he was above me, but was smiling. He kissed me on the cheek. I got up out of bed after taking the covers off and grabbed my journal. I told him it was something I had used on my wildlife adventures. He agreed, nodding, getting ready for work. “Just look up for once, honey. I’m always prying that stupid book out of your hand.”

I went to my computer but turned away from it, his face right up to the screen. Good thing I had turned on the light—not good for screen light to be right in your face when surrounded by darkness—oh, sorry, I’m recounting today’s sourness. Anyway, I asked him how he liked my story. He pulled his head away, nodding. “Good! Can I have some more?”

“Sure!”

As I clacked away, my husband said he had to return to work for something his boss said he was waiting to give him. “Oh, and while you’re there, tell him I had this bizarre dream that the bacon burnt, and that you turned into a lion. I was terrified!”

He laughed, agreeing. When the car pulled out of the driveway and then was gone, I stood there, having pushed my chair into the desk. Taking a break from writing was great—I stretched, got a cup of coffee and settled down to watch something interesting. Soon, when I heard the keys unlock the front door, I got up to greet my husband, who announced that he received a promotion and raise. I threw my arms around him, smiling from ear to ear. “Oh, honey!” I gushed. “That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, and this time, we can on that cruise adventure you’ve been asking about for months.”

That night, as both of us were sitting in bed, me attacking that keyboard like my life depended on it, and Bert reading a book he claimed was the best in his life, I slowly peeled my eyes away from the screen. “Honey, I want to apologize for such selfishness in my life.”

He looked up, furrowing his brows. “Oh, no, KitKat! You’re a woman set on studying animals. I’m a businessman, providing free quotes and reducing complaints and increasing sales all by my next birthday. What do you have to be sorry about?”

“I feel I never spend enough time with you.” I wrung my hands, hoping he’d get the message. He took my hands in his own, them warm. I smiled a little. “I’m always writing. I’m always at the computer.”

“You’re always with me, Kit. And that’s what I love about you. Why’d you marry me?”

“Because I love you, the way you always tell me to stop doing what I’m doing enough to sit out on the porch and enjoy a nice steaming cup of coffee, drinking in the crispness of autumn. Someone who adds marsh mellows and peppermint sticks to a cup of hot cocoa every winter’s night and Christmas morning.”

“But the most important thing I’ll ever love about you is that you’re so passionate about—“

“My job, Bert! I mean, do I ever spend the weekend with you? Do I ever wake up refreshed, or do I want to just huddle with my journal, ignoring every possible sign that’s screaming, Kit, you have a husband. Dance with him. Live outside your journal! Do you feel I distance myself from you? Do you feel I don’t always want to get involved?”

He set the book aside, and got out of bed, throwing the comforter aside. Crossing his arms, he looked at me firmly. “Kit, I’ve loved you since I laid eyes on you back in middle school. That first day, when I moved from Kentucky to Missouri, and you had bows in your hair, and I said I had to go to the bathroom but it was to do my hair because I was late from sleeping in. I missed the bus for the eighth time those two weeks, and then my mom, who had stopped trying to get me ready, just let me miss school, and I faked being sick. When you brought me my homework, you always did it with cheer and a sense that I was the rebellious kid but still a kid you liked back. I don’t know where you’re getting that I don’t care about you anymore.”

I looked at him. “Remember that promotion and raise? You said you got them today. But you also said that you had won a certificate, a previously earned vacation week off and paid sick leave. You were out for three days. You even slept over at the office, and in the morning, Teddy had to put coffee under your nose to wake you up.” Anger boiled in my blood. I started yelling that he didn’t mean to get a promotion and raise. He had lied to me. He didn’t go to the office. He went somewhere, but it wasn’t the office.

“Honey—”

“No!” I shoved him away, grabbing my purse and jamming on my sneakers. “You’re not the husband I thought you were—”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

His voice was so loud he shook the house, or at least it felt like it. “I was at work, and my boss gave me a raise and promotion. What is so hard about that?”

I stormed into the kitchen, grabbed some papers off the kitchen table and returned to the bedroom. My husband stared at me like I was some nutcase trying to convince him that I wasn’t his wife. Or that he wasn’t my husband. Either way, I was delusional. I showed him some paragraphs on the first sheet of paper. “Right here,” I said, pointing at paragraph one, “it says that you were caught—”

“These aren’t mine!”

He did as I had done, except he threw them in the trash. Coming back, he jabbed at me with a pointer finger. "Whatever you’re cooking must be a lie, Kit, because I was at work. Look, I can prove it!” He returned to the kitchen (his feet hitting the linoleum floor hard), called me in and, when I had joined him, shoved the promotion and raise in my face. I tore them out of his hand, reading. Once I was done, I said I had felt light-headed.

“Help!” I heard my husband screaming, and soon, everything went black.

And then white.

Light flickered on.

“Honey.”

I didn’t respond.

“HONEY!”

I jerked awake.

“Man,” Bert was beside me in my hospital bed. “You were out like a light. I don’t know what happened to you!”

I felt groggy, and just closed my eyes. “I don’t, either. Bert, I’m sorry for challenging you.”

“Babe, it’s okay. I don’t know why you didn’t believe me when I said I got both a promotion and a raise!”

“I don’t know, either. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Honey, I think this journalism stuff is getting to your head. I think you’re imagining things. I don’t lie.”

“I know.”

“Then why’d you think I did?”

“I wasn’t accusing you of lying.”

“Yeah, you were.”

“No, I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were!”

His fists were balled, and he glared at me. “Kit, don’t know where you are sometimes, but I have proof of my success in my endeavors. I think you’re always in your head—” Then he shook me. “Honey, wake up. Wake up!”

I opened my eyes. “Where am I?” I looked around. When I saw that I was in the hospital bed, I started getting out, saying I didn’t want to be here. But my husband told me that I needed to stay. He urged me, pleading with me to listen. But I didn’t. I suddenly leaped out, kicking behind me. A strange noise came from my mouth—like that of a zebra. He, my husband, stared at me, but then he turned around, a lion tail sticking out of his rump.

I sneered at him, and he ran away. I told him to go away, and stay away. He didn’t respond. When I was told to wake up again, I did. This time, I looked down. I had hooves, zebra’s hooves. My journal was before me, the stick with black ink lying next to it. I looked around—everyone was surrounding me, a dazzle of zebras. “Hey!” Someone said. “We’re protecting you.”

“Yeah.” What a crazy dream! I was a woman married to a man who worked in an office. He got something called a promotion and a raise. I raised my voice in gratitude for all the zebras protecting me. Some of them neighed back. I smiled. Then the next night, I saw the lion again. I didn’t dare go to sleep. It’d find a way into our dazzle, and for real eat me. Me! A weakling. I’d show it a thing or two about us zebras. I’d crush its skull.

I returned to my journal, continuing to write about my adventures being surrounded by such lions and lionesses. When they had backed off, I had wrestled my way out, calling to them that they better watch out, or I’ll kick at and bite them.

It’d be a happy ending. I wrote this in my diary.

Some zebra went up to me, and I turned my diary around so he could read it. After turning a few pages, he said, “Keep writing! Wow—what a story for the herd.”

I agreed. And I never dreamt I was a woman whose husband almost ate me. That lion saw us, and it got closer, closer, closer—

We were somewhere else, where the lions left us alone, for the New Earth didn’t include death anymore. So we all stayed there. And I continued my story.

Chapter Two…