God, what if Shannon and I had found something like the writers of Legionnaires did, some shared creative passion, some interest other than the children?

  The understanding that I really do blame Logan for killing my dreams crushes me down onto the bed. I quickly crack open a comic and lose myself.

  When I look at the clock, it’s almost 11:00 and I’m still not tired. This is crazy.

  The thought from earlier flies back around and buzzes in my ear. I reach into my right front pocket and pull out my phone. Okay, so it’s not a smartphone. I also don’t spend a hundred bucks a month on the contract. And it’s pretty cool, all silver and slim.

  I turn it on (buzz buzz). It’s got a pretty slick interface, with a swirling red graphical flourish. Flipping through the menu, I see that it does have a music player. Maybe I’ll load it up tomorrow.

  So it’s got a music player, a calendar, a calculator, a voice memo recorder, hell, this thing was the stuff of science fiction when I was a kid. It’s got a contact book (buzz buzz buzz). I remember when you had to memorize the numbers you might need when you were out. I click the book. Not a lot of entries. Scroll down. Leslie.

  I stare at her number for a while, then click the phone off and toss it on the bed. I open the next issue of Legionnaires, but soon find that I’m staring at the first page, and have been for several minutes.

  It’s odd how rarely I text. I only use the phone to talk to Shannon and my parents. People my age text.

  I slowly tap out WHAT ARE YOU UP TO? then toss the phone back down and pick the comic back up.

  After less than a minute of holding but not reading a comic, I reach for my buzzing phone.

  NOT MUCH. YOU?

  Laboriously, I type out, SITTING IN A HOTEL READING COMICS.

  REALLY? ALONE?

  YEAH. I briefly consider using a frowny-face symbol, something I’ve also never done, and though I send the one-word message without it, I berate myself for having even considered it.

  Then the phone doesn’t buzz. It rings. It’s Leslie. My heart ricochets around my chest, and my thumb hovers over the answer button, but I can’t not answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Jessie. You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I was just looking at my phone and thought about how you made fun of me for not texting. It does have a music player, by the way.”

  “Well, that’s stellar, but why are you alone in a hotel? Did you go somewhere?”

  So she thought this was a cry for help.

  “No, I’m fine. Don’t worry. We just decided it’d be best if I sleep away from the house until we get the night terrors figured out. I’ll go back home in the morning.”

  “I see. So where are you staying?”

  “The E-Z Inn.”

  “Seriously? Gross! I used to prostitute out of there all the time.”

  “Really?”

  “No, asshole. Oh man, there’s this amazing bar across the street. It’s from a different world.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Ummm, I don’t think I will.”

  “Yes you will. In twenty minutes, when we’re getting a drink and you’re telling me about the problems that have you drowning your sorrows in comic books way past your bedtime.”

  “I don’t—” A short, high-pitched tone cuts me off. I look at the phone. She hung up.

  * * *

  For a moment I consider sitting at the bar, but I need some time to absorb the Purple Moon Lounge, so I take my beer to a corner booth where I can see everything.

  The place is amazing. Despite the name, when I saw the dilapidated exterior, I expected your standard American dive bar. I expected rough-drinking regulars slumped over their drinks like they’d collapse if you took the table out from under them. I expected glazed eyes glued to a television. Beer posters. A juke box that only played Bob Seger. Scarred wood, split vinyl, and dim, sourceless lighting.

  I expected a bar where people knew they were done for. The kind of place wounded animals crawled in to die.

  Apparently, no one told the patrons of the Purple Moon Lounge their time had passed. The bar isn’t stuck against a wall, but bulges obscenely out into the room, a semicircular command station. Around it, a crowd of people of an age I didn’t know went to bars to flirt shamelessly. A couple of women who appear to be in their forties are the hot young stuff the guys are sniffing around so you’d think they were girls who’d been let in despite obviously fake IDs.

  But while I’m kind of laughing at them, I’m kind of shamed by them, too. They’re wearing nice clothing. The women in dresses, the men in dress shirts and slacks. Chatting and dancing on the small dance floor, they seem to have much more energy and life than I do.

  The plastic ferns “planted” around the top of the booth part, and Leslie’s face appears. Her eyes slide back and forth like she’s on a jungle expedition and is scanning the area for predators, which is exactly how I’ve felt sitting here alone.

  “I told you this place is awesome,” she says, coming around and sitting opposite me.

  “It is.” I touch the seat with a fingertip. “How do they get plastic furry?”

  “It’s a lost art, for sure.”

  “How did you find this place?”

  “A friend knew about it and gave me the gift, and now I’m paying it forward. Let me give you some advice, though: don’t stare. Don’t take this place as a joke. This crowd isn’t the best at sensing irony, because they’re genuine people, but they pretty much know when they’re being made fun of, and they expect it from people like us. I try not to be sincere too often, but for real, these people kick ass, and once you’ve earned their trust they will wrap you up in their warm embraces and share whatever Cocoon-type energy allows them to laugh and dance into the small hours.”

  She looks into my eyes as if to confirm that I’ve absorbed her words, then says, “You need another. What are you drinking?”

  “Bud Light.”

  “Piss water.”

  At the bar, she receives one hug and kiss on the cheek after the other. She joins in their laughter, then nods her head back at me, and several men and women wave. I wave back, glad to see they don’t seem to be trying to wave me over, though they do look very nice.

  The bar still feels like the place where swingers meet for the first time to get to know each other and lay out the ground rules for an orgy over at the E-Z Inn, but I can also see what Leslie likes about the place. She even kneels on a stool to lean across the bar and hug the bartender.

  As she returns with a beer and a low-ball glass, several people wave at me again.

  “Your piss water, sir.”

  “Thank you. You’re very popular.”

  She shrugs. “Scoot over. I like to be able to see the room.”

  I slide around the table until I’m seated just past the point farthest from a way out. Sliding across the crushed-velvet-like plastic actually heats up the seat of my jeans.

  Leslie slides around until she’s directly beside me. My heart thumps. I breathe and force it to slow down. She just likes to watch the room.

  “So tell me what’s up.”

  I start haltingly, but each word is like another leak in a cracking dam, carrying away a bit more concrete until the whole thing comes down and everything pours out.

  Leslie goes to the bar and returns with drinks several times over the course of my epic tale. As I watch her get me another piss water, I realize I’d been waiting for someone who I wasn’t paying to say the words, “So tell me what’s up.” Leslie, the girl I barely knew, who I’d thought of as a somewhat self-absorbed child, was the first to do so.

  She returns, using considerably more concentration not to spill the drinks than the first time, then slides around to me. I slide a bit into her, and she leans into me.

  “So you really think the nightmare man has his own existence?”

  “God, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I do. And I think I’ve made him. I’m not sure he has his own body. Maybe Shannon is right and I’m the one doing this. His personality is separate from mine, but maybe he uses my body. All I know is that he has his own motivations I’m only just starting to figure out.”

  We talk, but I’m paying less attention to what I’m saying than to my thigh pressed against hers. The drinks seem to empty themselves, and this time I go to get the next round, finally having enough liquid courage to walk into this group who know Leslie and now probably want to know me.

  There are greetings and names and handshakes from all around. My head swims, and I float through all the social interaction like I’m bobbing in the warm Pacific, something not at all possible when I’m sober.

  Someone pinches my butt. I try to see who, but an entire cluster of women start giggling when I look over at them.

  The bartender slides me my drinks and tells me I’m a lucky guy.

  “Oh, we’re just friends.”

  He only bounces his eyebrows once, an expression that is somehow disbelieving, apathetic and lascivious all at the same time. Such economy.

  I slide around the booth and right against Leslie. My hand is on her thigh for a moment before I notice her posture and energy have changed. She’s not leaning into me. I knead her leg once more, pat it, then remove my hand.

  “I’ve been thinking about your story. You drew this comic where the nightmare man goes after people who kill other people’s dreams?”

  “Yeah. The shrink was trying to help me turn this negative figure into a positive one.”

  “I get that. But you think he’s going after your son for that reason?”

  “Yeah. I know it sounds weird, but that’s my theory.”

  “I was trying to process all this, and then I put something together. You said that you think the nightmare man is part of you.”

  “Yeah.” I can see she’s going someplace serious, but through the five beers I’m having trouble following her there. I take a long slurp of the sixth.

  “So that means some part of you blames your son for your giving up art.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Jessie, that’s fucked up. He had no say in the matter.”

  I inch away from her. Our thighs no longer touch. “I know that. It’s, like, subconscious.”

  “My mom and dad met after one of my dad’s rock shows. He’s a drummer. In pictures, he’s always shirtless and sweaty and kinetic. It sicks me out to think about it, but I can understand why my mom liked him. Anyway, they dated, she went to all his shows, they got married, and then they had me. Then he couldn’t be out late, not every night, and the other bandmates weren’t going to limit themselves to the occasional Friday or Saturday show, so they kicked him out. He never played another live show, and he hasn’t played the drums for as long as I can remember. We didn’t have a huge house. You know what he used to say?”

  “What?”

  “That when I moved out, he’d soundproof the walls of my room and put a drum set in there. He used to say that all the time. He’d see me studying and say, ‘Study hard. Get a good scholarship. Because come eighteen, this becomes the rock room.’ And he was joking, but he knew what he was saying. He was saying it was my fault, that his whole boring, normal life was my fault, that he’d be a rock god if he hadn’t done the right thing and stuck by my mom and taken care of me.”

  I don’t say anything. Thoughts fly through my drunken, spinning mind and are gone before I can latch onto one. Feeling angry and ashamed and sorry and indignant, I won’t give any one idea enough time to accumulate words and be expressed.

  Leslie says, “The first time we met, you sat at your desk and did the most awesome drawing of me. So why don’t you draw at your desk every day? Your work barely requires your hands. When we first met, your youngest was home all day. Now she’s at school all day. Why don’t you shift your hours to give yourself some time in the morning before work? You could work something out. You’re always talking about how much the collection company needs you. Hell, they need you so much that when you flipped out on the phones, not only did they let you keep your job, they gave you paid fucking time off. Have you put it to use? Have you started drawing again? Have you even considered it?”

  It should be shame. Shame should be winning. But somehow, anger is holding its own, and I still can’t speak. I just keep my eyes on my piss water, amber and fizzing.

  Leslie slides out of the booth. “Basically, you need to set your subconscious straight on who’s at fault here. You’re the only one who can kill your dreams. That’s what’s so amazing about dreams. No one else can touch them. Dreams are fucking bulletproof.”

  I don’t look up, but the table jumps and her shadow looms. Leaning across the big round table, she puts a hand on mine. “Jessie, I want this to get better for you. Hit me up again when you want to talk.”

  I nod. She leaves.

  * * *

  Looking across the vacant street, the E-Z Inn seems very far away. Next thing I know, I’m struggling with the lock, jiggling the key, turning the handle, and repeatedly pushing in until it gives—mission accomplished—and I stumble into the room.

  Jesus, it was only six beers. I can’t even think of the shame my early twenties self would feel if he saw this. But I don’t drink anymore. Never more than a beer. Maybe two if it’s stretched out over an entire evening.

  The room is dark. After dropping my jacket on the floor, I walk forward until I hit my shins on the bed, then just fall, allowing sweet gravity to put me horizontal. I kick off my shoes and am out.

  I wake up to anxiety knocking around the corridors of my mind and dragging its thorny body through my veins. And to bad cotton mouth. This is why I never drink more than two beers in a night. The depressive effect of alcohol would either stimulate a night terror or a bad case of drinker’s remorse. I used to wake up like this and take a double dose of clonazepam. But I don’t take clonazepam anymore. I might if I had it with me.

  Getting to my feet stirs a weak wave of nausea, but I head to the bathroom and do shots of water from the ridiculous little plastic-wrapped plastic cup. Then back to bed.

  I manage to do all this without turning on the light. There’s a headache stirring, and I don’t want to wake the beast.

  I strip off my pants and slide between the sheets, but sleep doesn’t come. I lay feeling my pulse bang in my neck like it’s got a rubber mallet. Fear has staked out the place in my brain where sleep usually sets up camp.

  I look around the room for the nightmare man, but he must be busy. I feel like he should be here, but when I stare into the corners, the swirling black never coalesces into the cloaked figure.

  I fall back into light sleep. I’m not sure for how long before my phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Logan is okay. He set a fire and we’re at the hospital, but he’s okay.”

  * * *

  Shannon stands from her seat beside Logan’s bed when she sees me coming. She’s got jeans on beneath her oversized Looney Tunes T-shirt. I throw my arms around her.

  “He’s okay?”

  “They say it’s no worse than a really bad sunburn.”

  His face is pink beneath whatever greasy substance they’ve smeared him with.”

  “Logan?” I put a hand on his chest to feel his slow breathing, and to feel a bit less terror.

  “They gave him something to help him sleep. He was so upset.”

  “Where’s Madison?”

  “My parents came and got her.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  Shannon sighs and sits down. “He said he woke up and felt the shadow man coming, so he got up and set a trap. He doused his closet in lighter fluid and shut the door. When the shadow man tried to come out, he opened the closet and lit it with a stove lighter. The fumes had been building. He ran out of the room screaming. His hair was smoldering, that front little cowlick. Thank God we got that fire extinguisher.”

  I lean over her, rest my cheek on top of her head. All I can do is thank her over and over.

  Soon, they let us take Logan home. He wakes up a bit and tells me about the shadow man, how he scared him away, and he apologizes for setting the house on fire. He sleeps in Madison’s room for most of the day. We keep him slathered in ointment and deal with his low fever, but other than that, he seems all right. Shannon won’t leave his side. She’s afraid to bump him, so I drag his bed into Madison’s room and she lies beside him, napping and reading.

  Logan’s room is wrecked. The closet is a black, charred hole. After Shannon put the fire out with the extinguisher, she pulled all the clothes and games onto the floor and poured several buckets of water on everything. The smell is acrid and horrible.

  Black trails up the wall outside the closet. The ceiling is sooty. I’ll have to repaint the whole room. Put up new drywall in the closet.

  This seems right. For all the chaos he’s caused in my life, the nightmare man has never left a trace. This dark explosion from the closet, this feels right.

  I’m no longer confused. My nightmares have come to life and are after my son. In the hotel, I felt the nightmare man emerge, but instead of going after me, he came here to get Logan. I thought my family would be safe if I stayed away. It only left them more vulnerable.

  But what can I do? I can’t leave and take him with me. I can’t barricade him out. I can’t stay awake forever.

  Something has changed. The nightmare man has always been with me, but he’s never tormented anyone else. Not until I started taking those pills.

  I check in on Logan. He’s sleeping, his mouth hanging open, his skin red and glistening. I chase the image of a suckling pig from my mind. Shannon is asleep, too.

  I put on my coat and head for the medical research center.

  * * *

  The man at the security station beside the entrance to Conway Medical Research Center slides my ID back through the slot in the glass, but instead of buzzing me in, he says, “Your study has been canceled.”

 

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