The Dream Catcher

by Bob Freye

I remember it all like a bad dream. It was eight o’clock in the morning. Most of us at the clinic hadn’t even found our desks. Three guys walked in the front door and just wooshed right past Jeri at reception. She tried to stop them, but one turned and pointed a gun at her, a mean-looking automatic with a muzzle so wide you could drive a small car down the barrel.

That was the last time anybody tried to get in their way.

I was standing in the break room, when they came in. I hurried back to my office to find them waiting for me. The big one was standing next to my desk. The one with the mean-looking automatic was sitting in my chair. The unhappy one, the one with the bleary eyes, was slumped in the couch that sat across from my desk.

I decided to stand.

The bleary eyes glanced up at me.

“I’m having a dream,” he sighed, his voice weary and hoarse.

“Right now?” I asked.

He grimaced. “No, not now. At night. Every night.”

He covered his face with his hands.

“I want to know what it means,” he said.

“It means your troubled about something,” I told him. “Anxiety can trigger exotic dreams, even repeated episodes of the same dream.”

“No, no, no,” he said, “I want to know what the dream means! My dream! I can’t sleep, because I’m afraid that I’m going to have that dream again! I’ve got to know what it means!”

As he grew tense, the two men with him seemed to reflect his uneasiness in their own posture and expression.

“I can try to help you understand your own feelings,” I said quickly, trying to introduce a measure of calm to the room, “but I can’t just give you an easy answer. It doesn’t work that way.”

The man on the couch drew in an exaggerated breath and blew it out, slowly.

“Fine. You can’t guarantee anything,” he said softly. “But understand this. I can’t guarantee that anyone leaves this place alive.”

The mean-looking automatic flashed in my direction. I heard the clack of the slide, as it slid back and slammed back into place. I saw a glint in the man’s eyes as he visualized my death.

The man on the couch spoke again.

“This is what I want. Tell me my dream.”

“I’m a licensed sleep pathologist,” I explained, “not a mind reader.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “Tell me my dream.”

Among all the sleep disorders I had diagnosed at the clinic, there had been no hint of any armed, psychotic, murderous rage among any of the clients. I was thinking back to my days in medical school, trying to remember any case like this, when I heard something behind me. One of the staff stood in the doorway of the office, behind me.

It was one of the new techs—Daniels, or Danielson, or something. One of our brighter young residents.

I heard him say, “Chocolate moose.”

What in the world? I spun around with a look of terror on my face. Was this some idiotic joke? Did he think this was funny?

No joke. I could see he was serious. I started to say something, but the man on the couch spoke.

“That’s it,” he said, brightening. “That’s the dream!”

I whirled back, feeling like a ping pong ball.

“That’s it?” I asked. “You have a dream about cooking?”

“Not exactly,” Daniels explained. He stepped into the middle of the room, where he could see the man on the couch. “You have a dream about a fifty-foot chocolate moose, with antlers.”

“Yeah, but it’s not all chocolate,” the man on the couch added.

“It’s all chocolate, Benny” Daniels said. “Do you mind if I call you Benny?”

The man didn’t object.

“It’s all chocolate,” Daniels repeated, “but some is milk chocolate, some is peanut butter and chocolate, some has those little puffed rice things in it, and some is melting.”

 “That’s right!” the man leaned forward to perch on the edge of the couch. “What’s it mean?”

“You are the boss of all the rackets on the east side of the brewery district,” Daniels—or Danielson—said. “You are the milk chocolate head and antlers.”

“Nice!” the man with the mean-looking gun chimed in. “That’s the best, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I agree. You can’t beat the original. But after you, Benny, it will not be pure chocolate. It will be peanut butter and chocolate,” Dan continued, “and after that, crispy rice.”

“That’s Mickey the Weasel,” the big man exclaimed. “He runs the peanut racket at all the carnivals. And the other one, that’s gotta be that health-food guy.”

“Snap, crackle,” the other man grumbled. He pointed the mean-looking gun and pulled it back, as if it had been fired. “Pop!”

“What’s the last one?” the man on the couch asked.

“Things get so bad at the end,” Daniels explained, “that it will just melt all over the floor.”

The man nodded. “Nothing lasts forever.” He rose slowly to his feet. “That’s it,” he said. “Now I can sleep.”

They walked out without another word. Just like that. One minute they were waving a gun around my office, and then they were gone.

When the door closed behind them, we all took a deep breath. Daniels started to walk out of my office, but I grabbed his arm.

“What’s it mean?” I asked.

“It means Benny isn’t the boss of anything,” he said. “He works for someone else, someone much higher.”

Then he smiled. “We all do,” he said.

After that, we gave Daniels—maybe it’s Danielmeister—anyway, we gave him a big promotion and a raise. But I wonder how he managed to figure out that dream. We don’t teach that at the clinic, and he didn’t learn it in school.  

And who is this boss that he mentioned?

I guess Benny can sleep now. His questions are answered.

But it’s four in the morning.

And I’m wide awake.
 

[-] © 2006