Chapter six

It wasn’t that long of an elevator ride – or maybe it was – I didn’t notice. The elevator definitely looked more modern now; it didn’t match the classic motif of the long, long hall. The floor was rubbery, easy-to-clean; the walls were that kind of dull metal that you could scarcely see yourself in. And of course, it featured the recessed tubular fluorescent lights that a person of the late twentieth century like myself would easily recognize. Just then, up in a corner, as my eyes adjusted to the sterile lighting, there was Queenie.

It was like she followed me onto the elevator when I left the Trash room, and she waited for me whilst I met that black dude. I really should call him by his first name – Dion – I don’t want to sound like a racist. But it’s all a dream, right? So I guess it doesn’t matter after all.

The little tarantula walked ever-so-deliberately down the metallic surface: she eyed me with four of her eyes, and used the others to steal a glance at her reflection in the murky makeshift mirror. After all, what girl could refuse to check herself out through the looking-glass when going to meet her man? I was over-exuberantly delighted to see her! Like a Roman footman or a Nazi saluting, I held my hand out to form a bridge from the wall to my shoulder.

I had so much to think about at this point, I was happy to have a little distraction from my lovely lady. She crawled around the bottom-side of my flesh, spiraling up my arm, her whiskers tickling me a little as I watched her movements. I figure I knew enough about spiders to understand her: how they respected the wind, what care they took to build castles within trees, and how certain ones would wrap up their dinner, in the way we treat our leftovers. Queenie was different from all of them somehow, though: she acted more like a pet than a wild animal. No, not quite a pet; she behaved like an old friend, someone you hadn’t seen in ages. I could tell we were mutually happy to see one another.

Again she sat upon my shoulder, and once again I imagined myself into another dream-within-the-dream. In this instance I was a pirate without a parrot – but with a tarantula in its stead – standing somewhere atop the deck of this selfsame vessel, the fair Monmouth. Scores of men – my merry crew – sung about my deep sea exploits, as I stood before the quarterdeck with the wheel in hand, gazing into the mystery of a vast ocean (as so many great captains do); an ocean bereft of trash. That crew feared me with good reason, but out of that fear sprung a love for my companion; they sang almost entirely for her. And I watched as she preened for them. From time to time, Queenie would crawl atop my head in order to get a better view of her would-be suitors. It was a stark and pristine scene, and I felt like I was seeing some possible future for me and my Queen.

And then I woke up. Not from the true dream, mind you, as I found myself staring into the dull steel of the lift. The thoughts that I had been distracted from came rushing in, and there I was, speaking aloud to the little spider.

“What the hell am I doing here?” I pondered. “An amorphous vessel led me to that bastard child of superhuman strength, and now I sail upon a sea full of trash? Could there be a destination familiar to me at the end of our voyage? Why was Dion considered a member of the crew, whereas I am a common rat?” Queenie seemed to answer me with an octocular glance: “You know, Lester, we rats and spiders can rest easily in our stations, for together we shall always be the outcast and the pariah.” Somehow that put the bulk of my questions to rest, save for the one of greatest import.

“How did I know what Dion’s name was?”

She was still looking at me, smiling as usual. She was proud of me somehow. Queenie didn’t have to say anything now; her very presence put my questions to rest. I was reading her mind now, and she was well aware of it. I truly should have discovered I was dreaming, right? In this waking life I can question this phenomenon, because I know that all psychic abilities are the purest of chimera, false constructs of an unconscious mind. But in that dream I believed I was a mind-reader, and so I was. As harmless as it seems to imagine such a thing, I didn’t know I was dreaming – thus I possessed an ability beyond that of mundane people, and I was happy to readily exploit it. What great treasures awaited me in this future if this were but the smallest of my gifts!

Queenie must’ve thought that I was thinking on her, because now she was atop my head, as she was in my pirate vision. She was mussing up what little hair I had with her machinations; as though I were not quite her prey, and yet not quite her offspring. I was a little one caught up affectionately in her broad web; the little mouse that a kitten plays with softly, without ever murdering it. I knew she had let out a little bit of webbing; like those women who laugh so hard that they pee a little. I didn’t mind about the webbing: I was high as a kite on my new-found ability.

Both of our orgasmic driftings were interrupted here: “Ding!” The elevator had arrived at my Trash sorting room, and remembering the broad, steely hand of Dex, I set my mind to the myriad piles of trash that the parting doors revealed unto me. Now I’m sure you can imagine having to go to work within your dreams; perhaps such a dream has occurred in your subconscious mind. Surely this is disagreeable, but only in waking is the tragedy revealed. Throughout those dreams, at least, you have the benefit of believing you will receive a wage for your services. Unfortunately, in my own surreality, I didn’t have such a luxury: deep in the dream, only the threat of violence inspired me to labor through all that refuse.

“If only my psychic abilities had included telekinesis!” I screamed.

Pick a God, and I’ll swear to Her or Him that I heard laughter from a spider.