In my dream, a monster flew about. It had the head of a dog, a strange elongated body, chartreuse wings and a wild irridescent mane. His open jaws dripped foam. To my left, a castle, the color of pale roses, abutted precariously over a precipice. To the right, on a plain, a white, calcinated city spread. Far away, a line of blue mountains hugged the horizon.

The monster made threatening noises but somehow I was unconcerned. In fact, I was contemptuous. I felt that the monster was stupid, so I walked nonchalantly about, despite the monster's efforts to affect me. Enraged by its impotence, the monster summoned other monsters from the city. I was totally unimpressed. The monster summoned more monsters, until a thick monstrous cloud flew over the city, but I was still unafraid. In desperation, the monster summoned all the monsters of the universe. An immense cloud soon showed up and, by its sheer density, crushed the hapless monster to death. I could feel its disbelief.

Lou woke up laughing, his body wrapped in a tumultuous tangle of bed sheets, the pillow down on the floor, the blue cover askew and dangling over the end of the bed. Outside, rain fell in monotonous drops and a reticent wind undressed branches. It was late in the morning of a fall day, a morning for curling up with a beloved, a day to let the incessant clocks spend themselves in slow circles. Lou sat up by the side of the bed and pushed the covers into a mountainous heap, while he slowly prodded unwilling muscles into action. He sat still for a moment, and let a languorous heavy feeling slowly fade.

With some effort, he wrote his dream down in his journal, even though his appointment with Dr. Schutt, his Jungian psychotherapist, was in only an hour. But you know how it is with dreams: they seem so real, so immediate, but suddenly they are gone beyond recall, leaving only that perplexed feeling. Finished, he stood up and headed for the bathroom, the first few steps slow and tentative as encroaching arthritis stiffened what had been well-lubricated ankle joints. His dead father was still asleep on the couch, his barrel chest slowly moving, his oversize underwear exposing wrinkled genitalia. Lou cast a sidelong glance at him. Goddamn, him again. I wish he'd get over the habit of sleeping in his underwear, it makes me feel so uneasy; but I guess when you are dead, you just can't change things anymore. You can't teach dead dogs to roll over in their graves.

He stumbled toward the bathroom, a half-smile on his lips. I mean, that was pretty clever for someone just getting up near noon, slightly hung over. And now into the bathroom. Shit, shower and shave, not necessarily in that order. And damn the torpedoes. I shave in the shower in the ancient Druid style, almost a religion I might add and certainly a science, one hand feeling the area to be shorn, the other maneuvering the tonsorial instrument while tons of water tame the beard. Afterwards, look in the mirror to check for the wonderful surprises, the little bleeding nicks and cuts, the face soon festooned with toilet-paper first aid. I remember a morning when, running late, I forgot to remove the little pieces of paper, now coagulated stubbornly to my face, and was the talk of the bus for days and a great hit at the office.

Lou, in the nude, opened the faucets, a slow, piloerectile shiver tensing up his limbs, while the full bladder reacted to the sound of running water, and primary mammalian reflexes were excitedly activated. Water temperature adjusted, he stepped into the bathtub, shifted the appropriate lever and let the water gush down in an energetic stream on his head, from whence it cascaded down his body in vaporous rivulets. Ah, the ecstasy of a shower, water soothing the inordinate beast, head and shoulder against the wall, god let this water embrace me in a quasiuterine embrace, let me dream standing up, let me dream dreams of impotent monsters, wet dreams of happy timelessness, let me now piss unanimously with the wonderful running water that envelops my body's impermeable skin and leaps over my penis, who is gonna know if it is water or piss, what delectable mixture or undetectable substance happily hoses out, gentlemen, the accused stands here erect if you please and states that, to the best of his recollection, he has never committed a pissitorial mixturific hydrogenital act, so unnatural and demeaning, although we have a surprise witness, yes, his father (that pillar of honesty) who, having caught him wethanded and dreamy-eyed, is ready to testify in extremis and ex officio that even a severe beating was apparently ineffective in curing this malcontent's filthy habit.

Lou's dead father walked into the bathroom, a gray lost soul, still in his underwear. His dead blue eyes peered through the heavy mist that, floating in a white cloud, gently blunted angles. Lou caught sight of him as his urine poured defiantly at a forceful angle. When, oh when will I get rid of him? What a curse to have this dead weight around, no privacy, no possible moments of intimacy, him always unwelcome and unexpected. I hate your guts, I hate your facile power that affects me still. Watch now as I piss grandly, great smoky stream, yellow-tinged water at my feet, between my toes, great cure for athlete's foot, except that it is uncouth and fathers will forcibly not permit this great advance to be enjoyed by juvenile skin. Or by forty-six-year-old corroded dermis either. Alright, sphincters one and all, tighten up, shut off the valves, occlude all waterloose holes, uncomfortable as it may be, no matter if it hurts prostatic tissue, so prone to disenchantment already. And it is uncomfortable, trust me on this one, but what a great triumph of will, what a tribute to culture and urbanization, to the ascendance of mind over matter, pater over filius.

Lou stopped urinating with an effort and began to shave. The razor blade scraped monotonously over the wet face, amputating the softened bristles. Slowly, and for no apparent reason, a great erection rose below Lou's dripping pubis and soon, urged forth by Lou's free hand, grew infuriated and swollen. His dead father chose that moment to peer through the almost transparent plastic curtain, and then, pushing one end aside, stepped boldly in. Lou's dead father stood close to his son's pale agitated body, a look of inquiry in his face, while his white hair and beard were bombarded by glistening droplets that bounced off Lou's body. Well, I knew it, as soon as I start, he shows up. Will you get out of here? Will you just leave me alone? Will you stop staring at me? I'm a grown man and I can prove it, I think. When you interrupt me, I can't stand it, in more ways than one. Move out of the way.

Lou shut off the water, pushed the dead old man aside, grabbed a limp towel that exuded fungi, and got out to begin his morning toilet, not without having visited the john first to complete his truncated morning piss. He finished, happily sighing, and turned to the sink where there stood an array of bottled toilette articles. Ah, these chemically potent agents, bottled and ready to mystify and confound, combat, if you please, the probing eye, the inquiring nose, all in the name of the male ego. Here, my pretty, rub your fragrant glass head against my oh so offending armpits and their sinful odoriferous hair, strands of which have at times embarrassed me no end when, at the beach, I have lifted my arms triumphantly, only to discover women staring at the disconsolate patches of tufty graying plaits, playfully arranged in decorative groupings. And what do we have here? Eau de toilette, like who wants water from there, you know? A little behind the ear, splash it on the face, did you step on something awful or is that your newest parfum? Oh fervid acolytes of beauty, servants of middle age vanity, drip your protoadonisian diviniferant fematractiverous oils on my hair and body so that I, renewed and hydrolyzed, may saunter forward in full concupiscent strength.

While finishing up the morning rites, Lou saw his dead father's reflection on the mirror. The old man, fully dressed now, sported Western garb in the manner of his last photograph, and had a puzzled look on his face. He seemed to be searching for something. Lou glanced at his watch, quickly finished combing his hair and walked out to the bedroom, followed by his dead father. I hate to be late, ever since I was a kid, duty engraved in my by the stupid old man, run run run, what will people say, and in times of trial grit your teeth, keep your pecker up as the English say, follow the leaders, just once I like to say, gentlemen, that loud shirts are a forceful reflection of the creative spirit of us Republicans, that these chartreuse trousers will match very well with that blood-colored and broad tie, that sandals are a sure sign of a higher state of mind, and now observe, ladies, how I strut in my beautiful plumage, how I parade about, oblivious to your envious and, why not say it, unkind looks.

Lou adjusted his gray tie, patted his gray suit, and his long hands, drummer's hands kept rhythm even then. Quickly, he headed for the door and his appointment with Dr. Schutt. In a hurry, his tall body gulping the terrain in long strides, he approached his car, entered and was ready to roll, when he realized that his dead father, lagging far behind, was making a determined, though tottering, effort to catch up. At least he is bringing his oxygen today, otherwise it would take him forever. I have to wait for him, even though I hate his presence. It will give the engine time to warm up, and what are a few more miles per hour over the speed limit on the highway anyway, I remember a time in my life in which the car was my ticket to a freedom of sorts, an adventurous metalic cocoon that held me in its vinyl embrace, I mean I used to get in the car and drive for hundreds of miles over a weekend, without a destination, hours and hours, somehow finding comfort in the stream of strangers, figures like cardboard cutouts, moving in an endless mysterious stream through the desolate highways, each life apparently purposeful, except mine, although I am sure that some of them were rushing about in a similar desperate loneliness, or perhaps we were all lost, all pretended purpose and searched unhappily for joy, the Mechanized Anguish Battalions in full flight, and with them I just rode on and on to run away from what and to where? Oh, get in, old man, don't give me that injured "you forgot about me again" look.

The car peeled off from the sidewalk in screeching protest. Ahead, other cars and other lives rode relentlessly on, toward other highways and other travails. The road curved, dipped, and rose, following the changing contours of the hills, before climbing down steeply to the main highway. I know how to rush the curves, foot lightly on the gas, broad approach, downshift, propel the car through the curve with a light acceleration, my father, a poet with machines, taught me never brake through the curve, that means you misjudged it already and you are at the mercy of centrifugal force, what a thrill it is to feel the car suspended on the verge of flight yet feel that I can bring it nonchalantly back by easing up on the gas, hear that engine as it sings to me, 350 choleric horses in chorus humming mechanical songs of power and speed. The dead old man hung tightly, a look of concern in his eyes, as the car moved swiftly and sometimes precariously down the circuitous road, hurtled down the hill, into the highway and then, with a high-pitched engine whine, dodged the slower traffic and lost itself in a frenzied race towards the horizon and the welcoming embrace of Dr. Schutt's couch. I talk about my father then, while the good doctor listens kindly, humors me, I think, but at least tries to help, although I'm sure he cannot possibly understand my problem. I tell him how, soon after the funeral, my father started to appear. It was initially just a vague quick shadow that fleetingly caught the corner of my eye and startled me. Slowly, over many months, he acquired substance and boldness, seemingly in geometric proportion to my desire to forget him. Soon I would see his shadow concretely staring at me from the dark corners. Well, he slowly gained substance and lost decorum, made himself at home, and finally became a pest, always underfoot, always there. The worst part, I suppose, is that he has never said a word: he only looks balefully at me when I yell at him or, for a change, looks away as if distracted or bored and perhaps both. He is a witness and a judge, and I'm sick and tired of him, yet I can't get rid of him. As I have told the skeptical Dr.Schutt, what I really need is an exorcist.

Lou arrived five minutes late. Carrying his dream journal, he walked into the office, followed closely by his wheezing father. He was surprised to see Dr. Schutt already seated on his chair, an embarrassed look in his face. To the doctor's right, there stood a stern-looking old man, a grim and determined look in his eyes. Dr. Schutt gave Lou a helpless gesture with his hands and said weakly, "Hi, Lou."

Dr. Schutt's dead father stared with undisguised hostility at Lou and his dead father, while Dr. Schutt looked on apologetically. Lou turned to his father and was surprised to see an amused glint in the old man's eyes and, a moment later, a frank risory wrinkling in the dead man's face plus a conspiratorial and amused wink of his left eye. Returning it, Lou found himself suddenly drawn to his old man in a warm, comradely way.

A joyous feeling enveloped him and Lou burst out laughing, as he joined his dead old man in a silent conspiracy of understanding. As Lou walked towards the couch, his morning dream suddenly came to mind. It was going to be one hell of a session.

(© Copyright 2000 by Guillermo Echanique. All rights reserved. For reprint permissions contact Wil Wynn, 50 Arlo Rd., 1A, Staten Island, NY. 10301; Tel. (718) 8167340, email WilWynn@aol.com.)