(((dreamscape #5)))

I’m the new kid in school. I realize quickly that I am Kevin Bacon, and things are gonna get weird. There’s a school dance, I’m dressed up in a tux, hanging out with the Russian Dancer Kid from the end of the movie. He’s wearing a pink bow tie. We dance to Kenny Loggins, have good time, and then we drive home with a few friends. I’m wowing them with stories about Illinois, J.D. Salinger, and seeing Men at Work live, and they are noticeably impressed even though they don’t really know who Men at Work are. Ariel is with us and I’m enjoying myself, regardless of the fact that I know that knuckles will be thrown soon, cuz Chet is lurking around somewhere, and he is not a very happy hick.
We stop at a big empty parking lot, all sparse and well lit. Ariel and I get out; our cars are the only two in the place. Ariel has an old black VW bug, and my car… I don’t know yet. I go into the bushes to piss, and while I’m doing that Chet drives up into the parking lot as Ariel is about to get into her car—“Ya little cunt! Git yur ass home! Fuck ‘dat, ya thank ya cun do whutever ya want? Huh? Ah’ll show yew I treated yew deesunt, bitch!”—she just looks at him, a little scared but also slightly amused by his infantile behavior. He roars around in his truck, stops about 20 feet away, aimed at her car, and yells—“See how ya lahk ‘dis!”—and floors it, smoke and rubber filling the air, stinking up the place and making a horrible shrieking sound as his tires get hot enough to grip the asphalt. The truck rockets forward and rams into the front driver side of her car.
At about this time I come out of the bushes zipping myself up, noticing with a little irritation that there are some visible drips of pee on the front of my slacks. What the hell is going on? I walk up to Ariel and her car, which is a little dented but still capable if driving. I quickly assess the situation and decide that it’d be best if she takes off and leaves this for Chet and me to settle on our own—“You’d better get home. I’ll see if I can’t fix this.”—She looks at Chet, then me, then gets into her car and limps away.
Now I seem to have his full attention. I notice a small trickle of blood coming from his forehead, right at the hairline. He hit his head on his steering wheel when he rammed Ariel’s car. I decide not to point out that he should’ve been wearing his seatbelt, but the idea makes me smirk. There’s nothing funnier than someone getting hurt while trying to be a badass.
—“Oh, Mr Dance Fever. What yew smahlin’ at? Huh? Yew wunt some too, faggit?”—I just look at him. What do you say to something like that? My car is a long convertible thing, obviously on its last legs, top down, Quiet Riot cassette in the player. He backs his truck at full speed into my car and t-bones it. I don’t really care, as it seems to have done more damage to his truck that to my car. My Russian dancer friend comes running up and stands next to me, breathless and hair slightly mussed—“What the hell is this? I saw Ariel and she said Chet was going nuts”—I nod towards the car to confirm his information, his eyes widen—“Shit, what a dolt.”—“Yup.”—
—““So, thur a 2 of ya faggots now. Well, I’ll fuck both a y’all Ya lahk ‘dat? Huh? YA LAHK ‘DAT?”—again, what do you say? We just stand there, a brake light cover falls off the back of his idling truck, clatters quietly on the ground.
I realize that I need to leave this fucking town.
“Jest y’all wait thur, faggits. Gunna put some oil in mah truck, then AH’M A GUNNA FUCK Y’ALL!!”—as he screams this last part, he rises up on his tippy-toes with the force of his threat (Or was it a come-on? A proposition?). He reaches behind his seat for some oil and pops the hood. While he’s out of sight, I pick up a fist-sized rock and hold it down at my side, a little behind so he can’t really see it. I’m pretty much fed up with his shit; the amusement is gone from the scene. I’m hungry, tired and I want to go home.
He slams his hood shut, throws the oil can aside, and climbs into his truck again—“OK faggits, gunna do y’all N’GOOD!”—he turns his truck around and is getting ready to ram my car with the front of his truck, in the same side. I’m hoping that I can at least salvage my tapes out of the mess. Just try getting a new Boston tape in this town, it’s near impossible.
We’re on the other side of the car, about 8 feet away. My plan is to throw the rock through his windshield right when he’s about to collide, at the very least shattering his windshield, and, at the very most, if there is a God, and mind you any fucking God will do, maybe cracking his fucking skull and killing him. He’s not really doing the world any good. I doubt anyone will get all weepy over his passing.
He roars towards my car, and I get ready to throw, and then he screeches to a halt about a foot from contact—“Yur gunna git it now!”—and he hoots like a hillbilly. There’s movement in my peripherals. I look around and see about 10 people running out of the bushes from all sides. This was a set up, we’re gonna get a beating. I notice that 4 of the guys are my friends from The Hitch (R.I.P.), and I know they can kick some dick, so as irritated as I am by the fact that this cock-sucker got my friends to beat me up, I’m also scared cuz I know that this is gonna hurt. Me and Russian Boy don’t even need to consult, we run, in 2 different directions. I make my way out of the parking lot, shiny shoes sliding on the asphalt, and end up charging down a dirt alley way that bisects a rutted and forgotten block of run-down houses. Garbage and weeds and half-fallen fences line the path.

I look back and notice that the Hitch guys took off after the other guy, so that’s a little bit of a relief. Then I see that the 2 guys that are chasing me are Rerun and Dwayne Wayne from What’s Happenin’. The surreal qualities of this aspect are not lost on me, even in a dream state, and at the same time it really pisses me off.


Rerun is sweating but keeping up, doing surprisingly good for a guy his size. My anger gets on top of me and I pull to a halt. The guys stop too, and I’m done—“OK, fuck this It’s bad enough that this Chet bitch got my friends to jump me, but you guys? C’mon, I’m not gonna have my favorite TV show ruined by this cock-swallower, too! So stop, truce, time-out and what the fuck?! I love you guys, I watched What’s Happenin’ all the fuckin’ time, now you’re gonna kick my ass cuz some redneck piece of baby shit can’t do it himself? Huh?”—they look at each other and back at me. Rerun speaks—“Hell man, we ain’t got no beef with you. Chet just said he’d buy us a hamburger if we beat up some cracker for him. But now that we’re in this mess, it does seem a little dumb”—A hamburger?—“Hamburger? Shit man, you come to my house, we’ll cook a whole pig! We’ll eat pork roast, pork ribs, fuckin’ bacon [author’s note: do you think Kevin Bacon eats bacon? Could Kevin Bacon be a Muslim or a Jew? Would he have to change his name]! Tomorrow night head on over, we’ll eat like Gods!”—they look at one another, Dwayne nods meekly at Rerun, he nods back–“Alright man, that’s cool. Look sorry about this. No hard feelings? You understand, right? It was a burger, double patty with cheese and onions and mayo and tomatoes and …”—he started getting a dazed look in his eyes, silver drool on the corners of his mouth. I decided to take off before the lure of a big juicy burger got him back on track to stomp me—“OK guys, tomorrow, 7 PM, I’ll see you then.”—“Yeah, cool. See you then.”—and we went off in our separate directions.
I ended up back at the high school, and I had to piss. Though it was late, one of the restrooms was open, a dull yellow light pouring out. I walked in, ticked off and fed up with this small town, this hillbilly, kicking the garbage can—“Fuckin’ Chet! Got my friends, The Hitch, fuckin’ Dwayne and Rerun to kick my ass? Shit!”—I had to move out of this town, and quick, before I killed someone.
I took off my tux jacket and tossed it into a sink, and noticed that an M-16 was in the sink at the end of the row. In the last stall, one of the night guards was going pee, or trying to from the sounds of it. He was a huge black guy, about 7 feet tall, 450 pounds, both his sides touched the stall walls, he was squeezed in like a baby in a birth canal, unable to shift in any direction, and berating to his penis, oblivious to the fact that he was no longer alone in the bathroom—“C’mon, gimmie a little. I know there’s piss in there, just let it out.”—he was getting more and more impatient with his penile constipation—“C’mon, bitch! Just let it out! What, you think its gold? Gonna open up a bank account? Save some piss and try to buy your own place with it? Huh? Gonna get a little condo on the beach with my piss?! Fuck you!”—he started squirming around, the walls of the stall bulging out. I was pretty sure that if his dick didn’t release its grip on his piss then the stall would not live to see the morning and he’d end up shooting his cock off with his gun. I went into the stall farthest from him to pee—“Goddammnit! I’m gonna kill you! Let it out! LET IT OUT!! ARRRGHH!!! You sumbitch!!!”—I hoped that the sound of me being able to pee didn’t send him over the edge, though it sounded like he was already over the edge. Not everyone had long, violent arguments with their penis. I peed into a toilet that seemed too far away from where I was standing, zipped up and left to the sounds of his inhuman wailing and the sound of a bathroom stall being viciously ripped to pieces.