Monthly Archives: October 2008

Dream: Reunion train

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I knew I had graduated from the University of Chicago, but now — probably years later — I was attending Yale University for an undergraduate degree. I couldn’t understand my own actions, but I had to do it. I didn’t feel as frightened of failure as I usually do when I am returning to complete the degree I already have.

Someone asked, “How many military officers have you had convicted?” What an odd question. I was sitting, stooping, or kneeling, but I sensed someone behind me. TB was there with a friend or two, and he was holding up both hands with all fingers and both thumbs spread. Before I knew it, I said, “Do you have enough fingers?” He glanced down at me in disgust at the implication. Again, I had blown it. A military lawyer? Is that what he had been? It didn’t seem likely. The number 10 seemed high if he hadn’t been, though, and I knew he’d run out of fingers. But what a strange question — who had asked it and why?

It was time for a class reunion, which involved a train trip. We stayed overnight somewhere; when I returned to my train seat, my computer (Titanium PowerBook) was still there, but the AlphaSmart NEO was missing. I couldn’t remember any of my own movements but in a moment of denial was sure that I had left it in another car and that it had not been stolen.

PS, the office manager, was noncommittal but at least did not condemn me for my foolish actions and assumptions. She moved me to the next car, which was nothing like the comfortable one I had been in. Rows of wooden seats were packed in tightly; from above it looked like a cattle car, possibly with straw on the floor. The conductor told me people chose it because the back part was a swimming pool. Later, it would be more of a pond than a pool, and most people ignored it in favor of a chlorinated resort pool that had taken over most of the rest of the car.

All of us got out at a building, perhaps a shopping complex. I was clutching a handful of thin legal-size folders and my thick wallet awkwardly; hanging onto these would give me a great deal of trouble in my wanderings. The only way I could find to get between the building’s levels were narrow, railless iron steps suspended above an abyss. I walked up two sets of them at different times, but I would have given almost anything to have let go of my dignity and crawled. On the last step to solid flooring, I tripped and for a horrifying moment or two thought I would fall.

As I walked around, I encountered people I thought I knew, like Lynn(e) P. I was confused, uncertain, and addle about whether they were from high school or college, or if they were there as friends of classmates. I didn’t meet anyone I really wanted to see.

I started to worry about missing the train as I didn’t know when it was leaving or how to get back to it. I saw what appeared to be an exodus and tried to recognize someone so I could be sure that it was safe to follow them. Suddenly, I lost the entire crowd. I was alone in the strange building with the terrifyingly tiny suspended iron steps.

I heard someone who tried to reassure me, but it was too late. My trust was no more.

Our lady of October

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Nothing makes me soar like a full October moon.

Not even city lights can diminish her rising glory.

She illuminates the faint wisps of clouds that try to veil her face.

Powerless, they reflect back her glow until she fills the sky.

It’s a perfect night for spirits. Ghosts. Mysteries.

Erotic love.

Soul-bending erotic love.

Shivering naked on the cool, damp earth.

Sharply outlined in her dispassionate white rays.

Shadowy under the mischievously moving wisps.

Crying out to her face.

Bewitched.

Enchant me again.

While our lady keeps watch.

And spirits roam, seeking a place to lie.

I want to grow up—or do I?

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As if two hours of waiting, diagnostic mammograms, and ultrasounds were not exciting enough for one day, last Saturday evening (October 4) I met my first college roommate, H (an ENT); her husband T (a radiologist); and her sister, Ta (a dentist) at Tavern on Rush. I’d come home from the hospital thinking I didn’t have quite enough time to go to Bonjour and relax, but I found enough to shower and to nap. Light napping is how I keep my sanity in this surreal world.

It’s not that I had to brace myself for a social ordeal. Although I had not met Ta, H and T are easy to get along with, and all I need is a somewhat interesting conversation and someone willing to carry most of it. As long as I don’t have to fill in the silences or cover the gaps in my knowledge, I’m content.

It turns out that this early October trip to Chicago had a purpose — to celebrate H’s 46th birthday. Should I have noted that lately I’ve celebrated my birthday by getting out of Chicago?

They reminded me of an incident I had forgotten and that I can’t believe H remembers — I gave her a half can of beer, which made her drunk. In fact, she claims she passed out. I don’t recall that part, but I’d thought she had been acting snookered. I was assured that it was not an act, just as T was about to order the wine.

What had happened to my serious, studious roommate who one day had woken up at 2 a.m., peered miserably at her alarm clock, chided me in Vietnamese, and hurriedly dressed in her sweater-and-jeans uniform, all before I could persuade her that she wasn’t about to miss an important class on her medical doctor journey?

There she was, mother of four girls, dressed in a stylish suit, heels, and glasses, downing wine without obvious impairment — and enjoying it.

During a discussion about sleep apnea, she told Ta she should learn how to make some device for her patients because it’s not hard to do, insurance pays for it, and it makes money. Here was a pragmatic side I had never seen.

The conversation turned to H and T’s children, none of whom seem inclined to follow the medical call — to the great disappointment of their parents. Indeed, one wants to become a graphic designer, perhaps without fully understanding what that is.

“It’s okay as a hobby,” Ta declared, as all dismissed graphic design’s potential as gainful employment. They looked to me for my opinion. Uh-oh. “It’s competitive,” I stumbled. “If you’re talented, you can do well.”

“She’s very good at math and science,” they reassured themselves, still hoping the light would dawn.

“People can be critical of your work; everyone’s a graphic design expert,” I added. Aha! “She doesn’t take criticism at all well.” “No, she couldn’t handle that.” “It’s a good hobby.”

Not for the first time I realized how little I know about many of the people I know — their likes, dislikes, aspirations, fears, and motivations. I thought, and I may have been right at the time, that my roommate studied to be a physician because that’s what her father (a physician) wanted her to do. She was committed to becoming a doctor, but if there was passion under all the effort I never sensed it. Even now I wonder if the love of being a doctor is practical, a psychological adaptation to the reality. I also wonder if their viewpoint is entirely practical — if one is “good at math and science,” then medicine offers a mostly secure future for the competent. But I do not know what it is about it that they love. It will be interesting to see if any of the daughters continue the tradition and the careers that they do pursue.

Inevitably, politics came up, and H said their youngest daughter is terrified that her parents will vote for Obama and that he will be elected. “He will take all of our money away,” she worries. But she has an even greater reason for thinking Obama is evil incarnate. “He smokes!” she exclaims. Even now, I remember being young enough to think smoking revealed lack of character — even though my parents and many of my relatives were smokers. All I could say, only partly tongue in cheek, was, “Perhaps it’s time to teach her critical thinking skills so she can see beyond the campaign rhetoric and media distortions.” In fairness, it’s not just children who have barely reached double digits in age who think Obama is going to take all the money away — that is, from anyone who has any left.

Before Obama takes away their money, though, they’d spent much of the day shopping at outlet stores in Aurora. Later, as we walked toward Michigan Avenue, they discussed the work of several prominent designers (few of whom I recognized). Here was another new perspective for me — the sweater-and-jeans-clad, serious medical student had become a fashion plate. Perhaps she had always had the potential, and adulthood and prosperity had drawn out her inner clothes horse.

After we parted and Ta had driven me home, I thought about how each generation ends up very much like the previous one, taking perhaps slightly different paths to the same place — marriage, career, children, and middle-class values, combined with an understanding that they’d known their destination all along. It is I who never had any goals or purpose in life and who never knew that I should or what those goals should be. I keep waiting for rather than seeking an answer that never comes. While everyone I knows leads carefully arranged lives in carefully arranged homes, I still live like a college student — day to day, amid the random clutter accumulated over my lifetime. My apartment looks more like a dorm room than a showcase home, and I don’t see that changing no matter how long I live.

And still I am waiting — waiting to grow up.

Dream: Exotic Reno resort plus

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I was watching a documentary that may have been about a contest to win a stay at an “exotic Reno resort.” The program focused on a couple who seemed to be the bane of the staff’s working lives. They had four rules of behavior, and the husband publicly accused the wife of breaking one. “What do you mean, I’m not friendly?” she screeched at him in the lobby. I thought, “What an odd rule #4!”

The desk clerk was shown tacking their messages, called “graffiti,” to a bulletin board and complaining that, while they had accumulated many, they never collected them. The viewer was supposed to be upset by the futility of trying to deal with such an unreasonable couple. I thought, “If the staff feels that way, they should just hand their ‘graffiti’ to them.” I didn’t understand the issue.

At the back of my mind, the beaches and palm trees, combined with “exotic Reno resort,” puzzled me.

* * * * *
My dad had remarried, and he and his wife had had two children, a boy and a girl. I didn’t live at home, so they didn’t bother me. When I returned, though, something about them and the situation horrified me. “How could you?” I kept asking. He took the rhetorical question seriously and literally and said almost apologetically, “If you leave it alone a while, it works.”

In my mind, I treated his actions as though they were fresh and an affront to my mother’s recent memory, but as I was about to say, “She’s been gone only _____,” it hit me hard that she had been gone more than 25 years. I couldn’t believe it. I felt as though I had just seen her.

As I woke up, I understood that the children, both under 10, were normal, and I’d felt alienated and violated. I went out and looked up into the half-lit apocalyptic sky.

Two kinds of autumn

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What a glorious weekend — sunny and in the 60s and 70s. Late Saturday morning I made my usual trek to Bonjour to find the annual used book sale had broken out. There was no outdoor seating left, so I bypassed Bonjour and went to the hardware store and Treasure Island, but didn’t have time to look at books. J. suggested that he pick me up at the shopping center later, so I arrived a few minutes early and hurriedly selected a couple of books — The World of the Victorians: An Anthology of Poetry and Prose ed. by E. D. H. Johnson and Memoirs of a Medieval Woman: The Life and Times of Margery Kempe by Louise Collis.

J. and I headed to the Chicago Botanic Garden at around 3 p.m. The trees are perhaps not quite at peak color, but I’m not sure that we can count on sunny, shirt-sleeve weather for much longer.

After visiting the gift shop (a must for J.), we found the orchid show and sale in the Regenstein Center. Brutally, I dissuaded J. from buying any orchids by telling him they require a special environment and care. I don’t think they’re easy to maintain, and I don’t like to see him disappointed when his plants succumb. He settled for taking many photos of the show plants as well as a couple in front of the plants. One orchid in particular appealed to me — the bloom was a cream color with green stripes. J. was amazed by the diversity, but I’m not sure he understood why I said orchids can be very sexual in addition to showy. I chose to leave that a mystery.

We walked through the Krasberg Rose Garden, which is a sad shadow of what it had been two or three weeks ago. J. still found roses to admire among the survivors, and I spotted one or two bumble- and honeybees among the flowers — how different from a couple of months ago, when the flowers at the Morton Arboretum were loaded with pollen-laden bees.

Unusually for me, I miss summer already.

As we walked toward the Waterfall Garden (one of my favorite features), I noticed a man with a camera pointed toward an island and followed his gaze. A little blue heron was standing erect at the water’s edge, senses focused on securing a fish or frog. To its left, a black bird was walking around, probably having just come out of the water. Something about it made me think of an anhinga — perhaps it looked unusually wet or waterlogged. I was thrilled when it hopped onto the rock, turned its back to the sun, and spread its wings. The only place I’d seen an anhinga was at our community in Lantana, Florida. Of course, in this area, it would be a species of cormorant, which I’d never seen.

While Canada geese flew over, trumpeter swans floated across the distant water, and J. happily drained his battery and filled his card with photos and videos, a man asked me what everyone was looking at. It’s possible some people were simply enjoying the vista, one of the best at the garden and currently very colorful. I pointed out the two birds, explaining as much as I could recall of their habits (I was still thinking of an anhinga, although I was sure that was wrong). He chatted effortlessly for quite a while until, aware of time passing, I pushed J. toward the waterfall, and the man’s own companion joined him. Again I found myself wondering why I could not attract such attention when I was young, when it could have increased my social circle and my now perpetually low confidence level.

We climbed to the top of the waterfall, whose roar found competition in the late afternoon air; the strains of “As Time Goes By” played on a piano wafted up from a wedding party in the English Walled Garden.

At the top, we saw a woman in a wheelchair, which made me curious; often I had wondered if there were disabled access to the waterfall. As we walked behind it, I saw a sign, which we followed to another garden I’d wanted to see — the Dwarf Conifer Garden. The disabled have access to the waterfall via a path up its slope.

In this garden, there are tiny conifers growing even between the stair steps. When I saw a larch, I couldn’t help saying in significant tones, “The larch. The larch” (Monty Python). Just beyond was an incredible weeping Norway spruce. “Look,” I said, “it’s pining for the fjords.” Did I really say that? Several times?

This took us to what I think is the English Oak Meadow, which was also on my wish list — it’s on what passes for a “hillside” in this part of Illinois. While we were taking photos of each other and not understanding the temperamental vagaries of the cameras flash (now it does, now it doesn’t), a couple came along, and the man offered to take a photo of us together. He snapped several and pointed out that they were off center “to add tension.” I favor the more artistic approach, although I’m not sure I’d call it “tension.” I’ve found that it can be difficult to get even people who should know better not to center either photography or art.

By now the sun was low, so after J. took a brief detour through a wedding party’s reception area to get photos from the water’s edge and I used their candlelit bathroom, we found the Buehler Enabling Garden that I had enjoyed so much last month. Alas, the goldfinches and hummingbirds are gone, and to my surprise the garden had been entirely replanted. I’m not sure that anything was left of the summer flora and foliage. The autumn twilight suited the new look.

Both of us loved the garden’s mischievous fountains. Sometimes they bubble deceptively sedately; sometimes each of the outlets shoots up a jet of water in an offbeat rhythm of varying pattern. We pictured someone leaning over one of the fountains in its quietly bubbling phase only to be caught unawares as it changes mode and shoots a jet of water into the face. I was tempted to try it.

After a last look at the Heritage Garden, we left as darkness was settling in and, after a few detours, official and otherwise, found Blind Faith Café in Evanston, a vegetarian restaurant we both love for the food and ambiance. During the wait J. sniffed out merchandise (T-shirts), and I decided not to leave without a piece each of vegan chocolate cake, chocolate peanut butter cake, and pumpkin pie. J. couldn’t resist some side dishes, quiche, and muffins, and the owner bestowed a sixth T-shirt on him.

At my place, I found the Antiques Roadshow on demand, which was guaranteed to keep J. happy. In this edition, taped in Salt Lake City, Utah, a man who had indulged in a blond wood Fender guitar for $300 in 1961 discovered it is valued now at $50,000 to $60,000. The real winner of the night, however, was a woman who brought in her great-grandfather’s personal memorabilia. He’d been a Mormon blacksmith, wine merchant, and actor who had known and corresponded with Brigham Young. His archive of letters, photos, paintings, etc., was estimated to have a value of $150,000 to $200,000. The woman reeled at the revelation. I always wonder if the person will sell for the money or hold onto it for sentimental reasons or in the hopes that it will appreciate even more. I know I’d invest in a fireproof, climate-controlled safe and an insurance policy.

This morning, I sat inside Bonjour (someone in front of me took the last outdoor table, alas) and listened to a conversation among an elderly man and woman and a young man. They moved from talking about political gaffes and the media, going back to John Adams, to discussing Netflix and the switch to digital TV. A typical Sunday morning conversation in Hyde Park.

Today the books have been marked down, and I bought five hard covers (Mary Queen of Scots by Antonia Fraser; Masterpieces of Fantasy and Enchantment compiled by David G. Hartwell; H.M.S. Bounty: A True Account of the Famous Mutiny by Alexander Mckee; The World’s Best Poems ed. by Mark Van Doren and Garibaldi M. Lapolla, apparently printed in 1935 and with a faint old book odor; and Portrait of a Man with Red Hair: A Romantic Macabre by Hugh Walpole, apparently dating from 1925 and smelling strongly of mildew) for $3.75. They, and the rest of the formidable collection, should keep me occupied for several lifetimes. I suppose it is only when you have reached my age that you realize how short life is and how quickly it is getting shorter.

A date with Dr. Knee

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Usually I can find some way to tag my doctors and other practitioners by the impression they make. The orthodontist was Dr. Pain, the ENT Dr. Sadist (what else can you call a man who says, “Step into my torture chamber here”?) I’m not sure what to call the latest character, an orthopedist. He didn’t inflict pain or enjoy the thought, and he seemed genuinely kind. He has a lot of hair, but that doesn’t really suit his specialty — the knee. So he, like my dentist, has ended up with a literal alias: Dr. Knee.

I knew from the address roughly where his office is, but didn’t realize until the last minute at the Randolph bus stop that it’s the building on the northwest corner of Michigan and Randolph with the solar energy collector roof shaped like a fountain pen nib. I’d never been inside the building except to visit a drugstore that used to be on the ground floor and the ATMs, so it was interesting to see a floor layout (geometrical, with lots of angles).

After completing reams of forms (including several questions about my mental stability — no, my knee has not driven me into the abyss of insanity), I was taken to exam room 4, the view from which is a Millennium Park fan’s dream. As I waited I could see the Chicago Cultural Center’s green roof (now turning autumn colors); most of Millennium Park, with Cloud Gate (the “Bean”) reflecting the mid-morning sun’s rays; Shedd Aquarium plus Adler Planetarium at the end of the Museum Campus peninsula; and of course the sparkling blue and silver expanse of Lake Michigan. To the left lay the Jay Pritzker Pavilion, with the lawn structure resembling the intact metallic spine and ribs of an elongated dinosaur that died at rest in the park. Although I’m not fond of Millennium Park, I have to admit that it’s beautiful in a very formal way when seen from above, and I felt healthier for the new perspective.

Dr. Knee appeared so I could confuse him with the date of my fall; I kept saying September when I meant August, and I caught my mistake only when he said, “So this happened only a couple of weeks ago?” I proceeded to repeat my error several times. Apparently the glare of the sun off Cloud Gate had gotten to me, and both of our heads were spinning.

Finally we straightened out what had happened, when, and with what NSAID it had been treated. I added, somewhat as an aside, that the affected left knee is painful when I walk down stairs, which got his attention more than the small amount of swelling left from the fall and the NSAID treatment.

After straightening, bending, and feeling my knew, none of which bothered me, he indicated that the pain on stairs was more of a long-term concern and that, if not dealt with now, it would result in more serious problems later. He sent me down the hall for X-rays. By now, with the UFE, two sets of dental X-rays, and a screening and a diagnostic mammogram within the past month, I wonder if I glow in the right lighting or click near certain instruments.

The technician took front, side, and top views. For the side view, he mounted the stool and demonstrated the correct position while I tried not to laugh and failed. It was a classic artist’s model pose, one leg in front of the other like Mercury about to take off beautifully. I tried to repress another laugh as I imagined what I must look like, pant legs rolled up above the knee, an enormously fat Olympian captured on film mid-glide. The final view, from the top, required me to lie down with my knees bent and my fat thighs and ankles pressed tightly together. Owww.

Then it was back to the room with a view. The conclusions were simple: I have about 5 cc worth of prepatellar fluid, which to both of us is not worth worrying about in the absence of pain or infection. Physical therapy, which I signed up for beginning in early November, will strengthen the left knee and help to prevent or alleviate the future problems. He prescribed another month of meloxicam to help reduce the residual swelling. Of course he recommended weight loss. Apparently (even to me), my X-rays looked good except for some slight degeneration and loss of space probably due to weight — I won’t deny it. I was surprised mostly to find that, after all they have been through, each of my knee caps is intact. I told him I walk as much as possible, and, although I’m not sure why, he pointed out that extreme sports, marathons, and the like (which he must be able to tell are not on my agenda) are not the best way to build strength in a weakened or injured knee. I’ll remember that the next time I’m tempted to try a triathlon or climb a mountain.

So now I must give up my elderly woman crab walk down stairs. Coming up: finding out if physical therapy o a week knee is as painful as it is on a shoulder with impingement syndrome.

Dr. Knee ended by dictating his report as I stood there. The last orthopedist I’d gone to, Dr. Shoulder, also dictated a report, but not in front of me — I overheard him as I was checking out. Perhaps because I was right there, Dr. Knee was especially flattering, describing me as “young” and “somewhat overweight” (respective translations: “middle aged” and “extremely morbidly obese”).

My knees are in relatively good shape, and I feel like I have been granted second, even third chances, numerous times to preserve my health. Today, Sunday, despite what could be the monthly visitor and the discomfort it brings (since the UFE, I haven’t been quite sure if this qualifies as the monthly), I feel good and walked briskly (for me) to Bonjour this morning.

On Dr. Knee’s advice, however, I bypassed today’s Chicago Marathon. It’s not good for my knee.

Creatures of habit

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For the most part, the human being is a creature of habit. Intuitively, I’ve always known this, but now and then circumstances remind me how deeply programmed we are to stick with the routines that we are comfortable with and that make us feel in control and safe.

I observed the power that routine has over us a couple of years ago when I enrolled in a short story writing course. A number of tables were arranged to form an open square, with the instructor in the middle of the head table. Everyone else could sit where they chose. An older woman selected a spot near the instructor; later she mentioned that she has a hearing problem, so her choice was based on a reason. I sat in one of the chairs left when I came in without giving it much thought, as did everyone else, or so I assumed.

When I walked in the next week, however, those who had arrived earlier were sitting in the same seats as they had the week before, and those who followed headed without hesitation for their previous chairs. I made a comment about this and how I was determined to break the pattern every week. The reaction? A self-conscious, nervous titter and a few deprecating remarks. It was odd to see so many adults who couldn’t get past the assigned seating mentality of elementary school.

At work I’ve noticed the same behavior at meetings, whether the group is large (20 or more) or small (6). Each person gravitates to the same area of the table, and the same seat he or she always chooses if available. Some of this can be explained by social relationships — people who are friends herd together — but not all.

Lately two women who lunch together in the second-floor café have drawn my attention. The younger woman invariably faces east, the older woman west. I’ve yet to see them vary the pattern — a pattern of which they may not even be conscious.

Habit and routine — I suppose they are at least partly a reaction to the uncertainties of daily life. I may not know what kind of mood my boss will be in, but I can control my morning routine of coffee at 5:30 a.m. and shower at 6 a.m. I may be caught in traffic, but if I’m lucky I’ll get “my” spot. And at the end of the day I can sit in my place at my short story writing class. It’s there for me (unless Diane takes it).

Growing up, my understanding was that my father favored the Democratic party because he thought it favored the working man, while I was told my mother voted Republican because that’s what her father had done. (Yes, Mom voted for Richard Nixon.) Although some policies or postures may have interested them more than others — for example, my dad followed anything to do with Social Security — politically both were creatures of habit, voting less on specific issues of the time than in their personal comfort zones.

I suspect that’s exactly how most Americans vote — as much from habit as conviction. While the habit formed around the conviction, that’s what makes it that much harder to break the habit and periodically re-examine the convictions more critically. Emotionally, it’s like sitting in the same seat and using the same parking space. It’s comfortable, and nonthreatening. “Straight ticket” voting even makes it easy.

This year’s election, however, seems to have thrown voters off. The unfriendly rivalry between Obama and Clinton left many of her supporters embittered. McCain isn’t conservative enough for some, and his choice of Sarah Palin, her questionable suitability, and her political baggage have left some moderate Republicans shaking their heads and confiding to family and friends that this may be the year that they have to vote the other way. Change, even undefined change, is the new vision.

The habit of voting emotionally without thought or reflection is hard to recognize and harder to break without a compelling reason; smokers don’t quit until they become short of breath, or their chest X-rays don’t look right — and not even then. It’s taken an expensive, now unpopular war, an economic crash, and a bleak outlook to rock our complacency. The “winner” will be left with the equivalent of a shattered chandelier, a glue stick, a ticking clock, and orders to “fix it.” There are only two choices to perform the impossible. If there’s any time to put aside our usual thought patterns and prejudices and to carefully consider who is more likely at least to pick up the pieces, this is that time.

Don’t just punch. Think. Think hard. Think hard again. Think about the long term. And then punch.

Because how bright the future is depends on the choices we make. Don’t make them from unthinking habit.

Dream: Witness to murder

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I was at a party at EL’s house, which surprised me by its size and mysteriousness; it reminded me of the house I dream that my late aunt in Bellwood had. I was also intrigued by how she had come by it and how she could afford it. It was nothing like her first modest suburban home I’d known.

JT arrived, and at first I thought to avoid her because I thought she was still angry with me. We ended up on a ride together that went around the top floor on rails. The destination was an author’s book signing, but I was told I must meet this person and tell him (her?) about my great story ideas — except that I don’t have any.

At first we inched toward the booth because the author was so popular. Subtly, the ride began to accelerate and to fly in higher and higher circles. Just as I was sure I would be flung into the heights and die, it stopped near the ceiling. To extract me, the rescuers had to remove my clothes and cover me with hand and bath towels.

I found a tiny little shirt I thought belonged to the daughter of a former co-worker, but she didn’t seem interested. I saw then that it had become a beautiful sweater dress. In the meantime, a little boy kept trying to peer down the back of my pants. Irritated, I looked for his parents, but none were to be seen. His actions and the fact he was getting away with them appalled me as I considered the ramifications of disciplining him myself.

I was on a boat, and with each circuit of the bay it seemed to get larger; the deck rose high above the water’s surface. This alone would have frightened me, but I also noticed that the ship was in pursuit of a young woman. Her name flashed through my mind. The ship, which felt like it was flying faster and faster like the rail ride, was forcing her into a defenseless position. I wanted to tell everyone what was happening, but fear silenced me. I looked down and saw her apparently crushed against a wall. Perhaps it was then I knew who was the villain behind the scheme and lost some of my fear. I tried to tell the others, but they didn’t believe me. All they knew was that they were having fun on a cruise to nowhere.

By talking to them, I had revealed my knowledge, so the villain tried to corner me in a parking lot. As terrified as I was, I sensed that I would escape — and that his victim’s name and my silence would haunt me always.

Finally, he trapped me but I avoided being crushed. He got out of the vehicle and approached me, but I felt that he would have to get close to me to kill me and that he had no physical advantage over me.

I saw a tiny needle in his hand and knew I had to avoid it. We struggled, and he pricked me slightly, but I rationalized that this would not hurt me. I gained partial control of the needle or needles and pricked him back several times — enough to save myself. As I did, I realized that now I was the one committing murder. I felt sad.