Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

I got up to shut the blinds. “No, there isn’t,” I agreed. “They’re distracting me,” I said about the workers as I rotated the Venetians halfway, enough to block the view, yet allowing strips of sunlight to penetrate.

“You don’t use the couch with kids, I guess.”

“Sometimes. I don’t plan to see children in this office. Maybe some of the adolescents. I warned you, I’m not set up for traditional long-term therapy. Do you want to lie down? There’s—”

“No, it’s okay,” he said quickly.

I was amused by a recollection of our first conversation, the desires reversed about lying on couches, but the attitudes almost identical. “You’re a man, now, so it’s time to sit up,” I said. My tone was unusually lighthearted. Why? Did I think he was taking himself too seriously? How would I know?

Gene nodded. He continued to look around; at my phone, a typewriter on a side table, photographs of my mother, my father, Uncle Bernie, Julie, Grandma Jacinta and Grandpa Pepín, framed diplomas and a drawing in charcoal by “Timmy.” It was a representation of one of his dreams — a boy playing soccer on a frozen lake, standing atop blue water and kicking a gleaming white ball over a blood-red horizon.

“Why are you here, Gene? What’s on your mind?”

“I still can’t sleep.”

“Trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?”

“Both.”

“Have you had a checkup recently?”

“Yeah. I had to when I changed companies. For the insurance. I’m fine.”

“What wakes you up?”

He was looking at “Timmy’s” drawing, frowning at it.

“Dreams?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What dream wakes you up?”

“I don’t know if it wakes me up.”

“What dream do you remember best?”

“I’ve had this one many times.” A saw revved up close by my window. Evidently they weren’t as soundproofed as I hoped. Gene jerked to look in its direction, but he kept talking, “I’m in a gym. I think. It’s a little like the gym at One Room. Big and empty, with windows at the top. It was in the basement so the windows were almost at the ceiling.”

“Are you alone in the gym?”

“At first. It’s very still and peaceful. I think somebody wants me to do something, but I don’t know what.”

“Does not knowing worry you?”

“I’m not worried at first. And then she appears.”

The saw whined and shut off. Its silent aftermath added drama to my question: “Who is she?”

“I don’t know,” he was quick to say. He held his breath for a moment and added, “Just the sight of her scares me.”

“What does she look like?”

“Sometimes she’s blonde. Kind of, you know, sandy blonde hair like my wife. But she’s not my wife. Sometimes she has black hair, but it’s the same shape. You know, the same hairdo.”

“Long hair?”

“No. More like a helmet. She’s wearing a dress, a long print dress, but it has no top.”

“So it’s a skirt?”

“No. It isn’t. I don’t know how to explain, but it’s a dress with the top off.”

“So she’s bare-breasted?”

“Yeah.”

“What do they look like?”

“They’re huge. I mean, you know, like Playboy centerfold breasts, only they’re not pretty. The nipples are big and hard and very brown, sticking out at me.”

I wrote down — nipples/penises. Gene noticed and frowned. Anyway, it was silly to take notes. I opened my drawer and put the yellow pad inside.

“Does it excite you?”

“No.” The no was said defensively, fast and too loud. I said nothing.

Gene glanced at me, brushed his bang, although it hadn’t fallen back across his face. He took a breath and said, “She walks toward me and opens her mouth wide.” He stared at nothing. The skin under his eyes was darkened by fatigue; and the eyes were bloodshot.

“Un huh. And does she say something?”

“I think she’s going to.”

“What do you think she’s going to say?”

“What?”

“What do you think she’s going to say?”

“She never says anything.”

“I know.”

“You do? How?”

“You would have said already. What do you think she’s going to say?”

“Something nice. I don’t know what.”

“Something about her breasts?”

“Her breasts are gone now.”

“Gone? Or she’s clothed?”

“No. I don’t notice them. She spits at me.” Gene looked down at his lap. He fit the fingers of both hands together and twisted. “She doesn’t say anything. I’m sure she’s going to be nice, but she spits at me.”

“What happens to the spit?”

Gene looked up. He cracked his knuckles so hard that the noise made me queasy. “What?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Well, I don’t know. I guess — No!” Gene sat up, fingers separating, eyes up toward the ceiling. “I scream—‘Go away!’” Gene blinked fast and said in a rush, “I don’t wake up. I thought I woke up when I yell, ‘Go away,’ but actually the room disappears before the spit hits me. That’s what happens. I couldn’t remember why I didn’t think the dream wakes me up. It’s the second part that wakes me up. They’re connected.”

“I see. What’s the second part?”

A pause. Gene interlocked his fingers again. I hoped he wouldn’t crack them. “I’m at my terminal,” he said finally, as if he were making a judgment.

“Your terminal?”

“Yeah, before the spit lands I’m at my terminal, going over the board design for the, well it should be Black Dragon, but it’s not. I’m still working on Flash II. Black Dragon is the—”

“Don’t explain now,” I cut him off sharply. “You’re at a terminal …?”

“Yeah. Mine.”

“And …?” I was urgent.

He answered quickly, “The specs don’t make any sense to me. They should. They’re simple stuff. Just the memory chip locations and — well, it doesn’t matter. I should be able to understand them, but I don’t. And then I realize all I have to do is hit Escape — That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“Well, I use a mouse — you know, I mean, in reality. I don’t hit keys when I’m touring the machine.”

“Un huh. But in the dream you think about hitting Escape …”

“Escape. Pretty obvious, huh?”

“Maybe. Go on.”

“Okay, so I realize if I hit Escape, the screen will clear and I’ll understand everything, I’ll understand the whole machine, in one clear image, you know, I’ll have it all and we’ll be golden.”

“Do you hit Escape?”

“Yeah,” he said sadly.

“What happens?”

“The garbage freezes on screen, the whole machine freezes. So I go crazy. Do something you’re not supposed to. I make a terrible mistake.” He stopped, panting breathlessly.

I waited. Gene rubbed his chin, then frowned. “What do you do?” I prompted.

“I turn it off. That would erase all the garbage — but it would also erase the answer.”

“And then you wake up?”

“No. Not yet. I turn it off, but it doesn’t go off. The screen clears, though.”

“And that’s what you wanted.”

“Yeah—”

“You made a terrible mistake and got what you wanted.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. A message comes up, like one of Skip’s practical jokes.”

“Who’s Skip?”

“One of the hackers at Flash. He liked to play practical jokes. Bug your program so you think it’s malfunctioning and, just when you think you’ve got it licked, he’d have a message come up in Calligraphy letters. Very elegant and obscene.”

“What’s the message in the dream?”

He said the words slowly, with portent and doom in his voice: “You are a son of a bitch.” Gene nodded and spoke to himself, “They’re connected. Not different dreams but the same.”