What question have you never been asked that you want to answer?

I have a great apartment.  Crappy, but great.  It's in a terrible part of the city, but it's the entire second floor of a commercial building.  My mother thought I'd be assaulted and raped every day, but I've not yet felt very threatened, even late at night.  Inside is sanctuary, if a bit sparse.  It's an open floor plan and has high ceilings, which means I essentially live in a giant brick box.  I bring my bike up one of those old-fashioned service elevators that I dreamed of ever since I saw Flashdance in the theaters, twice.  I have to bundle like an Inuit from late fall through spring, putting on more winter gear inside than out.  To turn on my computer, I have to unplug everything in my kitchen, but it's worth the slight hassle to have the freedom of the place, and the giant windows looking down on the street.

In high school, I was a dope.  I guess every teenager is a bit dopy simply because of the learning curve, but I look back and have complete and total awareness of my dopiness.  I lived in the suburbs and the sidewalks were rolled up by 9:00 pm.  I had terrible insomnia brought on by thinking about the miserable state of my love life, and about how I wanted to be taller and blonder and more fit, and about how I wanted to live an adventure like I saw in the movies.  I would crawl out of my little twin bed and sit on my dresser to look out the window.  I would crank the casements open and wrap myself in a comforter so the radiant baseboard heat would keep me warm.  I'd even take out the screens so I could look out clearly, just in case.  In case of what?

In case Jason from sixth period Government would finally have succumbed to his desire for me, found my address, and ridden his bike over at three in the morning to whisk me away.  I wanted to be ready.

In case Bill from third period Chemistry would ditch his weird obsession with my friend and instead walk the streets of our town, calling my name, and wishing as badly as I did that I would hear him.

In case Indiana Jones would ride up on a motorcycle and ask me to join him in the sidecar because he needed a companion on his next trip to Egypt.

God, was I a dope.

What's worse is that I'm still a dope.

Here I sit, the same goddamn comforter wrapped around me, in my ill-advised open window at three in the morning, wishing something would happen, someone would need me, I would have somewhere to go.

Pageant Question: What is your favorite charity and how do you help their cause?

The Friends of Night People is a soup kitchen downtown.  The dining room is small, only about ten cafeteria-style tables with long benches attached to each side.  They turn a brisk business every evening for dinner.  The people who come for dinner eat fast and they don't linger.  Clear the seat, wipe the table, and it ready for somebody else.  You can also pick up bags of non-perishable food to go, or "shop" for clothes in the jam-packed donation room.  Whatever you do, you hardly ever get a good dessert.

I promised myself, if I ever got out and really made it the way I wanted to, I would donate the best damn desserts to The Friends of Night People.  Fresh cakes, brownies, cookies and ice cream with all the fixings.  No more quarter slice of a rock hard blueberry muffin, I'm talking real desserts.  It was what I missed most when I found myself down and way out.

Pageant Question 33: What is a dream of yours and what are you doing to accomplish it?

I was four years old when I saw my first motorhome.  It was huge.  A one-piece rv, as opposed to the van-front with overhang.  Probably over thirty feet.  Our neighbors owned it, and invited us over for a walk-through.  I was in love.  Not only with their son who was my age, but with this home on wheels.  As a matter of fact, I loved the motorhome more, and for far, far, longer.  It was a home on wheels.  You were home wherever you went.  It was so neat and tidy with a place for everything and everything in its place.  Hungry?  Cook on the tiny stove with food you took from the tiny fridge.  Entertainment?  Tiny TV!  Tired?  Your tiny bed awaited!

It took me thirty eight years to realize the dream of owning my own motorhome.  It wasn't so big.  It certainly wasn't new.  But it had a tiny stove (working) and a tiny fridge (non-working) and space for a tiny TV (no TV) and a tiny bed (slightly musty.)

Pageant Question 32: How do the clothes you’re wearing right now reflect your personality?

Jeremy had been working in the Army/Navy surplus shop in the Catacombs for one day and three hours when he saw his first Trans.  It had been a very difficult job to get, but luckily his sister Becca had worked there before getting famous, and their name had some pull.  Becca was now "Beccarelle" and fronted her punk band of the same name, even playing in Above venues.  Becca was ten years older than Jeremy and wide age gap meant that he never felt there was a comparison between them.  Despite her persona, she had been a caring sister.  Jeremy didn't mind reaping a few of the side benefits of his sister's fame, though the constant questions about her personal life by the assistant manager were getting tiring.  Becca had said Edgar liked her a lot when she worked in the surplus show, and it was clear he hadn't given up his feelings.

The Catacombs was the hippest place to shop, eat and be seen by the hippest people.  Jeremy glimpsed many of the rich and famous as he elbowed his way through the slow-moving crowds that gawked and stopped at the shoulder-to-shoulder boutique shops.  Homemade Betty's was a favorite of Assistant Manager Edgar's, and he insisted Jeremy run get an assortment of pastries almost every mid-morning.  Jeremy held the ribbon-wrapped box above his head, which was already over everyone else's heads, to keep it out of the way, balanced on his long fingers.

The Army/Navy surplus store had prime real estate on the canal side of the Catacombs.  They got a lot of their business from the canal side, and it was nice to sit during a lull and watch the great variety of sizes and colors of boats float by.  Poling only underground, so there was only a quiet splashing.  Jeremy was minding the store while Edgar went down to the storerooms, taking three pastries for the walk.  It was quiet in the store, and he had already done a walk-through straighten, so Jeremy was vegging out, watching the fashionable bodies wander by without seeing individuals, when he heard a splashing in the canal.

Becca would have been supremely jealous.  She had worked here for eight years and had never seen a Trans out of the water.  She had glimpsed a few, swimming by, and one, she swore, splashed her on purpose, but Jeremy was sitting, slouched and transfixed, as a female Trans lifted herself out of the canal and stood, dripping in his store.

The Trans looked human to him.  She appeared to be about his age, and was completely nude.  Jeremy thought he had been prepared for a moment like this, but it was too surprising.  The Trans didn't seem bothered by his staring, and when the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile, he snapped out of his paralysis and grabbed for the store's towel.  Everyone in the Catacombs was prepared to meet a Trans, though few did.  Even the training for this job had included a section on Trans Relations.  He knew to silently offer the towel, but not get offended if she didn't take it; not to touch her, even if she touched him; and that any Trans could take whatever they wanted.

Jeremy hopped off the stool and loped over in two strides, holding the towel before him like a bomb he was more than willing to hand over to the authorities.  Looking up into his eyes, the Trans smiled a little deeper and plucked it from his hands.  She draped it across her shoulders, but Jeremy noticed she was nearly dry on her own anyway.  Her blonde hair was starting to curl up, and he saw her eyes were large, brown and glistening.  She looked at him for far longer than was comfortable before browsing the rack in front of her.  Her long, narrow fingers walked through the hangers, stopping at a small olive green shirt with a screen printed flying saucer.  Before Jeremy could tell what was happening, she was wearing the shirt and had moved on, her bare feet leaving smaller and smaller wet prints on the cement floor.  He scooped up the towel she had left over the rack, and by the time he moved to her side again, she was wearing a pair of camouflage cargo pants.  No matter that she was dressed, Jeremy could only see her naked.  To his mind, the clothes were decoration that floated above her body, careless and unnecessary.

Pageant Question 29: What are you most afraid of?

The path had turned to dust under her feet, and Janine had only just noticed.  She had been walking for days, and was running out of both food and water.  A shimmer to her left heralded the arrival of her spirit guide, Ham.  She swallowed hard around her dry tongue, "It's about freaking time, buddy.  Where've you been?"

The shimmer gathered density, but never quite became full.  It had been a long time since Ham had appeared to her, much less in his full form.  The blazing sun made him sparkle and difficult to look at.  His voice came as if from a distance and, as always, she suspected it was only in her head.  "Caution."

"Caution?" Janine wheezed a laugh.  "All this way, and now you say 'Caution'?  Listen, bub, I can't stop walking.  I gotta get me through this before I can rest, and if I stop, I'm not moving again.  Caution is what I should have had before I started."

Ham's indistinct form kept pace with her.  "Stay to the right."

Janine looked up properly at the specific direction and saw, to the left of the path in the distance, a black object of some sort.  It was smooth and tall.  As she neared she saw it was made of giant blocks of blacker than black stone, stacked on one another, five tall, with a cross beam near the top.  A cross.  "What in this blazing desert is that?"  The blotted cross was coming up faster than she expected and she felt why Ham had instructed caution.  It hummed with a pulsing beat she could feel at a distance.  It emanated a feeling of evil, of fear, of agony, of yearning, and as she closed the distance, she thought she heard human voices.

Ham glimmered brighter and stayed firmly on her left side, staying between her and the cross.  "You are safe with me," he hummed in her head, and she wanted to believe him.  Janine wanted to quicken her pace, but found she couldn't, and so she trudged slowly by, wishing she could run.  Looking out just the corner of her eyes, and mostly through Ham, she noticed the towering cross had windows, though they revealed and reflected nothing.  She involuntarily whined, but kept moving, which she felt was her only hope.

Pageant Question 15: If I were to visit your hometown for one day, what would we do?

The kids in the neighborhood called them "The Fields", but it wasn't just fields; there were trees and creeks and even small hills.  It was Joelle's favorite place to play, with or without anyone else.  Although it was against her parents' wishes, she would often go out to The Fields to play alone, exploring, spying, listening, imagining, building.  While there were many improvised "forts" in the woods, they were group activities.  Joelle was proud to be building one of her own, and she called it her home base.  It was from this base that she intended to do further exploring.

To a nine year old, The Fields were huge, quite possibly never-ending.  Joelle wouldn't connect the fact that they lived on an island with the idea that the woods could not possibly go on forever when there was a river surrounding their town until she was ten, and by then, she had discovered a secret about The Fields no one else knew.

Pageant Question 14: If you could be someone else, who would you be, and why?

I was twenty-seven years old when I realized how close thirty was.  I had told myself since I turned twenty that thirty was my new mile marker.  It had been twenty, but the dreams of my teen years were pretty lame and clearly weren't working out.  I had wanted to be a famous drummer, but I never set aside enough time to practice on the secondhand Ludwig set in my room.  It wasn't all my fault; I couldn't play when anyone was home, but many opportunities I did have I lost to video games.  If I had been more determined to achieve my dream rather than simply being attached to the idea of it, I would have found a way.  My other teen dream was to get laid by Megan Huggs, and that didn't work out, either.

At twenty-seven, I had my own apartment, and I still had my drum set, though it was filthy with dust.  I had nearly gotten an associate's degree in Criminal Justice, but it turned out that while I enjoyed watching television crime shows, I despised learning about actually doing it.  I worked as "Collections and Recovery Specialist" for a bank, which means I called people on the phone asking for money they owed.  It was sucking the life right out of me.  I wasn't even good at it because on a great many calls, despite management's training intervention, I would still just apologize profusely and hang up on them.  I was not motivated.  I was not a team player.  I did not have a positive and friendly attitude.  I was not a self-starter.  I was not even detail-oriented.

One morning, when my alarm went off as six for my bleary-eyed shower and cereal breakfast, I turned it off.  Not snooze.  Off.  I didn't go back to sleep, either.  What I did was ponder that in three years, I would be thirty.  I also pondered that if I didn't formulate a new plan for my life, I would find myself at thirty-seven looking at forty.  Then forty-seven looking at fifty.  Then... well, what?  Would I be looking back on my life instead of forward and wondering what I ever did?  I pondered in bed for an hour as the sun rose without any answer then I must have fallen back to sleep because I dreamed.

First I dreamed I was a woman.  Now get this straight: I'm not transsexual and I don't cross-dress.  It was just a dream.  I had just come home from shopping and I was taking off my heels and my husband and kids came to greet me.  The house was spectacular, and I knew we had a maid.  I was looking forward to our upcoming vacation to the Virgin Islands and the new bikini I bought.  This dream was hyper-realistic, unlike my normal, bleary dreams, and it switched me smoothly into someone else.  A man this time, with a beard, which I have never had because my facial hair is the sad, patchy hair of a seventeen year old.  I was sitting on the porch of my cabin smoking a pipe and all was well with the world.  I had a feeling of contentment I had never had in real life.  My dream switched me one last time into a kid.  I'm not sure if I was a boy or a girl, but, man, I had talent.  I played piano and I was giving a concert in what I knew was Carnegie Hall, though I'm sure it didn't look quite like the real thing.  When I finally woke it was nine and with utmost certainty I knew what my dream meant.  It was a dramatic representation of change.  I needed to become someone else to be happy.

Pageant Question 13: If you were an animal, what type of animal would you be and why?

My Spirit Animal is a capybara.  No, I'm not Native American, nor did I ever believe in anything New Age, necessarily, but it's true.  I had to look it up, myself, because I always confuse Chupacabra and capybara.  To set it straight for you, too, the Chupacabra is a mythical creature that sucks the blood of goats, and a capybara is a rodent.  Not just any rodent, mind you, but the world's largest rodent.  It looks more like a giant, bristly, groundhog or very short-haired and enormous Guinea pig.

I know a capybara is my Spirit Animal because I dreamed of it.  You might think I would be disappointed that my Spirit Animal is the world's largest rodent, but he was my guide, he kept me safe, and he even spoke, giving me sage advice in a deep, soothing voice.  In my dream, I knelt down and hugged him; his fur was stiff yet yielding.

360

Entering online sweepstakes makes me feel as if I'm working towards my future.  As if I am planning for a better life, though I know in reality that the odds of winning are worse than my chances of being struck by lightning, and far less than the frighteningly high odds of being killed by a hippopotamus.

I entered the "big money" sweeps, usually ten thousand dollars and up.  I spend the money in my head, being practically and reserving nearly half for taxes.  One hundred thousand is my favorite fantasy.  Debts paid--such a small portion of the whole, really!  House purchased--once there is no more rent, I would be saving more than five thousand dollars a year; that's taking into account taxes and new insurance and upkeep!  Gifts given--thoughtful, long-lasting gifts, and not frivolous trinkets, either.  I would give a new, used SUV to my parents, with regular maintenance.  It wouldn't be a brand new vehicle, but newer than theirs now.  I would give my brother a duplex--a real fixer-upper.  He could handle the repairs, and he could rent out the other half to pay for taxes.  Finally: savings.  No fancy cars or clothes or jewels or cable TV.  I want to live free.  A garden.  Solar panels.  Freedom.

How many people could say one hundred thousand dollars would change their lives, and those of their families, so completely?  So I enter another sweepstakes, and become one of the hopeful.

310

I dream of disaster.

Every night I have dreamed of disaster, global, catastrophic, unavoidable.  Invariably, the military is deployed, but even from my puny vantage point on the ground, I can see that it will be futile.  The people escaping with belongings stuffed into cars is also futile.  Destruction will be complete.

I wake to my alarm's soft chimes, increasing in volume if I ignore the call to the waking world.  It is hard to wake, and I struggle to the surface, still tired.

297

There was no warning.  The front door exploded inside with the force of the battering ram held by the two police officers on the front stoop.  A stream of black-clad officers flowed into the house, spilling into every room.  Amber had been drawing upstairs when she heard the splintering boom and felt the house shake.  As the men were shouting directions and updates to one another, Amber scrambled into her closet, pushing aside clothes and climbing the shelves like a monkey.  She shimmed up the last bit, bare feet pressing one side of the closet, her back bracing on the other, as she shoved the attic hatch open with her head and fingertips.  Amber climbed inside and slid the wood square back into place.  Wasting no time, she scuttled on her hands and knees across the loose plywood over the floor joists, past the tubs of Christmas decorations, the boxes of old tax documents, and the black plastic bags with baby clothes and forgotten linens.  She could hear the men shouting on the second floor now, and she kept pushing further back to the far corner where she knew there was a hidden door behind more boxes, even older than the rest.

269

Most of the beach by the city's waterfront was disgusting.  You first notice the human debris, like plastic and broken glass and ripped shopping bags tangled in weeds.  The larger human debris is completely disheartening, like tires and bicycle parts and dumped appliances.  The industrial debris is more disturbing and harder to pinpoint, usually, but in most locations, it has been causing algae blooms, petroleum smells, and even black goo to wash repeatedly up on the shore and muck up the water.  The natural debris, while natural, still assaults the senses, especially the dead fish, rats, and sometimes even larger animals.  You could argue that it is not really natural debris because they were killed by the industrial debris, but, still, they break down eventually.

There is, however, a secret beach, where the currents seem to circulate independently of the polluted water from the city.  No smell, no garbage, no black goo.  Occasionally a dead fish, but not often.  The sand is soft and still safe to walk on with bare feet.  The water is very shallow and warms up faster than most other parts along the lake shore.  It is as perfect as it can get along this particular body of water.

263

I dreamt last night that you died.

How horrible!  Was it?

No, because you were already dead.  I was helping set up your estate sale when I realized that it was you.  I was saddened, of course.

How did I die?

I don't know.  You did have some nice collectables for the sale.

Do you think it could be prophesy?

Not unless you have some vintage Christmas cut-outs in storage.

No... No, I don't.  I suppose that's good.

I wouldn't worry.  I usually dream about being lost in a labyrinth or losing teeth, and that's not yet happened.

Perhaps.

261

Lost again, between realities.  It feels so real, but then, it is real, for the moment.  Waking and dream are dream and waking.  He had to keep remembering his training.  It wouldn't do to lose the Captain of the ship only partway through the voyage.  Bad for morale.

259

She had to get indoors and soon.  Even more than that, she needed someone to give her advice, or, at least, take the news she had from her so she wasn't the only person to carry the burden.  Professor J, she thought immediately.  Even if he didn't still live in this old neighborhood, she would still have wanted to go to him.  Her walk turned into a trot and she scanned each dark space between the houses and in the empty lots and near the parked or broken cars.

A light was on somewhere far back in Professor J's house.  The kitchen, she thought, picturing the eccentric man steaming a chai to keep his fingers warm as he worked late.  He wasn't old, but most people thought of him as having been around a long time.  It was difficult to imagine him as young, at least.

She could see though the partially-closed curtains through the living room and back towards the kitchen, and yet she was still a little nervous going to Professor J's house so late at night.  She was sure he'd help.  He'd have to.

She went to the side porch, clutching her bag strap that pulled across her shoulder, and knocked firmly on the wooden screen door.  A moment later, the many locks rattling, the door opened, warm kitchen light framing the professor in his loose work clothes and always disheveled hair.  "Katie?  What is it?"  The screen door's spring creaked as he pushed it open for her.  "Come in, come in.  Are you hurt?"  Professor J peered out into the darkness as Katie entered.  The screen door banged shut twice and the professor closed and relocked the interior door.  Professor J took in Katie, with her bag and flushed cheeks, standing practically on tip toe.  "Sit, and have some tea while you tell me what's up."

175

She dreamed of water again.  Whenever Gala dreamed of water, it was either wonderful or a disaster.  She knew the disastrous water dreams were the result of a face full of pillow and her inevitable drowning caused her to gasp herself awake and roll over.  The wonderful water dreams were few and far between, but she remembered them all.  These were the kinds of dreams she pondered, trying to find a connection to her waking life, and wondering what they signaled.  Some recurring dreams she had figured out, like the elevator that took crazy zigs and zags, never going to the floor she selected, but shooting about without warning.  Elevator dreams meant "change".  The future was a question mark and worrying her in daytime life, so her elevator dreams proved it was out of her control.  The water dreams, though.  They were another story.

In her most recent dream, Gala was with British actor Benedict Cumberbatch, known to her mostly for his portrayal of a modern Sherlock Holmes.  She smiled when thinking about that because most females either loved him or were left scratching their heads over why most females loved him.  Gala thought he was interesting-looking, which is why he showed up in her dream as an extension of herself.  In her analysis, she hoped her "interesting" looks made her attractive, so Benedict Cumberbatch showed up.  She had a rather large nose, and a long face, and small eyes and a long body and loose joints.  The description of herself in her own head annoyed her with its negativity, but she let it lie because in the scope of the dream she knew he wasn't the most important part.  The most important part was the feeling.

129

I keep dreaming about my old house. I wander around, the way it used to be and the way it never was, or could be. I'm looking for something lost; something I desperately want before the house is chained shut and "NO TRESPASSING" means I can't get in again. It is the house I thought would always be there. I thought my parents would always be there, watching television in the family room. Perhaps my dad would be in the basement working. Perhaps my mom would actually be in the kitchen, getting ready to call Pizza Hut. My room, always the way I left it.

They say you can never go home again, and now I know what it means. My home wasn't my home for a long time because of changes, and I prefer to remember it the way it was when I was young. When that particular shade of green was all the rage. When the appliances were golden. When the curtains were still hung and my doll house was still powered and my dog was still alive. I can go back home again in my mind. It's where my real home still sits, waiting for me.

99

Hal dreamed of a woman he didn't recognize. He understood, in his dream, that he knew her. They were in a cemetery on a sunny, fall day. She walked ahead of him and stopped to read a tombstone. She must have read something interesting because she turned to him, pointing. When she knew he was looking at her, she smiled broadly, and Hal smiled, too.

97

Martien awoke slowly. He was dreaming that he was trying to open his eyes, but the light was so bright, he had to keep squeezing them shut again. Try as he might, he couldn't open his eyes. They started to water and Martien began to panic. In his dream, his body suddenly became sluggish. He struggled against growing immobility. His panic increased and he strained to lift even a finger. His chest hurt. He tried to scream and found he couldn't even breathe. Move, move, MOVE! he thought.

Martien convulsed in his bed, scissoring his legs into a tangle of sheets and slapping one arm against his night stand. He gasped like he had been drowning and blinked his streaming eyes against the late morning light coming in from the tall windows. Awake, finally, and knowing this day he would be nagged by the feeling that some wordless thing was wrong, Martien wished that you could go home again.

24

It was a ten-spot to rent a hygienic Pod for the night, and I was sick of sleeping in the filth of the street. You never really slept out there, anyway. Partly because you had to keep alert for thugs and cops (same difference, right?) but also because of the smell. It hadn't mattered I paid extra for a quality filtermask; I always ended up coughing and wheezing.

I chose a stationary Pod because I had a friend who had disappeared when a transit Pod went off course. Or somebody rigged it. It meant that I walked or took the train, awake, to wherever I wanted to go.

I lucked out when my ten called up one of the newer Pods. The cleaners still worked, all the lights still lit, and it smelled fresh. But what didn't, comparatively. I crawled in and the lid whooshed shut. Some people couldn't get over the coffin-like feel of them, but since when had they ever laid in a coffin, right? This was much better. I set the speakers to white noise, the cushions to extra soft, and the lights to their dimmest setting. I couldn't feel it, but the Pod should have been sliding into position among the other occupied Pods for my paid for up-to-twelve-hours. I figured I'd sleep at least nine or ten.

Not feeling the outside world in a Pod is usually a blessing. This time, it was a curse. I said my Pod should have been sliding into position; it wasn't.