“I’m…I’m uh…I’m uh sleepin’ in the fugitive position,” I spit out, not at all communicating what my wiggling brain was trying to say.
“The fugitive position? Like you’re escaping? Like a fugitive? Like Harrison Ford running from Tommy Lee Jones?,” He was very alert and literate and taking full advantage of my verbal diarrhea.
So I tried again. ” No like the fertive, fertile…fergitive, fergitudinal, fergitude position, idiot!”
The conversation might have continued. I also might have fallen stiff-legged off the bed mid-argument. It was all gel capsules and blur. The next morning I checked to see if my face was drooping, if maybe I had experienced a Nighttime Tylenol Stroke.
Despite the narcs making me act like a fool while awake, they save me from some pretty disturbing dreams in my sleep. I have settled with saying ‘fergitude’ or accidentally calling the dog Scotch so that my nights are just a blank slate of sleep. Without it, well, I dream like a fresh-from-lock-up serial killer. I dream like the inside of Lady Gaga’s head, or like one of those grotesque Asian horror flicks. They range from scary, to bizarre, to embarrassing, to funny, but come the next morning they always leave me feeling a sincere concern for my mental stability and capacity for murder. Here are a few of my milder sleep time stories. You’ve been warned.
I never really watched the sitcom Frasier, but I had observed enough to memorize Frasier’s feminine little brother, Niles. One of my most vivid nightmares started with me trying on dresses in a local department store. There were two, older black ladies helping me shop, and they spoke like more soulful versions of Dolly Parton. The store’s lights began to flicker, gunshots popped and buzzed through the neat racks of Sunday dresses, and before I knew it, I was in a mall parking garage, the plumper of the two Aunties holding me near her remarkably large bosom. There was a dirty old Jeep parked at the head of the garage, intimidating men perched atop its roof and waving rowdy weapons. It was Tupac’s “California Love” video, but not as much in the desert, and with my two, black Aunties by my side instead of West Coast gang affiliates. The next thing I remember, Niles popped out from behind the Jeep and picked me up. I was surely dreaming. I am a little hefty, and there is NO logical way this most flimsy man would’ve hoisted my bones over his shoulder. They drove me through dusty roads and up a steep hill from which I could glance down at my grandmother’s house. I decided to make a break for it, rolled from the car and ran for cover, in my grandmother’s safe, floral-patterned shelter.When I got close enough to feel the warmth from Grandma’s porch light, Niles burst from the bushes! He jerked me up the hill to a creepy commune. Upon surveying my surroundings, I wished for death. People sat in circles chanting. They were dressed in white linens and all looked a little bit like Charles Manson. The END.
One of my other peculiar dreams was pretty short and not so sweet. I was sitting on the toilet, taking care of business. When I looked up I was pleasantly surprised to feel the salty, sea air whip past my face. A lovely squirrel skipped to and fro fetching nuts. Momentary earth-bonding turned to mortified weeping. I was totally naked, totally still pooping, and totally on a toilet on the side of a hill in San Francisco. More specifically, it was the hill from the intro to Full House, all green and grassy, Painted Lady Victorian Homes lining its perimeter, picnickers toasting plastic cups of grape juice. The END.
Most recently I had a marathon dream that left me feeling like I might have actually slept a solid week. I remember being dressed like a cat burglar, breaking into a toy store with a group of random and unrelated people: the morally defunct cop who lived at my former workplace, that guy from college who always drunkenly strummed guitar on his porch, the friendly, old bagger-lady from my favorite Kroger store. We were huddled in our black tights and ski masks, plotting a very serious breach of Toy Mart’s security. I don’t remember how the actual heist went down (I imagine it was absurd), but next thing I knew I was running from a mob of large foreign men toting guns. I ran into my Uncle Bill, dressed in plaid from head-to-toe. I explained the epic amount of trouble I’d found myself in, and he started reciting a monologue. Uncle Bill, dammit! This is no time for thespian speak! I continued running from the Toy Mart terrorists, until I reached the border. I sent my fiance a letter in Spanish apologizing for my abrupt departurdado and could he please do a good job raising the baby as I would forever remain a fergitive…I mean, fugitive. The END.
I have a million-and-a-half tiny snapshots of ridiculous plots I have created in my sleep. There have been hot dog eating contests, incidents of humiliating public nudity, sex dreams featuring Dwight from “The Office”. There have been falling-out- of-plane dreams, swinging-on-hammock dreams, accidentally-hitting- a- Girl- Scout- with- a- car dreams. I’d like to think my liver can handle the nightly Tylenol-led assault. I’d like to never watch Frasier again in my life. I’d love to visit Mexico and return without changing my name to Guadalupe.
I would rather just sleep peacefully, wholly drugged, completely in fergitude.