OCT Audition Example 1

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August 11

The rain has stopped and the full moon is showing between the clouds. Now I can finally come outside to think and write.

Yesterday was my birthday, as you might have noticed from the date. Nothing spectacular happened, as you might have already guessed. I told the guys at work, and got a couple of off-handed Oh hey, happy birthdays in return. Ben made a wisecrack about how I should go out and get a girlfriend for the night, and then the whole conversation turned to everyone's recent escapades. Listening to them gave me a headache. I put on my earphones and busied myself with the forklift.

After a dismal day at work I treated myself to dinner at Che's. They have live music and they give you free dessert on your birthday. The food was a little expensive, but the waitress was very friendly and deliciously attractive. Brunette, spunky, eyebrow piercing, gorgeous smile. A little too exciting for my taste; surely she was already taken, and if not then she probably had frightfully high standards. I certainly could never keep up with her; still, it was fun to imagine what life would be like if I could.

I spent most of dinner watching her whisk between the lounge and the tables, giving everyone that same inviting smile that she first gave me. I found it off-putting at first that she would lavish her attentions so freely. But after a while I realized that she only smiled this way to patrons -- she was quite bland with her coworkers.

That beguiling smile of hers was only her standard "waitress" behavior. A reflex designed to generate tips. Whenever she smiled at me, it wasn't because she found me the least bit interesting. In her eyes I was just another patron.

As I watched her go, I began to wonder how much more of her personality was part of this act. If she were sitting at a bar chatting with friends, would she still be so sweetly mild-mannered? Or would she swear shamelessly and antagonize the barkeep? Did she smoke? Did she dance like a ballroom dancer, or like a nightclub harlot? What principles would offend her? What gift would make her melt? Did she bother straightening her hair on the weekends? What did she dream about? Her waitress-ness was a facade, but inside she was surely more. As I have so many times before, I found myself... curious.

Right about the time I found myself staring at the contour of her blouse, she noticed me being curious.

Do you need something? she asked with a subtly different smile. She knew where I had been looking.

I shook my head and stuttered No, I'm great, thanks. Then I remembered, Oh, wait -- do you still do birthday desserts?


She brushed back her hair and I caught her name tag: Kathryn.

It's your birthday today? Well happy birthday! She gave me a sly look and I felt myself blushing. Did you do anything exciting today?

Oh yes, I totally spent nine hours moving pallets back and forth then went and had dinner alone.

Not yet, but I'm thinking when your shift is over maybe we could change that?

Nah, nothing much. Birthdays start to feel just like any other day. All the days seem to run together anymore, you know?

Her smile tightened just slightly and her eyes looked absent. I had disappointed her.

Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. Well hopefully things get better this year, right? So what can I get you for dessert?

There it was. She was just a waitress again. For the briefest of moments I had piqued her interest. For just a second, I was more than just another patron and she was more than just a waitress on the job. But then I slipped and revealed just how unexciting I really am. When you're with me, all the days will be exactly the same. Over the years your dreams will fade in the cold, suffocating fog of reality.

I tipped her a few dollars too much, partly in a callow attempt to regain her interest, partly as an apology. She smiled vacantly and said thank you, and moved on to her next table. Before I left the restaurant I took one last long look at her, burning the details of her figure in my mind. Kathryn, you will be in my dreams tonight.

And that was my birthday.



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This morning I got the usual white elephant gift from Mother. It was a talking fish plaque, probably from Goodwill. It came with one of her hand-drawn birthday cards, which I tossed in the drawer on top of the rest. I also found a letter from a stranger on my doorstep... which is the whole reason I'm sitting out on the balcony now, writing by the moonlight when I should be in bed for work tomorrow. The truth is I can't sleep.

The letter came in a quaint wax-sealed envelope. It began:

My name is Gallows. Who and what I am is of no consequence. What matters is that I offer you what you desire most: a chance to escape. Your heart is full of this desire and yearns for it almost painfully. It is something you desire most of all. This I know without a doubt.

There was more, and I skimmed through it, but it sounded like rubbish. A bizarre investment scheme, or a propaganda flyer from some obscure new church. I don't remember the rest, but that first paragraph still clings to my thoughts, word for word. What you desire most: a chance to escape.

I've been writing in this journal off and on for five years now, transcribing my life in laborious detail, hoping to gain some perspective on my own existence. Here is what I've learned:

I dread going to the warehouse every day, moving the same damned crates and pallets, breaking my body day in and day out with no prospects for the future.

Furthermore, I despise the people I work with. They are simpletons with horrible attitudes and no work ethic, and yet they somehow keep their jobs and earn more than me. Their wives, girlfriends, and mistresses can't see them for the shit they are. They can afford to enter and drop out of college at a whim, drink and smoke their troubles away, and spend work days in jail without any lasting consequences of any kind. They have children, vacations, hobbies, lives -- and they haven't learned to appreciate any of it.

Meanwhile I work, and unwind in front of the TV, read my books and feed my ants. I can't seem to find the time, money or opportunity for anything else.

I've tried my damnedest to change my life and become the kind of man I want to be. I've wasted hundreds of dollars on self-help programs and spent countless Sundays kneeling in churches begging God for the answers. I've failed at starting my own business. I've humiliated myself trying to strike up conversations on the bus and develop a social life. Like Tantalus, everything I want in life is kept out of my reach.

This has been my life ever since grade school, when every kid had a Nintendo except for me because my parents couldn't afford it, and every boy had kissed a girl -- except for me, because everyone loved it when Tyler made fun of my shoes. Nothing has changed in all these years, and looking forward, I cannot see how it ever could change.

The grinding monotony of this past birthday is a reflection of my entire life. This is my place in the world. There is no escape for me.

I ran the letter through the paper shredder. How's the guillotine, Mr. Gallows? But the thoughts it inspired linger on, and I know that these words will plague my dreams tonight. I've long been dissatisfied with life, but I haven't felt this hopeless in years.

It's midnight now. The wind is getting cold and I need to sleep. Busy day tomorrow, and the day after, and after, with my dreams as my only refuge. I long to return to them.

Good night.



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August 12

Last night I dreamed that I woke up at 11:00 a.m. and was hours late for work. I slammed on my clothes and drove like mad through the lunch rush hour, swerving through an impossible tangle of streets and freeways.

Why am I doing this? I asked myself. Do I even want to work today? Why don't I just call Larry and tell him I woke up late because I'm sick? He lets Ben and Tommy off the hook for worse excuses.

But I need the money too badly to miss a day, and I can't disappoint the boss. I race through town, cutting people off and running red lights. I look down at my watch and it reads 12:45. I've lost so much time.

When I look up again the car is gone and I'm running. The warehouse is still twelve blocks away and it's already 2:30. I steal an unattended bicycle and ride balls-to-the-pedals to the warehouse. I wonder if I should call Larry and let him know my car disappeared, but he'd never believe it. The clock turns 3:15 -- the day is almost over and I need to hurry before it's too late. My heart is pounding against my ribs. The bike is going in the wrong direction. Too late -- I've missed my shift.

... and then I wake up. It is dark, and I eventually realize I am at home, in bed.

I roll over, and the alarm clock says 5:37. In eight minutes the alarm will ring and my day will begin. But I feel as if I hadn't slept. My heart is still pounding.

The sheets are damp with sweat. I am worn out and anxious to the point of nausea. I consider calling in sick to work.

But no. I really do need the money.

I roll out of bed early and cancel the alarm. I skip the shower and go straight to the kitchen to settle my stomach. It's still dark and I stub my toe on the chair. Swearing, I turn on the light, open a new box of Cheerios, and pour myself a bowl.

An envelope slides out into my cereal. It is ivory white and sealed with a dab of red wax. It is the same envelope I found on my doorstep yesterday -- the same envelope I shredded before going outside last night.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the envelope while the sun rose and time caught up to me.

Am I awake?

The alarm clock jarred me out of my thoughts and I fell against the counter. I remembered shutting the thing off -- maybe I'd hit the wrong button. I went back to the bedroom and hit the right one, twice to be sure. My head started to ache and I sat down on the bed.

I still held the envelope. I broke the seal and examined the contents; it was the same letter. I read it again, and this time I paid more attention to what followed. For your reference, dear journal, and to help me even make sense of it, I will copy it here:

Salutations,

My name is Gallows. Who and what I am is of no consequence. What matters most is that I offer you what you desire most: a chance to escape. Your heart is full of this desire and yearns for it almost painfully. It is something you desire most of all. This I know without a doubt.

I am a man of power. And I have the means to set you free. Perhaps you are asking yourself how and why I know what I know and am offering what I am offering. It is of no real consequence. You either accept that this letter found you without the help of any postal service or messenger and is offering you something equally unlikely, or that this is all a dream. But is it not better to have tried to attain your dream than merely let it fade in the morning light?

Of course you are not the only one who desperately desires to escape. There are others. There always are, and like you I have given them an invitation as well. However I plan on only giving out the chance to one person. I want to make sure the person who desires it most gets it.

To that end I am offering a chance for a select group of people who desire to escape the most out of all to come to my estate and prove to me that they wish to escape more so than anyone. Every soul who steps foot on my estate is given a gem. The door to my house is shut and unable to be opened except for when every gem is put in its proper place.

Perhaps you see where this is going. If you desire to escape your only way is to gain the gems carried by the others and thus proving that you, above all, are worthy of the chance to escape. You may be doubting the sincerity of my claim or that this is even real. I can only assure you on my word, on my power, that it is real. If you do not believe me you can feel free to discard this invitation and nothing will happen. Or you can seize this opportunity to gain what you wish for most: salvation.

To gain entry to my estate all you need to do is answer one question and write the answer below. Though a word of caution before you hastily agree. There are hidden dangers that you will face, and I do not just mean the other competitors. Your safety in this will not be guaranteed so you must ask yourself if it is worth it. If you still wish it, merely answer the question below. I advise you to gather what you need as your journey will begin almost immediately thereafter. I eagerly await your reply.

Sincerely,
Gallows

I read the letter three times, and it sounded sillier every time. But I found the thing in an unopened box of Cheerios.

I went to the living room and dug through the paper shredder's catch. There was no trace of the envelope or the letter. Not a scrap. But I did shred the letter. I watched it fall to ribbons and I savored its destruction.

No. I am not awake. It has finally happened. I am lucid dreaming.

Lucid dreaming: the act of dreaming while being aware that you are dreaming. Looking back through this journal, I see that I have been trying to control these kinds of dreams for over three years. But every time I came close, every time I realized I was dreaming, I would wake up before I could take advantage of it.

In my dreams I can fly, travel through space and breathe underwater. In my dreams I have visited fantastic realms of indescribable color and beauty. In my dreams I have relived the great turning points of my life, changed them, and made new decisions with the benefit of hindsight. In my dreams, I am the shaper of my own fate. I am free.

How many times has the alarm clock ripped me from an ecstatic experience, forcing me back into the world of the mundane? My eyelids are prison bars that confine me when they are open, and release me when they are shut. Oftentimes, in those dreadful moments when I am slipping into consciousness, I wish that my eyes would stay shut forever.

And now, I had finally found that power. I could defy the alarm clock and stay in my dream. But for how long?

Is it not better to have tried to attain your dream than merely let it fade in the morning light?

The morning light. It was 5:48 and dawn was breaking. The sun was coming for me; my job was beckoning. But I didn't want to go to work. I wanted to keep dreaming.
I picked up the phone and called my boss's cell.

... Hello?

He sounded irritable. I had woken him up.

Larry? It's me, Rowan.

Traumer? What the hell are you doing calling me at five in the morning?

I need to take the day off.

There was shuffling.

What? You can't take today off. We have harbor freight coming in and Willie's gone to Cancun for the week. You're the only one who can run the crane.

I hesitated. It was true, the crew would never get by without my help. If the freight wasn't turned over by Friday --

The rising sun reflected off the windows of the building across from me, stinging me in the eyes. I was waking up. I threw the curtain shut and ducked into the closet.

Sorry Larry, I'm really sick and I don't want to pass it on to the guys.

Sorry Larry, my car broke down and --

Larry, if my skills are so valuable, then why don't you ever let me have a goddamn raise?

I heard stirring and muffled swearing on the other end. A woman spoke groggily in the background. I'd woken Margaret.

What did you just say?

I said that I need a day off, and if you need someone to run the crane for me then you can waddle your fat ass down from the office and run it yourself.

What the hell's gotten into you? Traumer --!

I hung up the phone.

I stopped and took some deep breaths. The Gallows letter was still in my hand. I was still dreaming. The power to decide my own course was mine.



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To gain entry to my estate all you need to do is answer one question and write the answer below. I advise you to gather what you need as your journey will begin almost immediately thereafter.

My hold on this dream was tenuous. I felt too much like my alert, wakeful self. If I tried to control my dream at this stage, that extra bit of conscious thinking would wrench me back into reality. The only way to remain in the dream was to follow along with it and let it carry me deeper into its world.

I didn't know what to expect from this "journey" and I didn't have much to gather anyway. I felt hungry, so I ate my soggy cereal and packed some crackers and summer sausage in a bag. I didn't want a distraction like hunger to pull me out of the dream. The letter mentioned danger, so I tucked a knife under my belt -- a frozen food knife, the nastiest looking item in my utensil drawer. Even though it's August, I wore a hooded sweatshirt just in case.

Only one thing remained to be done before I signed the letter. I needed to say goodbye to my ants.

The ant farm was busy this morning. I pulled up my hood against the morning light and dropped some cubes of steak into the top. They ignored them at first, but one by one they caught the scent and nibbled at the bloody edges. Two minutes later the meat was sticky with ants; five minutes later a queue had formed as they dutifully brought bits down into the tunnels.

I dropped a bit of carrot in the middle of their line, and they overtook it immediately. That is the most beautiful thing about ants: they take whatever life gives them without complaint, be it a delectable picnic lunch or a bloated cat lying dead on the roadside. They live in a perfect order, free of the desires, conflicts and inequalities that tear human civilizations apart. When you watch them at work, each carrying away its share of the prize, can you tell which individuals are the successful ones? The ones with shinier cars and prettier girlfriends? No... you see that each ant has its place, and never desires to be anything greater than what it is. Their little world works in perfect harmony due to their clockwork self-denial.

And when I give them their daily meat, destroying their stalwart order in order to preserve it, I am God.



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