The Recurring Room

*The only recurring dream I ever had was when I was in elementary school. The following story is that dream. But to me, it was always more like a nightmare. 

She pops up like those fuzzy clown figures in a carnival game. She is cardboard. There are several versions of her—just like in that carnival game. The hallway rises in hills, and dips down, each ditch five feet away from the last one. There are several versions of her—one standing at each mound of the hallway. One popping up at each mound of the hallway.

I am on a date at a fancy French restaurant. He is across from me. We sit by the doors to the kitchen, which slams him in the back as each server pushes the swinging door, and the bathroom, which people walk through behind my back. I excuse myself because now I have to go to the bathroom, and he says he will order for me. I open the door that was behind me as I sat, and enter a long and narrow corridor. There are rooms on each side of the hall, many rooms, several rooms, and the hall is long and bumpy, rising in hills. The doors are glass, but I cannot see through them until I open each face. I open one. The first door I open leads me to a swimming pool. H is there in a bathing cap, using her free-stroke hand to wave me on. I tell her I would love to take a dip, but I am looking for the bathroom. I can feel the fog of the poolroom. She smiles, rolls her eyes, and continues with her stroke. I tell her nothing about the date I am on. Perhaps she knows. The second room is an ice-skating rink. My best friend, J, and my sister, N, are waving me on to come join them. I feel a tundra breeze and shiver. I say I am looking for the bathroom. They smile, no eye rolls, and continue their stride across the ice. Finally I open the right door, which is incidentally to my left.

Flush. Rinse. I wring a paper towel between my hands as I exit the bathroom and enter the long hallway again. I throw the paper towel in the basin of the bathroom as the door shuts softly in its space. No one is in the hallway. No sounds are heard coming from the rooms with the swimming pool or the skating rink. I look down the row of the hallway and see an old woman standing at the mound closest to me, which is four feet away, several feet away from the door to the restaurant. I cannot even see that door anymore. I walk forward, past the old woman, walk past the side of her. She is one-dimensional. Five feet away there is another old lady. The same old lady. She pops up like those fuzzy clown figures in a carnival game. She is cardboard. Ahead I see several versions of her—just like in that carnival game—each lady popping up as I pass. The hallway rises in hills, and dips down, the ditches five feet away from the last one. There are several versions of her—one standing at each mound of the hallway.  One popping up at each mound of the hallway.

I stop midway down the hall, midway towards the door to the restaurant, which I can see again. I turn around to face the way I came and see the old ladies rustling. They are turning around to face me. They are three-dimensional now. And they are little ladies—children—in pastel blue dresses and a pink ribbon bow-tired around their waist. Running, but the hallway is stretching and never-ending. The girls, several of them now, mount across each mound, walking calmly, steadily, in a row, looking like replicas of Kubrick’s vision of King’s Grady twins. Come play they would say if this were the movie, but it is not. They do not look like girls that want to play either. They are after me. I am stumbling across the rise and fall of the red carpet. I am inching towards the door. Three feet away, now two, the girls still behind me, whispering unintelligibly. They would never say come play. They do not look that way—welcoming. I turn the knob and fall to a different carpet. This one is brown. And the door shuts behind me, softly in its space.

 

I am sitting by the bathroom door. I am on a date at a fancy French restaurant. He is across from me. I say I have to go to the bathroom, he says he will order for me. I open the door that was behind me as I sat, entering a long and narrow corridor.