Rip van Rat

All right, how's this for the worst omen ever: you wake up from a dream about Hitler, and there's a post-office delivery number stuck to your forearm. "413984 197 533 726", it said, and then there was a bar code. I'm going to die, I thought, peeling it off along with a layer or two of epidermis. I looked at the ceiling, and noticed a horsefly there. That fly is going to give me malaria, and I'm going to die. That's all there is to it.

Then, I went back to sleep. I've forgotten which day it was. I slept for a very long time--just call me Rip van Rat.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though. I was in the shower on Tuesday night--Tuesday? Was it Tuesday or Wednesday? It was the day Frits went home, anyway. I remember it because we didn't get in a proper goodbye. I was too tired. I'd been working my tail off all week, trying to finish up with the Fleshrot Halloween Special, and then--no, that's not the beginning of the story, either. That's more the middle, sort of thing. It was that damn staple in the loo, which got everything started.

I noticed the staple on Monday, and it started buggin' me straight away. I was sure it hadn't been there when I moved in, and that it further hadn't been there a couple of months ago, when the landlord inspected. I scrubbed the bathroom from stem to stern that week, and I'd have noticed a big ol' staple. It was high up on the wall, to the right of the mirror, stapled right in so it was flush with the paintjob. It hadn't even started rusting yet, which meant it had to be really new, probably less than two weeks old. With the amount of time I spend in the shower, metal objects don't stand a chance.

Anyhow, that narrowed the list of suspects a bit. There must've been dozens of people in here since last year, but there'd only been twelve within my estimated two-week timeframe. Of those twelve, only nine had, as far as I'd noticed, gone in the loo. Of the remaining nine, six were repeat visitors--friends, sort of thing, folks who'd be unlikely to muck up my walls with a staple. That left three likely suspects:

a) A suspicious young man with a dog in a knapsack (spent under two minutes in the can, if memory serves, and took neither the bag nor the dog with him--where would he have had the stapler?)

b) A neighbour who'd been locked out of her flat and needed to use the toilet (spent about five minutes in there, but only had a small purse--again, not a likely stapler-carrier)

c) A repairman hired to fix the faucet in my bathtub, which has been having some temperature-regulation issues of late.

I suspected the repairman, me. He was in there longest, about half an hour, and he made loads of noise, to boot. Amidst all that noise, he could easily have stapled my wall, and I'd have been none the wiser. (I was reading on the couch while he was working, so although the door was open, I couldn't see what he was doing.)

Assuming my deduction was correct, and the workman had indeed stapled my wall, one burning question yet remained: why? Frits suggested that he'd stapled a dirty picture to my wall, masturbated, then removed the picture, leaving the staple behind. Although I found that scenario highly improbable, I still felt the need to spray any potentially contaminated areas with Lysol as soon as Frits had gone. Once I'd started in with the Lysol, I noticed the bathtub'd gone all green again, and I had to give it a scrubbing, as well. As I scrubbed, I became aware of some mildew under the caulk, and two large stains on the ceiling. I couldn't just leave them there, so out came the steel-wool. With the bathroom done, I figured I might as well do the kitchen, and the dishes, and the dusting, and...well, it wasn't a good idea. Completely self-defeating, in fact. I was so wrecked by all the cleaning that I had to spend most of the night in the shower, which resulted in an immediate regreening of the tub. New stains appeared on the ceiling, new dust settled in the living room, and even the bloody mildew grew back. And I--I slept for ages and ages, and had the bizarre dream to end all bizarre dreams.

There I was, Tuesday night (or maybe Wednesday), flopped out in the shower. I was having trouble breathing, and reciting song lyrics in my head to prevent breathlessness-related panic attacks. Panic only makes it harder to breathe, and must be avoided at all costs. Ah, rendetemi la speme, o lasciate, lasciatemi morire, I thought, over and over again. (I had forgotten the next line. Something, something, e poi, crudele, mi fuggi!) After a while, I got bored, then tired.

"Hey," I thought, not moving. "I ought to get out of the shower before I fall asleep in here."

Next thing I knew, I was curled up happily in the lap of Godfather Death. He was stroking my hair with his skelly ol' fingers, as we floated down the Styx. We were riding in a bone-boat, propelled by corpses with bone oars. There was no sound but the splashing of oars and the creaking of sinew over bone. It was a bit gloomy, what with the black water and my being the only living being, and all, but altogether quite pleasant. Peaceful, sort of thing. We glided under huge stone arches, and through corridors lined with lichen-yellowed skulls. The river seemed to have no end. I liked it that way--I was happy to lie still, watching the sights of the underworld go by.

"Death," I said, "where are we going?"

Death pinched my ear and didn't answer. I took this as my cue to refrain from disturbing the silence. We floated through an armada of bones, which struck our craft with a hollow and musical sound. I relaxed and whistled through my teeth.

Gradually, I became aware of a certain perverted quality to Death's caresses. He kept touching my shoulder, squeezing at it, and trying to get his fingers in for a brush of my breast. I ignored it at first, pretending I didn't notice, then shifted to evade his fingers. The minute I moved, he slimed his hand in under my hair, fondling my neck. I felt his skin on mine, and the scratch of fingernails. Immediately, I jumped off his lap. Death, see, he isn't supposed to have any skin. Or, for that matter, any fingernails. Not in my dreams, anyway. Whenever Death's in my dreams, he's always an eight-foot skeleton with a clatty ol' shroud over him. The only thing holding him together is a handful of ancient ligaments.

"Death," I yelped. "What happened to your hands? Let me see your face!" I tore off his hood, revealing--ah! No! Not him again!

"Hitler! Get off me!" I wiped furiously at my hair and neck. I was as disgusted as though I'd touched...I don't know, a bag of maggots, or something. Worse than maggots. Dead, rotten maggots, and vomit, and--worse! The most disgusting thing in the world, plus one.

So there I was, floating down the Styx with Adolf Hitler. He was looking particularly greasy and horrible this time. I could practically smell the pomade in his ridiculous little moustache.

"You know," I told him, "you've ruined that moustache for everyone. Future generations, sort of thing. Nobody can wear that style any more. It might've come back into fashion some day, a bit like bellbottoms, but--"

He barked something offensive and German-sounding at me, shaking free of his shroud. He had on an SS uniform (or my imagination's best approximation of one, anyhow) underneath, with a paper swastika pinned to the lapel. I plucked the swastika off and threw it in the river.

"Vilken b�lta*!" he shouted (or something similar-sounding). This wasn't nearly as amusing as it seems, since it was accompanied by a truly horrific scowl, and the click of a sidearm being cocked. Suddenly, I was staring down the barrel of his revolver.

"Help! Death!" I looked around for Death, but I couldn't see him anywhere. The corpses with the oars had gone as well, leaving me alone with Hitler. I backed away slowly. Bones creaked under my feet. Hitler breathed through his nose: whhhh, whhhh, whhhh. "Don't shoot me," I told him. "I'll draw you a new--"

"Silence!" Hitler brandished his gun. I shut up and continued to back away, but I was running out of boat. Soon, I'd either have to jump in the river or, I suppose, get shot. I wondered what happens to the living, when they go for a dip in the Styx. Even if I didn't dissolve outright, I didn't like my chances: a swift current had swept in, and we were whooshing along at a terrifying speed. Once in the water, I'd be sucked under and drowned in minutes. I took tiny steps, conserving space, but to no avail: all too soon, I was at the prow, and all out of options.

"I joined the--" I started, meaning to tell Hitler I'd joined the Nazi party, so he didn't need to shoot me. I didn't finish the sentence, though, remembering another time he'd been chasing me, when I'd felt guilty for protesting on the grounds of not being Jewish, rather than on principle.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just clearing my throat."

"Those are your last words?"

"No! No, wait! Let me think of some. I can't leave the world on an ahem. Please."

Hitler waited, regarding me skeptically. I glanced at the water, perhaps hoping to find inspiration in its depths. The current had carried us close to shore, and I could see little dead fish in the shallows, and white sand made of crushed-up bones, and a pair of feet, a shroud--

"Death!"

"Hurry," called Death. "Jump!"

"I can't make it!"

"Take my hand!"

I seized Death's outstretched hand as the riverbank flashed by. He pulled me ashore, scooping me up in his arms. Hitler fired on us, but the current soon swept him out of range.

"Death! Doesn't it seem funny that you're saving my life, rather than taking it?"

"Oh, I'm not saving it," he said, shaking his skull. "You might as well be dead, where I'm taking you." Death hurried me down a winding staircase, and along a corridor filled with mannequins and racks of fur coats.

"Where's that? Where are we?"

"I'm hiding you from Hitler. But your name, everything you have, you'll have to leave it behind."

"What about you? Will you still visit?"

"I can't. That dreadful little man follows me everywhere."

"So, I'll never see you again? Because of Hitler?"

"Not till--well, you know."

"Till I die?"

"Precisely."

"Death!"

"Here we are." He opened a creaky little door and nudged me through.

"Quickly--say goodbye."

"Goodbye, Death."

"Goodbye. Vivrà, immutabile, l'affetto mio per te."

"What?"

The door creaked shut. I woke up, wet and pruney from the shower. "Vivrà, immutabile...?" I thought--"where'd that come from?" I tried to fit it into a song from La Forza del Destino as I shrugged into my nightgown, but it didn't quite go. I had the wrong opera, but I couldn't for the life of me come up with the right one. I fell asleep again (on the couch, this time), still trying to work it out.

I slid back into the same damn dream. I swear, sometimes I've got to wonder which world is real: the one where I live with a giant rat, or the one where Death himself takes me on sightseeing tours of the underworld. Real life seems almost as improbable, at times.

Anyhow, the door creaked shut (again), and I found myself in the brothel across the street. This is where Death hides me? I thought, incredulous. As if Hitler won't find me here.

"He won't find you," said the manager, walking up behind me. "I know what you're thinking. But we relocated. Nobody even knows it's the same establishment."

"Relocated?" I echoed. "Where are we?"

"In Istanbul."

"You're having me on!"

"Look out the window."

I peered between the heavy drapes. Indeed, the city outside was quite unfamiliar. I couldn't say whether it was Istanbul or not, never having been there, but it certainly wasn't Vancouver.

"The girls all live upstairs. Room Six is open now, so that one will be yours."

"I'm to live here?"

"That's how it's done round these parts, darlin'."

I let the curtain fall to, and went into the common room. It was full of prostitutes. I didn't want to fit in with them, so I deliberately made myself annoying, switching the channels on the television set and interrupting everyone to tell stupid stories. Whenever anyone tried to say something, I'd butt in with some dumbarsed anecdote, intended to insult the intelligence of anyone listening.

"Why do you always think you're better than us?" said one girl. "I worked with you before, as well, and you haven't changed at all."

"I don't want to be here," I groused. I was ashamed of my behaviour, now that it had elicited a reaction, but reluctant to admit to being wrong. "I don't want to be here, and I shouldn't be here. This isn't my life, all this--all this money and partying and pimps rubbish. I'm only here till I can...."

I forgot what I'd been about to say, and wandered off with a black cloud over my head. (I never really behaved so rudely to anyone, but there were times when I secretly thought all those things, about being better than everyone else. I mean, I didn't think 'em all the time, or anything. I wasn't a complete jerk. I just got frustrated sometimes. Funny that the sentiment should show up in a dream, yet, all these years later!) The other girls whispered amongst themselves as I shoved off down the hall.

I'd better go back and apologize, I thought. I could be here for ages--no sense being a wanker about it. I turned around, meaning to return to the common room, and was almost bowled over by the manager.

"I don't know how he found us," she panted.

"Oh, no--Hitler?" I peered over her shoulder. The hallway was full of panicked girls. She followed my gaze over their heads. Hitler was nowhere to be seen (not yet, at any rate), but we could hear the Nazis on the stairs, stamping their feet and shouting in German.

"Where can we hide from them?"

"In the basement. There's a tunnel, there, which--just run!"

I needed no more encouragement. We all hustled down the narrow stairs and through the cluttered basement. There were mannequins and wine-casks and boxes full of junk, and puddles full of slippery algae. We couldn't run for fear of slipping. The Nazis were directly overhead, tromping about the kitchen like a herd of ogres. Directly behind me, somebody knocked over a box of dishes. There was a fearsome clattering, quickly drowned in a volley of shushes. The tromping ogres were at the cellar door, hot on our heels.

"Where now?" I whispered.

"Through the tunnel." We scurried in panicked single-file through a cobwebbed corridor, scarcely wide enough to accommodate our passage. It seemed to go on forever. Spiders got in our hair and up our sleeves, itching and squirming and biting. On the plus side, the Nazis didn't seem to be following any more--we'd lost them in the basement.

"Where does this tunnel go?" I asked.

"To the lake in the forest," said the girl who'd called me on my bad behaviour earlier on. "We can split up when we get there. He can't track us all through the woods."

"I'm sorry about the way I acted before," I said, realizing I might not get another chance. "I thought if I fit in with you guys, I'd never escape that life."

I didn't hear her reply, if there was one. The scene shifted, and I was in the forest lake, which bore a remarkable resemblance to Snow Lake, Indiana. I was floating there, contented, having forgotten all about Hitler. The water was the temperature of an ideal bath: warm enough that one doesn't catch a chill, but cool enough to be refreshing. Fish were rubbing their scaly selves over the soles of my feet, and all was right with the world.

The rest of the dream, well, it was wonderful, but it wasn't exactly what one'd term exciting. It involved lots of swimming, and sunshine, and the shadows of weeping willow fronds crossing my legs. It went on for a long time, a very long time, and I woke up late Thursday afternoon--yesterday afternoon, that is--with the post office sticker on my arm. I'd got all snarled up with a pile of mail I'd left on the couch, and the sticker'd sluffed off the post office card and onto my arm. They come off, see. These mail cards from the Harbour Center have a waxed-paper backing, and the package numbers are just stuck on, so you can, I don't know, take 'em off and stick 'em to things.

Later still, I woke up properly, and chased the horsefly out of my apartment. I threw away the post office sticker, too, so it couldn't pull an encore performance. As for the staple, which started it all, it's still in my wall. I tried to pry it out with a nail file, but all I managed to do was break the file.

And that, I'm afraid, is the whole sorry tale. That was, what, two Hitler dreams in one week? I think talking about them is making them worse. Before I realized how many I was having, I don't think I was having as many. (Non sequitur alert!) Then again, maybe I just need more sleep. Ha!

* What an armadillo!

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