Klar Alptraum

One can never know whether a dream is genuinely recurring or not, as the dream itself may smuggle in with it, the sensation of recurrence.

— Al P. Traum, Psy.D.

Mike Ester went to see Doctor Traum on a pleasantly overcast Wednesday afternoon. He pulled his puttering hatchback into an otherwise empty row of parking spots, stopped, and stared at the office building, his hands still gripping the wheel at ten and two while the car idled. He shifted the car into park and rested his forehead on the steering wheel, feeling the rumble of the engine rattle through his skull. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t believe in this hippy-dippy crap. He heard his sister's words echo through his head; You can’t say whether it's B.S. or not, until you give it a chance. There was no getting around it, it was clear she was clean. They’d all seemed to have written her off, he knew he had. And here she was, beautiful and vibrant and free of her shackles. Why am I pushing back? he thought. 

“You know what? I’ll do it.” He took the card and smiled, warmly, happy to have his sister back in his life. If it could help her quit heroin, then why couldn’t it help him quit smoking? Although he might have heard somewhere that smoking was harder to kick.

Mike sat in the chair, unconsciously massaging the arms of the chair in a secondarily unconscious attempt to prevent himself from balling his fists, a nervous tick that he had recently become aware of. He rubbed his hands together and glanced around the room when the door opened. 

Doctor Traum was a tiny, round man. He shuffled in and turned, stiffly, to close the door behind him. “Hello,” he greeted Mike with an Austrian lilt. He raised a hand in a labored wave and wheezed as he made his way to his seat. He flashed Mike a small smile and groaned as he fell into his chair. He opened a notebook and set it on the table next to him. “Ok,” he looked Mike over, “You’re Mary’s brother?”

“Marlene,” Mike corrected, calmly, unsurprised by this charlatan’s sloppy research.

“Yes.” The Doctor pulled a wooden box from the shadows, opened it, and frowned down at its contents. He looked up at Mike. “Smoking?”

“Smoking,” Mike parroted, automatically and hung his head and chuckled. “Nailed it.”

“Ok.” The doctor rifled through the contents of the box. Faint flashes of iridescent light seemed to glint across the doctor’s glasses as he searched. 

Mike watched him with amusement, realizing that at the very least he was in for an entertaining grift. 

“Smoking.” Doctor Traum repeated as he held up a match.

Mike nodded.

Traum thumbed the match. It scuffed and flared into a colorful bloom. “Watch the flame,” his double Us pronounced as Vees.

Mike’s polite smile melted, the flame reflecting in his eye as he followed it from side to side. First as it danced and still as it faded into a single point of light, red and white, and some darker color. An ember burning in space, floating back and forth, back and forth.

Mike looked at his hands. “I’ve got it.” It was the first time he’s been able to do it. It was the first time his hands hadn’t been blurry or turned to hooves, or his perspective hadn’t shifted to third person, and he ended up watching everything from a balcony, or a treetop. He had control of his dream, and he felt it. He was lucid. Not that he hadn’t gained control, or at least partial control of his dreams before, but every other time the dream had started to waver and fade as soon as he tried to control it. He looked up from his hands. He was at work, sitting at his desk. A flood of panic rushed over him. Slowly, he looked down. A wave of relief. Oh, thank God, he thought, I’m not naked. He took a deep breath, and felt the sensation of the air filling his lungs, another thing that was supposedly very challenging to do in a dream. 

“Ok, what the hell do I need to figure out?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Huh?” He snapped his head around.

She smiled, tightly. “Did you say something?”

He stared at her, his boss’ secretary, Jenny. This wasn’t the first time she’d shown up in one of his dreams. She was tall and beautiful, immaculately put together. Deep down he had a huge crush on her, even if he’d never have admitted it, even to himself, and ‘dream’ Jenny was even more stunning than her real-life doppelganger.

He’d been eyeing her for far too long and she began to shift in her seat, her eyebrows raised, slightly, as she waited for his response. “Sir?”

Stay on track, Mike, he thought, and waved a nonchalant hand toward her Stenograph. “Oh, sorry. Nothing. Thinking out loud.”

“Of course.” She smiled again, replaced the one headphone she’d been holding up, pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose and resumed typing.

Ok. Work dream. What’s the goal? Work had always been a big trigger for him. Cravings during long meetings or particularly grueling brainstorming sessions with his insufferable boss, Allan had always come on so strong that they would often manifest themselves physically, headache, confusion, clammy palms, sweaty brow and pits. Breaks and lunches always seemed to add an automatic quality to the addiction. He’d step out the door and light up without even noticing. In fact, he’d made it a few days without a cigarette here and there over the years, and most of the time he started back up because he had genuinely forgotten that he was trying to quit. 

Mike gripped the arms of his chair. Crazy, how real this is. He pushed himself to his feet and groaned as he felt the familiar achy twinge in his back. Even in my dreams I’m getting old. He chuckled to himself as he made his way around his desk and across his office and came to stand at the floor to ceiling glass door. He put his hands behind his back and took in the hustle and bustle of the office. Everyone was there, his subconscious was working overtime, filling in the faces of even the temp workers that came and went and never grew familiar enough to go with a name. Mike pushed the door open to a cacophonous flood of frantic phones and clacking keyboards and chatter.

He strolled through them, almost feeling as if he was being propelled forward, like he was riding an airport auto walk or wearing roller skates. He scanned the faces as they passed. Almost everyone was here. He let his feet carry him, watching the hustle and bustle go by, until he found himself standing on the other end of the floor, in front of the door to his boss’ office. 

His boss, Allan reclined in the head chair of the long glass table, shaking his head and gesturing with a hand as the three lawyers, seated to his left, nodded along. The lawyers noticed Mike first, flitting their eyes nervously. Finally, one of them gestured toward mike. Allen turned in his chair just enough for Mike to see the corner of his eye, before he turned back and waved a hand back and forth. That gesture that could mean ‘hello,’ but in this context meant, ‘go away.’

Even in a dream, he’s a prick, Mike shook his head, used to Allan’s flippant disregard. And then, in a rush it all became clear. He pushed the door open as Doctor Traum’s words echoed in his mind. You must confront your greatest obstacles, for they are the source of your addictive behaviors. Mike wouldn’t have outwardly admitted his fear of Allan, but he was letting his subconscious guide him, and his subconscious had no need for a thin veil between its own ego and the truth.

All three lawyers stared up at him with wide eyes, before turning them on Allan, who huffed and rubbed his forehead as he turned his seat to face Mike. “Dammit, Ester. We’re in the weeds here. I’m sure whatever you have on your…” he cleared his throat, “mind, can wait.”

Mike could tell that he wanted to say tiny mind. He’d said it before, one of his denigrating turns of phrase that actually got to Mike. At least in my dream he tries to be polite. Mike grinned, beaming with defiant confidence. “You know what, Allan.” He threw a sarcastic lilt on his name, causing Allan to squint and sneer. “It can’t wait.”

Allan rolled his eyes and threw his hands up as he turned half away from him. “Fine, Ester. What the hell is so important?”

Mike pulled his shoulders back, lifted his chin and pointed a finger at his boss. “You’re an asshole,” then he added, “and an idiot.” The shock on his face filled Mike with a long-sought satisfaction. The shock didn’t last long.

Allan shot up from his chair, surprisingly spry for his age, and closed the two steps between them in a flash. His voice was low and steady. “You snot nosed little creep. I’ve been wanting to fire you since you walked through my door. Get the hell out of here.” He stuck a finger into Mike’s chest.

It was just a raw reaction. The knuckles of Mike’s left fist landed squarely on Allan’s Jaw. He may have been spry, but Mike was easily twice his size, and the punch sent him hurtling back in stumbling slow motion. Mike’s grimace turned to an oblong hole of amazement as he watched Allan’s head strike the edge of the heavy, glass conference table. An almost impossibly thick spray of blood gushed across the glass surface of the table and continued to spout as he slumped to the carpet.

As Mike stared down at him, he became aware of the muffled shouts from outside. The lawyers shot from their chairs and backed up to the picture windows that lined the room. He heard the calamity from the office floor as the door swung open behind him. 

“Oh my God. Mike, what did you do?” the man rushed to Allan’s twitching body and put a hand to his throat. He shouted over his shoulder as he turned Allan's body onto its back. “Somebody call an ambulance!”

Mike grimaced as the man glared up at him, shouting his name. This is where you wake up, Mike. Others rushed in behind him. He felt someone take him by the wrist. He closed his eyes tight. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.