The Wayward Station
The indigo awoke in his 4th grade music classroom; he was unsure of where he was or how he got there. One thing he was sure of was he was no longer in 4th grade; in fact, he had graduated high school and college and had a career. What was he doing back here? He looked around; it wasn’t exactly like he remembered it. It was his classroom, but it wasn’t. There were elements of it that were the same, yet the dimensions seemed weird as if time and space had slightly deformed or altered. What was this place? It looked like a cross between his classroom and some ethereal station. He explored the classroom, again parts of it were the same and parts were completely different. There were instruments lined up mostly along the wall. That was the same. There was a French Horn that looked like it had far too many brass pipes. The horn looked like if you unbent it would be hundreds of feet long. That was different.
On the chalkboard, written in white chalk was the saying,
It’s only your mind’s eye that sees, the difference between sickness and disease.
He picked up a piece of chalk and wrote the word it’s, yep it was his handwriting. Did he leave a message for himself? And what did it mean? His fiancée (well before she had broken it off with him) believed that sickness was merely a manifestation of a dis-ease within your life hence the term disease. Of course, she may have been bordering on Crazytown.
He wandered out into the hallway. It was his elementary school. He hadn’t been in there in over twenty years.
“Hello,’ he called out.
His voice did not echo down the hallway.
There was almost a staleness in the air.
Odd.
“Anybody there?” he called again.
No one answered.
It appeared the school was empty.
It reminded him of after school when he was a child. Except normally, there would be a custodian cleaning up. He turned the corner expecting to see a man with a broom. There was no custodian. He walked over to the gym, there was no one in there either.
He went back into his music classroom. As a child he had begged his parents to let him play the drums. He was told by his teacher he did not have the grades, but after throwing a tantrum he eventually was allowed to join the band. He was given a wooden pad not a drum set and told he needed to practice on that. After about two months of tapping on the wooden drum block, he quit the band. Now, he was back in this room, why? It was odd, although it felt like afterschool that was more because of the emptiness of the place. The place felt timeless. Well maybe that’s not the right word, but there was no right word. He was out of time. No, that wasn’t it either. He looked out the window, it was odd, there was light, but no sun. It wasn’t afternoon, it wasn’t twilight, what time was it?
He left the classroom and crossed the hall, walking to the loading dock, surely there had to be somebody there. The loading dock was empty. He stepped outside into the parking lot. It was the neighborhood he had lived in as kid, the neighborhood his parents still lived in, but there wasn’t a soul around. If he wanted to he could walk to his parents’ house, it was only a couple of blocks away. The wind started to blow, and the indigo got scared and returned inside.
He thought he might know where he was. Was this, the place between dreams? It certainly would explain a lot. The timelessness of it all, the oddness. That wasn’t it but was the closest thing he could think of to explain where he was. Normal people couldn’t go between dreams, he knew that too.
There was a stack of old boxes next to an old piano. He couldn’t remember if the stack of boxes had been there in real life in 4th grade or this was part of what had changed. He picked up the top box and set it on the ground. He sat down and opened the box.
Inside the box were collectibles, for dreamcatchers love to collect. There were baseball and football cards. There was a baseball autographed by Duke Snider. This had been his father’s. There was a ruby red ring. This had been his mother’s. There was an assortment of odd dolls, some of them hand sewn and looking eerily like voodoo dolls. He picked up the autographed baseball. What was this doing here? Didn’t it belong on top of his father’s dresser? He tossed it back in the box. There was a collector set of The Chronicles of Narnia. As a child his mother had read him the entire series all nine books, but when he became an adult, he was shocked to learn there were not nine books in the series, but only seven. The set in the box, oddly had the normal seven books. Had he imagined the extra two books? Reality was too weird. There were too many coincidences.
He got back up, wandering around the classroom again.
This place that was modeled after his 4th grade classroom, he understood he had been here before. Many times. So how come he could not remember?
What was this place?
Was this what he might refer to as a wayward station or a dreaming portal?
If so, where was this a portal to, and where was the freaking portal. All he saw were moldy books and boxes. He knew this was the place he came when he was upset, but why? Why did he retreat back to his 4th grade classroom and how come it did look exactly like his 4th grade classroom? No, sir, something sinister was afoot.
He placed the collectibles back in the box and closed the four corners neatly overlapping each other. He placed the box on the piano and began to inspect the second box. The second box brought a memory that was precious, peculiar, and painful.
Inside the box were action figures, both He-man and Transformers. There was an Optimus Prime the leader of the good Transformers and there were some smaller robots and over thirty He-man figures. It was just after Christmas, a boy named Chris, the indigos age had been quite taken with Optimus Prime he had gotten as a gift for Christmas. He offered him an arsenal full of toys for the one figure. The trade was all but made, the indigo carried his tote full of figures back to his apartment ready to have an epic battle. And the best part was, he got all these toys for one action figure. He was setting up for battle when his mother happened to come across the scene and was curious where he got all the new toys from. When she learned what he had done, she was shocked and sent the little indigo to his room.
At dinner, his parents explained that the figure was a gift from them and that they were unhappy that he had traded it for a chest of toys.
“But it was my gift,” the little indigo explained.
“Nonetheless, we’d like you to get it back,” his mother explained.
The little indigo didn’t understand and although he was not happy about it, he did what his parents said. He went over to Chris’ house the next day and asked for the Optimus Prime. He knocked on the door and asked for the figure back.
“No,” Chris screamed, “You already traded. No trade backs.”
He slammed the door in the indigos face.
The indigo knocked again, explaining that it wasn’t his fault, his mom was forcing him to.
“Too bad,” Chris told him, “You already traded, what are you an Indian giver?”
The indigo was pretty sure he was not Native American Indian but was a little shocked by Chris’ anger.
“I need it back, I’m sorry,” the indigo explained.
Chris still refused and eventually the little indigo had to get his parents involved. His mom, called Chris’s mom and it was check mate. Chris was forced to give up the Optimus Prime, but not without being a snot about it.
“Go ahead, take it,” he told the little indigo, “You suck, you’re nothing but an Indian giver.”
“It’s not my fault,” the indigo explained.
“Whatever Indian giver!” Chris snapped back.
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” the indigo explained.
“What are you gonna do about it?” Chris asked.
The incident was over and although it was uncomfortable no one had gotten hurt, right?
Wrong.
A few weeks went by and Chris hadn’t been in school and the little indigo was curious about his friend. Was he still mad? He rode his bike to his house and knocked on the door. Chris’ mother said that he wasn’t home. A few days later the rumors and whispers started at school. Some kids said he had drowned a dog. Others said he had tied firecrackers to a kitten, but in all the stories the one remaining constant was Chris had been locked up in a mental asylum and that was the last time the indigo ever saw him. He honestly didn’t even think about it a lot until his second and third friend got sick.
He drew his attention back toward the chalk board and the slogan he had written on it,
It’s only your mind’s eye that sees, the difference between sickness and disease.
He put the figures back in the box and put the box away.
The idea was silly really. As if he were some sorcerer. It was laughable.
He said it out loud, “I can make people sick in their dreams.”
He did not want to look though the other boxes; he could guess what was in them. More incidents like the one he had just unpacked. Throughout his life all his problems stemmed from him not being able to sleep. What was he so afraid of?
He thought of the cave in Socrates’ allegory. It went something like, all humans are all prisoners in a cave, chained to facing a wall so all we see are shadows. That is our reality. This female who had been his lover had told him, he lived inside the cave, this was, of course shortly before she broke up with him.
How many times have I been here, he thought? How many boxes were there? He counted, there was ironically thirteen.
“I can make people sick in their dreams, that’s what the saying on the chalkboard means.” He said to himself. And depending on what day you caught him, he really did believe that. All the alcohol he could drink and pills he could pop wouldn’t change that.
He walked back to the boxes. He thought he remembered how to leave this wayward station. He slid the piano out of the way. There was a row of desks along the wall. One of the desks had a sheet over it. It didn’t seem unusually abnormal it was just a sheet. He crawled under the desk and pulled the sheet back.
He gulped. He was a little startled, even though he understood he had been here before. Many times. So how come he couldn’t remember?
Under the desk, behind the pulled back curtain was a dark tunnel. Just a tunnel in the wall. It was sort of like that tunnel in Being John Malkovich. He took a deep breath and slowly crawled into the tunnel.
