Dreamland Phantoms

I sit peacefully on my front porch. The morning is absolutely perfect. There isn't a single cloud to blemish the smooth, flawless blue of the sky. While it's warm, the sun seems hidden behind the azure blanket above me, neither burning nor glaring. My home is snuggled between five others along a serene road with little traffic. I don't have much space to either side, but a yard of neatly trimmed grass stretches about fifteen feet or so to the road. The backyard is the same, only it holds a stately birch tree. I roll my shoulders to relieve a slight cramp and lean back in my wicker porch chair. Sighing, I lightly close my eyes and savor the sweet scent of cut grass.

Moments like this are oases in my broken life. A home is never mine for long; old friends never remember me; new friends leave me soon after meeting; mornings like this are spaced far apart. I've always wondered why. Maybe I can't keep a job, but I don't remember having one. Maybe I offend people, but I don't recall deliberatley hurting anyone's feelings. Maybe I don't notice things, but I sure notice this morning. I don't care, really, and when a moment like this comes along, I intend to enjoy it. A light chirping sound drifts from behind my house. I listen to the bird's song as sleep begins to surround me.

A person walks out of the house next door. She stands on her porch, stretching and yawning. I turn my head sleepily and watch the relaxation wash over her. She slouches to a nearby swing and rocks slowly. I smile and turn my head back to the sky. The two of us sit for several eternal minutes, soaking up the tranquility.

"Beautiful morning," she sighs.

"Yes."

"How long have you been out here?"

I think for a moment. How long have I been on my porch? "All morning." It seems correct. I don't remember coming out, so it must have been really dark.

"Ahh."

We sit in silence. A single car rolls past us, leaving our perfect world for a day at work. I feel sorry for the driver. That shakes the girl out of her trance, and she wanders to my porch.

"I don't think I know you. What's you name?"

"I'm Janice. Janice...Janice..." I couldn't think of my last name, "Just Janice."

"Well, Just Janice, I'm Dianne."

"Pretty name."

She grins, "If you say so."

I gesture to a nearby chair and she flops down. I watch her stretch and lean back. I put my feet up on the white plastic rail, "Mornings like this seem to snatch your energy, don't they?"

"You said it."

"Do you have to leave for work or anything?"

"Nah, I've got today off. What about you?"

"I don't think I have a job."

We laugh. Another bird joins the song from my backyard. The duet nearly lulls me to sleep a second time.

"Well, we can't sit here forever," Dianne grunts as she stands up.

"Why not?"

"Because, because we just can't."

"It works for me!" I laugh. She grins and hauls me to my feet. I arch my back and reach high above my head.

Dianne watches me and chuckles. "Now that you're up, what do you like doing in your spare time?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Have you ever been to the cafe downtown? they've got great cappuccinos."

"No, I don't think I have." Do I have amnesia? I can't picture downtown, let alone a specific cafe. Well, obviously Dianne knows where to go.

"I'll guide you there. Can we take your car? Mine's in the shop."

My car? I should have one in the garage next to my house. Should. "Yeah sure, I'll grab my keys."

I step inside my house and let the door shut behind me. And my keys would be where? It's like I'm walking through some else's home on a tour. Standing here in the living room makes me feel awkward, like an intruder or burglar. THIS IS MY HOUSE! I take a deep breath and walk with false confidence. Past the living room is a narrow kitchen. The floor is white polished tile, which matches the white paneling on the walls. The imitation wood cabinets smell new. Everything has a surreal feeling about it. I shake my head. Feelings don't count, only those blasted keys! I fling a cupboard door open, and a scrap of paper falls out. "Call Randall" it says. Below the message is a number. I stuff the note in my pocket. Impatiantly I open another cupboard and find a set of keys hanging on a hook. I snatch them and jog out of the house. Dianne is leaning against the porch rail, her eyes half closed.

"Got the keys?" She doesn't open her eyes.

"Got'em." I swing them around my finger.

Dianne skips down the steps and wanders to the side of my house. I follow, somewhat unsure. Do I have a car? If I do, can I drive it?

Dianne seems to know my home better than me. She doesn't hesitate. As I pause outside the garage, she walks in and slides into the passenger seat of my nondescript red car. I take the driver's seat and easily find the right key. The car runs beautifully as I back it out to the road. Much to my amazement, I begin driving effortlessly. I feel like the passenger, watching this body drive me along. When Dianne gives directions, the arms in front of me flawlessly comply, sending the small car gently around turns and traffic. I'm afraid to test whether these are my arms.

Before long we're pulling up in front of a cheery little cafe. It doesn't look very impressive; it seems like a homely, cozy place. We walk in and weave through the small round tables. The room has a rich, coffee smell that makes me feel like curling up and napping in one of the booths. Tempting as it is, I know that one near nap is enough for one day.

Suddenly we're at the counter. A large, pleasant woman stands there, smiling at us. I wait for her to prompt us with an inviting "can I take your order please," but she just stands and smiles. I start feeling nervous, but Dianne seems under control. She leans forward and asks for a cappuccino. The woman nods and pushes a button on the cash register. She looks up at me expectantly.

"I'll...ahh...I'll have what she's having." The cash register rings as the woman nods again. She doesn't summarize our order. I can't recall ever eating at a restaurant, but I know it's appropriate to make sure the customer is getting the right thing. Oh well, maybe I'm paranoid.

Dianne notices the price displayed on the register's small screen and reaches into her pocket. A look of frustration covers her face.

"I thought I had my wallet with me. Where could I have left it?" she grumbles. She starts checking other pockets.

I watch, increasingly uncomfortable under the silent cashier's eyes. Finally I reach in my pocket and grab a small handful of bills and coins. I count them and find I've grabbed the exact amount. With a shrug I pass them to the woman. She beams at us and totters through a small doorway. Dianne thanks me.

"No need. I just happened to have that much money on me. No big deal."

"The exact amount?"

"Yeah. Cool, huh?"

Dianne starts to reply, but the woman is back with two large, frothy mugs. We take our drinks and sit down in a far corner booth. As we sit down we glance back at the woman. She's standing and staring just in front of the counter, smiling as before.

"That lady is weird," Dianne whispers.

"I know. Maybe she's mute or something. But how could a mute person get a job running a cafe?"

Dianne sighs as she sips her cappuccino. "I bet she started this shop working with someone else. It's a small place. So on quiet days, when her partners are gone, she's left to run the place alone."

"That sounds reasonable." We leave it at that.

After we finish we decide to take a walk. It's my idea; I don't want to push my luck with the driving thing. Besides, it's perfect out. We leave the cafe and head down the street. A few blocks down we cross into a park. It's not large, but it does have a nice path with wide, shady trees. I feel the familiar drowsiness settling down again. While it's a pleasant sensation, the constant need to lie down and take a nap gets annoying. A quick glance at Dianne shows she's tired too. She looks back at me and we make a swift agreement. We sit down on the first bench we see.

"Maybe we're allergic to nice days," I yawn.

"Maybe it's everyone else who's allergic." Dianne twitches one eyebrow mischievously and I laugh.

We sit and relax for a few minutes. I hear a "chirrup" sound and ignore it. The sound repeats. It's quiet, but it keeps repeating and starts to get in the way of my relaxation. I look for the source of the insistent noise.

I find it under the bench a large black purse. The purse doesn't have anything in it, except for a tiny black cell phone. Without the purse to muffle it, the cell phone's ring is piercing.

"What do we do?" I look at Dianne.

"Answer it."

"It's not my phone!" I yelp, "Besides, the person could be, I don't know, watching us or something."

"Maybe she forgot her purse and is calling the phone she knows is in it to get someone to take it back to her. Also, it won't stop ringing until you answer it." Dianne nods her head, ending our conversation. I look down at it, debating. It misses a beat with the ring, and I start to sigh. But it begins again. Dianne is right. I don't like answering phones, though, especially when they're not mine. The ringing seems louder this time, almost painful as it echoes in my brain. Dianne glares at me. I shudder and click it open.

"Hello?" I stammer.

A robotic, singsong voice answers me. "This is the lost and found network. You are lost but can be found. Call Randall."

"What? I don't know a Randall, this isn't my phone."

"Call Randall."

I start to hang up. The phone starts a blaring siren and I can faintly hear the voice screeching "Call Randall! Call Randall! Call Randall!" I put it back to my ear the the noise stops.

"Who is this?!" I demand.

"This is the lost and found network. You are lost but can be found. Call Randall."

"I don't know a Randall!" I scream.

"Check your pocket." I hear a click, and the phone goes quiet. I lower my hand slowly.

Dianne is pale. "What was that all about?"

I look back at her, shaking my head. Her eyes are wide and her jaw trembles. My face must look the same. I stand and reach in my pocket. There's a scrap of paper in it. My heart skips a beat as I read it. It's the note I grabbed in my kitchen. The words "call Randall" with a phone number are scrawled in my handwriting. Cold sweat beads across my forehead and I collapse back on my seat.

"What is that?"

"A note." I hand it to Dianne. She doesn't seem to understand. I snatch the paper and dial the number. The phone doesn't even complete a full ring before it's answered.

"Randall here. Who's calling?"

"I'm Janice and I've got this note that..."

"Ahh, Janice! I've been expecting your call." I can hear his cheery smile.

"What's the 'you are lost but can be found' thing?"

"Oh, sorry, did that disturb you? I needed to contact you. I need to see you in person. You are a very important person, Janice. Very very important. Do you have a piece of paper and a pen handy?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Come as fast as you can to the following address." He rattles off a group of numbers and an unfamiliar street name. I scribble it on the back of the note. "Got it?" he asks. I try to say yes, but he's already hung up.

"Who was that?" Dianne asks.

"Randall. I need to go to this address." I show Dianne my note. She thinks for a moment.

"I know where this is. Come on, it's a long way off, we'll need the car."

We jog back to the cafe. I hand Dianne my keys, saying I'm somewhat shaky and don't think I can drive well. She shrugs and hops in the driver's seat. Soon we're speeding down a highway, past fields and small clusters of trees. We whip around a turn onto a tiny side road into one of the larger wooded areas. After a few tight corners a massive building seems to appear. It's at least 14 or 15 stories tall. I wonder how I could have missed it from the road.

My car was the only one in the small lot. We lock the car doors and walk inside. Through the heavy glass door is a richly decorated lobby. Two leather sofas border a large, intricate rug. A low table with a clear vase and one pale blue flower sits between the sofas. I stop and stare. Dianne grabs my arm and points to a small desk off to the side. A middle-aged receptionist sits, smiling at us. We walk up to her.

"Hi, I'm, um, Janice. I'm supposed to meet with a Randall. Am I in the right place?"

The receptionist silently smiles and nods. My stomach curls into a knot. Deja vue.

Dianne tries. "My friend here needs to speak with someone named Randall. He said he was at this address. Where can we find him?"

The woman continues to stare and smile. It isn't a sarcastic smile, or a joking one, or even an understanding one. She looks like she doesn't know English. I slump toward the sofas. Dianne follows.

"Now what?" I moan, "Some phone's gonna ring and I'm gonna hear that lost and found message again, and Randall will get angry at me, whoever he is."

"I don't know." We look back at the receptionist. She gazes back at us.

"A lot of help you are!" I yell. That seems to shake her out of her trance; her eyes almost show recognition. Almost. She does react, though, and pushes a button on what looks like a speaker. Immediately a voice responds.

"Is she there? Is Janice waiting?" I recognize it as Randall.

"Gee, you think?" Dianne grumbles.

"Janice, come into my office. You're very special, you know that? You're one of a kind. I'll explain when you get here. Walk down the hallway behind the desk. I'm in the last room on the left."

We walk past the desk, watching the receptionist. She continues gazing at the sofa where we had been sitting. I shake my head.

The hall is just as ornate as the waiting room. Similar rugs blanket the floor and exquisite paintings hang on the walls. It seems to stretch on forever. I picture the building from the outside, wondering if it was this long. Finally we're at the last room on the left. I knock.

"Janice? I'm so excited to meet you! Do come in, hurry!"

As I grip the handle to open the door, the world goes black. I crumple to the floor, unable to breathe. Dianne gasps and asks me if I'm okay, but her voice fades away. I can't see or hear, and can barely feel my body. I should be panicked, but I feel strangely calm. Gradually I find myself in a total lack of sensation. I'm not drifting, I'm not hurt, I'm just...not. In this emptiness I have a vision. Well, it's not a vision, because I see nothing; it's more of an inspiration. A concept is forming in my head. It's tantalizing, forming slowly and deliberately. I'm desperate, concentrating on it, unsuccessfully trying to pull it into my comprehension. It stays just out of reach. But it gets clearer. Any second now I should know it...

"Janice! Janice answer me!"

I open my eyes. Dianne is crying, shaking me weakly. Suddenly I'm back on the floor, out of that trance, away from my idea.

"I'm here," I murmur, "I'm okay."

"You're alive!" Dianne's face lights up. She helps me to my feet. I almost wish I was back in the void, that idea was so close!

"What's going on out there? Get in here, I need to speak with you!" Randall is impatient in his enthusiasm.

"Coming!" Dianne reaches for the door handle.
As she lets go of me I collapse again.

I don't even have time to hit the floor. I'm transported to the nothingness, fighting to understand the theory forming in my mind. I know it's about me. It explains the two mutes, why Randall thinks I'm special, what makes me so sleepy. If only I could know what it is! Why don't I have a job? Who are my firends? When DID I go out on my porch this morning? All those questions that have bothered me can be answered in a single phrase. Everything! It's coming to me. Just a few seconds more...

"Where is Janice?" Randall's voice wrenched me from my trance. The door is open and Dianne is inside.

"I don't know, I thought she was right behind me. Janice?"

"I'm out here," I gasp. She was at my side in an instant.

"What's happening?"

"I..." I trail off as reality vanishes for the third time. The thought is still forming, even closer than I'd left it. Some single concept connects all my questions together an answers them. So close! I try to calm myself. Any moment now, any moment, and I'll finally know.

The realization hits me like an 18-wheeler. Three words explain everything. Three words. Dianne was dreaming. A dream! Everything I've known has been a dream. My life isn't real! I'm an untamed spark of leftover creativity in someone's brain. I do not exist.

I'd cry, if I had eyes. I'm a hallucination. A dream!

I feel my consciousness tearing apart, flying into millions of tiny pieces and scattering to other dreams, to other phantoms. Phantoms like me.