VITAL STATISTICS
Dreamer: Helen
Date: June 8, 1998
Title: A Bad Transvestite
I was bored one day, so I decided to visit Chris L. who lived in dream-Los Angeles. I hopped in the car and drove down Second St. in Troy, which in the dream was very long and looked like a boulevard in Paris. The Troy Savings Bank looked like a cathedral, and construction crews had completely ripped the street apart. It was like driving through a war zone. I turned left on Broadway and drove to L.A., which was located about where Sycaway actually is.
I reached Chris' house, which was a cute bungalow on a street lined with palm trees and matching pastel-colored bungalows. He and two nerdy friends - long-haired, middle-aged, computer-geek, fanboy-types - were sitting around reading comic books. Chris happened to be an inveterate comic book collector, as well as a lamp collector. So we all sat around reading DC- and Marvel-type comics on a lovely, sunny, warm L.A. afternoon with the heavy shades drawn so we could read by the light of some of the funky lamps in Chris' collection. The fanboys finally departed for the kitchen, and I took the opportunity to ask Chris how the archaeology was going. (He works for an archaeological firm in real life.)
“I'm thinking about leaving that,” he said. “I want to go back to university to study biology and genetics.”
“What for?” I asked, surprised.
“To find out, why does the asshole exist?”
“What?” I say.
“That's the key, don't you see? Why do we have to eat and shit? Why can't we just absorb our nutrients through the skin, or photosynthesize? Once you unlock the secret of the gastrointestinal system you come this much closer to understanding GOD!” His eyes burned with an almost religious fervor.
I had nothing intelligent to say in response to that, so I said, 'how interesting'. By the intensity with which he spoke, it was clear the man was on a Quest.
Then some more friends of his arrived; four women. As soon as I saw them I couldn't help but think to myself, 'I am in the presence of biological females.' They had managed to score a couple of armloads of Versace frocks, and they laid them out on the credenza in the hallway, laughing and laughing at how tacky and gaudy they were. I stood aside and stayed quiet, but I was secretly attracted to this one dress with a short skirt and bodice all done up in harlequin diamonds in a eye-assaulting assortment of colors, and sequins and multicolored ribbons all around the skirt. It was beyond atrocious, but I had to try it on. One of the women had to take a shower, and everybody else went to the kitchen. I waited until they are all gone, then I lifted the ugly/compelling dress off the credenza, and snuck into the bathroom to try it on.
Just as I'd squeezed myself into it and zipped up, the woman peered out from behind the shower-curtain at me. “You're very convincing, you know,” she said. “I really admire how well you pull it off. You look so real - I'd be hard-pressed to guess you really are a man.”
Feeling dejected, I wake up.
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