When Dreams Come True

Roy rifled the last trashcan on his city park evening route. He scored a few cans, cigarette butts, some half-full take-out boxes, a newspaper — which was handy on dewy nights to keep the wet off his blanket. It’d pass for a rolling paper, too, since he couldn’t bum any today. He headed for his last stop.

In a far corner off the park jogging trail, obscured by unkempt bushes, was Roy’s summer bedroom. A park bench could be dangerous in a big city, but the only worrisome thing on this one might be a squatter trying to muscle in. He squinted through the dusk and saw that the bench was empty of humans, but something else sat there. He eyed the black shape warily, because, you never know.

It was a leather-bound notebook, kind of rough, but it might be good for trading, thought Roy. That Percy fellow down by Home Depot thinks himself a poet.

Seated, the scruffy indigent opened it to see if it held any treasures, like maybe the name and address of someone who’d exchange it for drinking money. No joy, but he saw that every page was filled with writing.

After lighting his newspaper-rolled butts, Roy kept the lighter on. The raggedy notebook’s handwriting danced in its wavering yellow light and drew him to a few paragraphs:

“Amos, this trail seems a heap rougher since the last gully-washer, you reckon?”


“Yep, Cyrus, an’ I’m not likin’ the thought of takin’ the buckboard through the cut whilst it’s dark. That edge offen the lee side might’nt be sound after all that rain. What’re yer thoughts on holin’ up here fer the night ‘stead of traipsin’ through that notch tonight? Get an early start, horses be fresh, an’ all. We’d be home afore noon.”


Cyrus pulled back on the reins, halting his two horses. He scratched his stubbled chin and considered his friend’s words. The sun was almost down, and the stony road could turn a horse’s careless step into anything from lameness to disaster.

“It’s a tough call, Amos, but I’m leanin’ to movin’ on. Those miners might not have much longer trapped down there, and this load of dynamite is the last hope they have. You know folks are workin’ through the night pickin’ and shovelin’ at that cave-in. Least we could do is keep movin’, too. We’ll take turns leadin’ the horses through the pass. We got plenty oil for the lantern and…uhnnnn….”

Amos grabbed his friend just as he was about to tumble over the running board. “God’s hooks, man! What the devil…”

An arrow from the same bow skimmed the top of Amos’ bowler, as three more thunked into the side of the buckboard. When another struck one horse’s hock, the pair took off in a panic. Amos found himself trying to right his friend to get at the reins, and hold on for dear life to a bouncing, rattling, spoked-wheel bucket of potential disaster.

Just then Roy’s lighter stuttered out. “Dang! That was getting interesting,” he said, flicking the Bic’s thumbwheel unsuccessfully a few times. He heard a swish and a thwack that made him startle in his seat. He turned to his rucksack and was shocked to see an arrow sticking out of it. Staring open-mouthed at the aberration, he was further astonished to feel his wooden bench start to bounce and rock. And the park was no longer a park, but a darkened desert track with a sheer butte on one side and a sheer drop on the other. And a bleeding man was slumped over in his lap! And my God! horses! Why were there horses?

Roy was paralyzed with incredulous fear. He was in the story, white-knuckled grip on a bench attached to a wagon bucking worse than withdrawals. A scream stuck in his throat as more arrows rained down around him.

“Where am I? What’s happening?” tore out of him in a strangled cry. He was in a 19th-century scenario, in 21st-century attire, with one hand on dear life and the other on a notebook. And it was about to get worse.

The horses were taking more arrows and were in full-frenzied flight. They bounced to butte and back at high speed, stumbling and rearing. The buckboard was living up to its name, vaulting worse than a bronco. Roy’s eyes were bulging in terror; there was nothing he could do. Just then one wheel broke completely off, causing an unrecoverable lurch that threw the whole assembly off the edge of the cut.

One hand clutched air and the other leather. He screamed in horror, “Get me outta here!”

Instantly, Roy was back in the park, on the ground, blanched face frozen in fear. It took many blinks and breaths for him to regain reality. One hand grasped dirt, and the other gripped the book.

This is the kind of thing that makes one think they should give up drinking. Maybe. Roy stuffed things into his rucksack and wobbled his way back to the streets. He traded his aluminum to Poet Percy for some Night Train and hid in a doorway for the night.

“Oh my stars, am I sick,” Roy groaned at a shopkeeper's kick. He moved to a quavering upright. “I gotta sleep this off.” He shuffled a few blocks and turned into a trashed blind alley in search of the moldy couch that occasionally was a respite.

After a few hours, withdrawals took hold and tremors started. Roy’s anxiety climbed up a notch; he needed something to distract him. The black notebook had made a good pillow so maybe it would make a good diversion. He flipped a few pages from his reclined pose and started to read.

Screeching alarms pursued Harold and Elsie as they ran from the bank. “Hurry up, gal, we’re almost there!”

“Right behind you, Hal, just you hold tight to that bag!”

She was giddy with laughter as they piled into their Model J and roared off. “Easy as pie, Hal! Must of got a good 20 thousand!”

“You are the best bank robberess in the universe, Els!” Harold grinned over at his spunky sweetheart. “Couldn’t do this without you.”

Just then they heard the coppers’ sirens, hot on their tail.

“Oh man, it’s a nail biter,” Roy said from his damp repose. He was listening to city sounds and heard faint sirens a few blocks away. He shifted his pack underneath him, put there to discourage thieves and moisture. He rubbed bleary eyes, then yawned and stretched, the open notebook waggling in his raised, tremoring grip.

And just then, he heard a gunshot. Attempting to remain unseen, he pulled himself and the book in tighter. Only there was now a hole in the notebook. And his couch had turned to leather. And it was moving, pitching from side to side. And it had become the backseat of a 1930s Duesenberg. Which was being shot at!

“Holy shit!” Roy said under his breath. He was shaking from fright as well, now. His rucksack was no longer underneath him; it had become a lumpy canvas bank pouch in a car’s back seat, and the two in the front seats were pointing guns out their windows and blasting at police chasing them!

The window beside him shattered, and a bullet whizzed by his head. Another slammed into his seat back. Oh fricken hell! What have I got myself into? We are getting shot to pieces! And those two — those CRIMINALS — are laughing like maniacs!

Roy believed his life was going to end from multiple entry wounds. He rolled onto the floor of the car and pulled the bank pouch on top of him. He didn’t know what else to do.

Bang! Boom! Two tires exploded in tandem and the Duesy was flapping to a crawl.

“Elsie! I love you more than life itself. Let’s give ‘em hell!” Harold shouted as he shoved his door open.

“Hal! I love you more than life and money. We won’t go down without a fight!” Elsie sprang out, Tommy gun in hand, and sprayed bullets into the thick of a dozen police vehicles.

There wasn’t even a millisecond between gunshots from both sides. Roy sought to protect his vitals with a canvas bag and a leather book. That’s all he had, quivering like a peeing puppy going to the vet on the floorboard of a car full of holes.

“Get me outta here!” he screamed in terror.

And, in an instant he was lying in a pool of something wet. Blood? Piss?

Yes, piss. His own, but no blood. He was on the ground in his filthy alley, beside a moldy couch, clutching a black notebook and a canvas bank bag. A real bank bag, with real money.

The bag had so much cash Roy needed to get it to a secure place, but not before he passed some at the liquor store for the good stuff and real cigarettes. The gum-snapping cashier didn’t give the bills a second glance before she stuffed them into the register. Roy then headed to a derelict furniture factory. All the first-floor entrances were boarded up, so the only way was to pile up alley trash and climb higher. With his belt he secured the bank bag and started his perilous assent. Even the second floor made him uneasy, so Roy took stairs higher.

“Time to celebrate.” Roy was elated, and on his way to the bliss of the grape. He sucked fresh Camel smoke deep into his lungs and exulted in its heady buzz. As he stacked bank notes around him, he cared not a whit for his trashed-out surroundings of pallets, cardboard, furniture stuffing, and fabric. The bank loot was indeed $20,000, and even though the date on the bills was 1930, and they weren’t colorful like today’s money, they would still pass. In the liquor store. At the racetrack.

“Oh, the fun I’m going to have,” Roy sighed. He lay back on a pile of fabric rolls and kissed his lucky book before passing out.

Roy jolted awake, coughing and gagging. He couldn’t breathe. The factory was on fire! Flames were roaring through debris piles everywhere.

“Goddamned cigarettes!” Roy shouted as he raced around in circles. “I can’t get to the stairs! HELP! HELP ME!” he screamed hoarsely at no one to hear. He was so dizzy from the smoke. His only other thought was for saving the money bag and the book. He grasped them in weakening fingers as dark mucous started from his nose. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t fight. Succumbing to the heat and smoke, Roy fell to the floor.

“Get me outta here,” he wheezed, then lost consciousness.

He awoke lying in very bright cold. Roy felt relief even though he couldn’t see through swollen, singed eyelids. He patted beside him. Is this snow? Where am I? Oh good, here’s the bag. I’m alright, but awfully cold. It’s better than fire, but I’m freezing.

Roy was numb from the cold and his fiery ordeal. His mind wasn’t working right yet, but he suddenly remembered the book. Where’s the book? His arm swept frantically like a lunatic snow angel and his hand whapped into the book, which sent it flying away from him. Roy struggled to his knees, hypothermia slowing his thoughts and actions, and peeled back an eyelid.

It was white as far as he could see. White ice, white snow, a bank bag. Nothing else. Except right in front of him, there was a wide, bottomless crack in the earth. And no book.

The page the book was opened to when Roy said “Get me outta here”?

The Antarctic team is on the brink of death. We’ve eaten the dogs after losing Hans in the crevasse last night. Our only hope is to die a painless death…