Anteaters Don't Dream and Other Stories

Anteaters Don't Dream

Anteaters Don't Dream MY FRIEND JULIA keeps a dream book. It's like a diary, only she doesn't write about the freaks her daughter brings home, or how rough it gets at the office, or the way her marriage is growing fungus. Instead, she records her dreams every night. Her therapist started her doing this, and now she's convinced dream journals will save the world, especiallyme. Julia says men are insensitive. Every time she tells me this, she looks at me as though I'd been born with an extra head or scales all over my body."It's not your fault, Ben,"she says> putting a cool, manicured hand on my arm. "You'vebeen culturally conditioned to ignore your feelings."So for my birthday last month she gave me this book filled with blank, creamcolored pages and covered with a tiny paisley print. Once aweekshe phones to seehow I'm doing."The sameas last week," I tell her. "Zippo. I just don't dream." "Of course you do," she says. "They've done studies. The anteater is the only mammal that doesn't dream." Her voice is 32 wedged somewhere between pity and disgust;she's in teaching mode. "You're suppressing." "Maybe." I like Julia,but she grates. Wework together, have lunch together, brainstorm together. Sothe last thing I need is her calling me up at night. "Just give yourself a suggestion before you go to sleep." I put the phone down on the kitchen counter when the toaster oven's alarm goes off.I take two bagel pizzas out and put them on a paper plate. "You haveto be firm with your subconscious," Julia is saying when I pick up the phone again. I don't intentionally plant a suggestion that night, but I can't help thinking about it before I fall asleep. I begin to wonder what's wrong with me. Apparently, everyone else is enjoying this rich, sensual dream life as soon as they hit the sheets. MaybeI should stop reading nonfiction, take up gothic romances or something. Maybe dozing off with Computers in Architecture isn't conducive to floating like a curled leaf down the rivers of my mind. But is this a trip I really want to take? I mean, I'm relatively content with things as they are. I'm due for a promotion, I have season tickets to the Giants, and since they put up that mall on Route 6,1 don't have to drive more than a mile for Verfleet's Lemon Crush with Pistachios. Nadine and I have an understanding. The exterminator said the termites are under control. Do I need to add another dimension right now? I decide I don't. I turn off the light and lie down, enjoying the dizziness that comes every time I shift from vertical to ANTEATERS DON'T DREAM 33 horizontal. I ride with it,letting the plans for tomorrow's meeting at the project site slosh around with an image of Nadine in that ridiculous black bathing suit. The first day she wore it, she kept wrapping a towel around her waist to cover her legs. I told her she looked fine. Actually,I was surprised at how soft she'd gotten, at the way her thighs dimpled like almond shells. Having committed myself to dreamless sleep, I wake up at 3 AMwith a lollapalooza of a nightmare. I sit up in bed with this sense of mission, trying to remember what's got me so upset. I shake my head, and realize there are elephants in there—elephants marching down Broadway.The whole street is closed off and about twelve huge, liver-colored animals are careening forward,holding each other's tails. The circus must be opening, I think to myself.Butthat doesn't explain Nadine's legs, which are also in my head. Not her thighs, but her calves. They're lying in the middle of the street,like white parentheses or crescent moons, right in the elephants' path. I don't reach for mynewdream book. What isthere towrite? I've already lost the urgencythat woke me. I remember being terrified that Nadine's legs would get trampled, but the whole thing seems ridiculous by now. Mythroat is swollen tight, asif I'd been yelling, my chest is heaving,but I'll be damned if I'm going to immortalize this foolishness...