A Good Morning

The following is an account of a typical morning in the life of Scott Dyer:

Birds chirp innocently in the corridor. A slumbering, drooling Scott sleeps half under his covers, unaware of the happenings of the world. But Scott is not concerned with the inconsequential events of a lazy weekday morning. No, Scott is busy fighting a war. A war that has been raging since the early days of adolescence. This is not a war fought by men in some foreign land while women and children wait in terror for a uniformed man to show up in their driveway. This is not a war fought by machines on some distant planet. This is not some politically motivated “war on (insert cause here)” designed to boost campaign ratings. This war is bigger than the world yet smaller than an individual. It is something that transcends reality; it moves at will in and out of dreams. Scott knows about this war and fearlessly walks into battle, night after night, never once questioning the heavy load placed upon his shoulders. He knows it is necessary, that the fate of his world depends upon the outcome. He knows that if he does not give everything he has, every single morning, life as he knows it would cease to exist.

This is the War of the Snooze.

“I just don't understand why you have to do this,” Elsa screamed. “Every damn time! Have you ever thought about what I want? Hmm? What if what I want is to be with you, through the morning?”

“Elsa, you know it can't be like that.” Scott had heard this before, a thousand times maybe. It was always the same: a night of passionate love-making, no consequences, no remorse, because there was no future.

“I am going to have to wake up soon,” he explained. “It means that this, what we have, has to end.”

She wouldn't understand, she never understood, none of them ever understood. How could they? They were in his dream. They were his dream. He didn't know why they came, just that they did. Every time the temptation to stay and be with them was almost unbearable, but he knew he must leave. He must wake up and face the day. But that meant killing the thing he had just spent a night loving.

“Is that how it is going to be? You're just going to throw me away like some used rag? Going back to your dream-world? I can't believe you.” Not wasting any time, this one. The transformation would come soon. Sometimes Snooze wouldn't reveal himself until the very end. Not this time, apparently.

“I didn't want to have to do this, Scott,” Elsa glared menacingly, her voice twisting and contorting, slowly dropping an octave. “I thought it could be different. I thought that if I was good enough, you would want to stay in this world.”

The vibrating noise of Scott's cell phone rang miles away. Three rings into the alarm Elsa's soft skin slowly melted away. Her soft figure lost its curves, replaced by a semi-gelatinous, green, amorphous blob. Her auburn hair fell away from her sinking head. Her eyes, nose, and lips merged to form one purple spot, located in what would best be described as the torso of this monster. Snooze was back, but he wouldn't remain in this form for long. What tricks would he play this morning? The vibrating continued.

“I have to deal with this first, Snooze,” Scott taunted, “then I'm coming back to kill you.”

“I'll be waiting,” Snooze said with a smile. He would be unrecognizable by the time Scott reset his alarm and returned from the waking world. Who or what must I defeat this time? It never gets easier, each morning as difficult as the last.

Meanwhile...

Vvvvvvv....vvvvvvv....vvvvvvv....vvvvvvv. Scott's cell phone set for 6:45am went off. With the groan of an eighty year-old man lifting himself out of a deep sofa, Scott raised his head from his pillow, wiping the drool from his cheek while simultaneously reaching out to his right to grab his phone. What madness is this? Who doth disturb my slumber? Scott, with one eye, glared at his phone as though it offended him greatly, then he realized, shit. Time to get up. Mmmmm...five more minutes. He pressed snooze an tossed his phone aside, returning to his dreamworld...

Where the hell am I, Scott wondered. Gather your surroundings. You're on a horse, first thing. I don't know how to ride a damn horse! Oh, wait, yes I do, I'm a pro! And I have a machine gun. Snooze has done me a favor, this shouldn't be too bad. Okay, where am I? A forest somewhere. The trees are thick. I'm guessing either the Sequoia Rainforest or the Forest Moon of Endor. Shit, what was that? An Ewok, okay, we're on Endor. There must be some sort of bunker around. Here we go. Scott rode in a random direction. All directions were the same here. He knew something about his sub-conscious and it was that every direction takes you where you need to go. He rode slowly on his horse, noticing an Ewok army slowly joining him. One by one they slipped out of the bushes, each wielding some rudimentary weapon, a sling, a sharp stick, a dead rabbit on a rope. Ah, that must be the idiot Ewok, Scott thought, pondering the use of this platoon of miniature bears.

After fifteen minutes of travel, Scott lead his army up to the giant blast doors of the bunker he was searching for. He dismounted his lawnmower (his horse had evolved into a land speeder, then into a giant tuna. It was a sub-sandwich briefly before it finally settled on lawnmower) and quickly set his Ewoks into a defensive position. The bunker was nestled into a hillside covered in thick growth and giant trees. It was a good defensive position, and the Ewoks seemed to know a thing or two about forest warfare. Scott pulled his slipper out of his pocket and lit the end on fire (like his horse, his machine gun had also evolved). For some reason, this made perfect sense to him, and apparently it made sense to his dreamworld because the bunker doors opened with a whoosh.

“Ichglap gro blufet,” said the idiot Ewok and he pushed Scott back with his furry arm. “Schmaglet fla binenz tro!” He flung his dead rabbit in the doorway and waited ten seconds. Apparently something happened, though no one but the idiot Ewok could see it, but he gestured forward giving the “all clear” signal with his paw. Scott cautiously walked into the bunker, walked a few paces and examined the dead rabbit. Just a dead rabbit, nothing special. What a frikken idiot Ewok. He stepped over the rabbit and proceeded into the tunnels.

He walked deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of Endor's bunker. How long would it be? Where was that damn Snooze. Slowly, a tension built up in Scott's chest. Time was short, the second alarm would be going off soon. I can't wake up if I am trapped in this maze. He started running throught he tunnels, left, right, left, left, right. The turns never ended. In the distance he heard the familiar buzzing of his cell phone. I have to do this now! Screw it, I'm blasting through these walls. He held up his arm and to absolutely no one's surprise it had turned into a cannon. The arm cannon whirred as it charged. Mentally, he told the cannon to fire, it did and it was big. One round created a blast that melted a hole in each wall of the maze straight through to the innermost chamber of the bunker. The vibrating was getting louder and as it grew louder Scott ran faster.

When he reached the chamber, Scott found himself face to face with a small fluffy bunny. The rabbit looked familiar, however. Yes! It was the dead rabbit from the idiot Ewok.

“Well met, Snooze,” Scott said, addressing the rabbit.

The rabbit scrunched its nose, looking innocent. If it weren't for the purple eyes, this rabbit would be indistinguishable from any other rabbit. But those menacing purple eyes indicated that Snooze had yet again changed form. The rabbit then spoke to Scott:

“If you want to escape, you must perform a task.”

“What the hell do you want,” Scott screamed. “Can't you hear the alarm going? I have to get up. I have to escape.”

“Only if you do one simple task,” the rabbit taunted.

“Fine! What?”

A sly smile crept across the innocent little rabbit mouth. “You must rebuild this miniature model of the Eiffel Tower with...your 2^nd grade teacher, Mrs. Thomas! Dun-dun-dunnnnn.”

“Did you just make the dramatic music noise?”

“Indeed I did.”

“Frikken idiot,” Scott mocked. “Alright, I'll do it, though I don't quite know how.”

“Look within yourself,” the rabbit-Snooze instructed. “You will find all you are looking for.”

It was at that moment, when rabbit-Snooze told Scott to look within himself. Inside, he saw many things. He saw the present, his Ewok army currently engaged in a competetive Scrabble tournament on the surface of the planet. He saw the immediate past, his short time with the beautiful, seductive Elsa and her hideous transformation into Snooze. He saw the distant past, the armies he had commanded, the women he loved, the worlds he saved. All of his experiences in dreamworld coming back and flooding him in the present. Pooling all of his knowledge from his past he assembled the skills necessary to solve this current problem. He could now build the Eiffel Tower with Mrs. Thomas. But in his exploration deep into himself, Scott unlocked something rabbit-Snooze did not anticipate. Beyond his past experiences, Scott found the waking world. The alarm buzzing in the distance was now right by his head, it was a phone, it was reachable. All he had to do was reach his arm out. It was then that Scott felt it in his chest. His heart pounding, vibrating, buzzing, was growing inside his torso. Click! One size. Click! Two sizes. CLICK! His heart grew three sizes that day.

Knowing exactly what to do, Scott reached inside his own chest with his right hand and pulled out the over-sized heart. Except it was not a heart, it was a lightsaber. Using the force, he controlled the blue concentrated light beam, harnessed all of its energy, and focused it, creating a saber three feet in length. A look of horror shot across rabbit-Snooze's face as Scott swung the lightsaber in his direction. There was virtually no resistance as the beam came down on the head of rabbit-Snooze, splitting his face in two.

An explosion emanating from the head of rabbit-Snooze knocked Scott back onto his back. He desperately tried to recover, rolling onto his face in an attempt to push himself off of the ground. When his push-up attempt failed, he lay on the ground and brought a hand to his face. Wet. A buzzing sound replaced the explosion and his world disintegrated around him. He found himself in the comfort of his own bed, alarm buzzing by his head. Wiping his cheek, pillow soaked by drool, he reached and shut his alarm off. He blinked and, with a fair amount of effort, sat up in his bed and dropped his legs over the side. I'm up! But I am le tired, he thought. Time to get the coffee brewing. He stood up, quietly put sweatpants on and walked out of his room, ready to start the day. Only for a moment did he hesitate when he reached his door. See you tomorrow morning, Scott...Ahahahahahah! The maniacal laugh of Snooze rang in Scott's ears, though he could not quite place its origin. He shrugged it off and headed to the kitchen, ready to begin the day.

It is only appropriate...

Here is a thing that happened to me.

This morning was not a prototypical Thursday morning. Sure, it was overcast and had that post-rain dampness that hangs around; the kind that foreshadows a rain later in the day. Morning class was canceled, so I allowed myself to sleep in until 9:30. After a shower, pancakes with peanut butter, and a tirade of curses directed at my computer (Seriously, I have never had so many problems with a machine. It is like its trying to piss me off. You want me to start up? it asks. Well, I have something else in mind. Watch as I sit here and show no signs of life. Never-mind that your roommate was quite successful getting me to work this morning, I am intent on proving my uselessness to you and you alone, day after day, week after week.), I put on my work clothes and head off to school.

I mentioned that this is not a normal Thursday, that means I have not ridden my bike to school at butt-crack o'clock in freezing rain yet this morning. I will not ride my bike today, that is why, in the story, I am driving to school. Here is the thing, though: I have no parking pass for campus. I quickly dismiss this issue with a hardly revolutionary though, there is plenty of free parking within walking distance of the school. Great, I will just park at the top of Sehome hill and walk down. The trails drop me off just behind Miller hall, a short 2.5 minute walk from my first destination that day.

I drove up the hill; the road was windy and trees lined the road. As I accelerated up the hill I felt as though I was in a rally-style race, "pedal to the metal, commander". I was brought back to reality 6.8 seconds later when I realized the car was slowing down while my foot was all the way to the ground. I looked around me and re-realized I was still in my own 1970 Volkswagen Beetle, a car incapable of speeds greater than 60 mph if it was dropped out of the back of a C-17 and allowed to fall 10,000 feet to the ground. So I puttered up the hill, barely able to maintain 15mph in 1st gear.

I reached the top, parked, grabbed my stuff and started off down the trail. At the trail-head was a map of the network of trails that ran through the arboretum. I quickly gathered my bearings and plotted my route: Lookout Tower Trail to Miller Hall Trail. No detours. Simple. Maybe a 15 minute walk, tops. The trail wound through the forest with a gentle downward slope, easing me towards my destination as if it had no thought for how long it would take to get there. It was fine, I had nowhere to be. I enjoyed the surroundings, trees creaking, an occasional drop of water falling on my head or ricocheting off my bag. A solo jogger passed me, trucking up the hill. A few minutes later when I had turned a corner, she passed me again, our only communication a slightly forced smile on both our parts.

My thoughts drifted to my past excursions in the arboretum on Sehome Hill. Really I had only been there twice. Once with my friend Rob, the other time I was alone. The second time was a typical windy Bellingham day on which I decided climbing the highest tree I could find was quite a necessary thing to do. The first time, however, was something entirely different. I had no idea how the thoughts placed into my head that day would affect my current situation. As I turned onto the final leg of my route, the Miller Hall Trail, my thoughts went back to Rob's stories of how he would slide down a particular section of the trail every morning before class. His ability to feel shame is indirectly proportional to the amount of dirt that cakes his body, an admirable trait. He recalled to me all of the times he arrived to class doing his best "Swamp Thing" impersonation. (Rob just got engaged, by the way, congrats to him and Stephanie)

Up to this point in my trek the trails had been roughly paved, but I now tread on densely packed mud. My thoughts settled on idea of my slacks and button-up shirt getting a few splashes of mud on them, but as quickly as the idea was in my head it left. What were a few mud splotches? A welcome price for this wonderful walk, if you ask me.

Everything changed when I saw the spot.

The spot where Rob had told me countless stories of his sliding and muddying excursions.

"Scott," it whispered. "Come to me. Climb down my lovely banks."

I resisted slightly, but I knew in my heart that my efforts were futile. I stood on top of the small slope. About 40 feet down was my destination, but directly below my feet lay a smooth mud slope, beckoning, begging me to partake in a forbidden threesome with itself and gravity. Before I knew what was happening I watched as my right foot moved out in front of my body and set itself on the first bit of slope. My left followed suit. Together, for a fleeting second, my feet, the slope, and gravity all worked together to bring my body safely down the hill. I tell you, there has never been a machine so finely tuned as this mechanism was right in the first seconds of my slide. But it was not to be. Time stopped as my leading foot sent a signal to my brain. That signal said, "something's wrong". Immediately I saw the slope was not beckoning me into its bosom full of the symphonies of gravity, kinetic energy, and exhilaration. Instead, it's true motives were revealed to me. How dare I, even for one second, think the motives of this slope to be benevolent. I saw it clearly, the malice in the slope's metaphorical eyes.

My body was thrown backwards, but I was determined to not be beaten. I twisted, balancing on my trailing foot and, spinning, caught myself with my hands. But by this time, all friction between the ground and any part of me was gone. I found myself spinning and sliding clockwise down the hill on all fours. To my great fortune, my foot caught a root and I was able to use my momentum to stand upright and reorient myself facing downwards. Alas, it was all a trick of the slope's, for in the middle of my path stood a sapling, trunk no more than two inches in diameter. I don't know why, but this sapling was also covered in mud. An instant later, I ricocheted off the sapling and continued a spin. But I was determined to with the very last battle between me and the slope. I started running, or at least, I moved my feet in a running motion. At last, I had scored a victory, for I was in control of my direction and had found my footing. But the hill had one last laugh as it catapulted me into the parking lot at its base. I stomped hard on the ground, trying not to fall on my face (you know, just like when you get off those moving platforms at the airports). Doing so collected looks from fellow college students who wondered how this mud monster had materialized from nowhere.

The damage was great, my friends. People walking through red square would have seen a man whose shoes, already brown, were now black with mud. His slacks had dark splotches on the knees and a splotch on his butt. His hands were unrecognizable as human, they were so covered with mud. His shirt bore a long vertical stain where the sapling had slapped his chest with its magical climbing mud. You would not have known from the condition of his clothes that he had just won the battle against the slope. You would, however have noticed it from his smug look and his "I'm the shiz" gait as he entered the library, mud footsteps marking where he had traveled.

Five minutes in the bathroom and I was presentable again. I could probably have gone through the rest of the day without anyone commenting on the condition of my clothes. But how could I live with myself for not sharing the tale of my battle with the slope. You see, I slid the slope, I fought the fight, and I came out of it with only a few minor blemishes.

It is a victory, my friends. Never again will I dare that hill wearing the clothes I was wearing, with the commitments I had later in the day. But I did do it once.

So that happened to me.