The Cave of Morpheus
Version 3.90
"So that's it?"
You nod your head slowly and sit up on the couch. "Its always the same ending," you explain. "A long fall through darkness, just when I think all of my problems are about to end. And then I wake up. Which is a relief in a way, except that by that time I'm totally exhausted after what's supposed to have been a good night's sleep."
Alice nods her head slowly. "Yeah," she says, "that's the worst thing about nightmares. They really can wipe you out."
You blink your eyes and look around slowly. For the last forty minutes or so you've been lying on Alice's slightly wheezy old couch in her dorm room, eyes shut in concentration as you've been struggling to remember every last moment of this freaky recurring dream you've been having. For the first time you notice that while you've been delivering this monologue, she's quietly been brewing two cups of warm tea. The electric kettle steams on the edge of her computer desk. There's also a small, pleasant-smelling stick on incense burning in the corner of the room. Alice herself is sitting at the straight-backed chair by her desk in a black turtleneck, her chin resting gently in her open hand, still listening attentively. It surprises you to see that there is perhaps just the faintest hint of a smile gathered around the corners of her eyes and mouth.
"Well," you say, suddenly feeling a little unsure of yourself, "I..uh...guess from a certain point of view it does have its funny moments..."
"Oh, no...it's not that it's...er..funny exactly." She seems to blush for just a fraction of a second. "I mean...you have to admit...there are some elements in it that are a little..."
"Yes?" You lean forward on the sofa, reaching forward for your cup of warm Earl Grey, which sits on a tattered paper doily. Alice's parents are both English.
"Nothing...nothing..." Alice shakes her head quickly. You've begun to notice that whenever she's being a little shifty or evasive she tilts her hair forward, so that her longish, slightly shiny black hair falls forward just enough to cast a shadow over her eyes. "Well, except for the part about your Hall Porter. Lester...?"
"That's him." you say. The tea is good. Shame there are no cookies.
"I mean...whenever I visit over there, that's guy's always, always sitting at his little desk, shuffling his papers and..."
"Exactly! Exactly." You laugh. "It's all so frigging...surreal. So, what d'you think Doc?" Alice grins. You're an English Lit. Major; she's in Pre-Med, and has already confided in you that she eventually wants to work as a psychiatrist. You figure it's okay for you to take up a little of her study-time with these long, rambling narratives about your dream life 'cause it'll sort of help her get some...er...'advance training', maybe? "Is my unconscious baring its fangs? Do I need intensive, soul-searching therapy? Or do I just need a bunch of horse-sized Prozac pills."
"Hmm," says Alice. She reaches absent-mindedly into her desk and pulls out half a roll of Ginger Snaps, which she passes over to you. Yum. "Well, Steve, I have to tell ya," she remarks, her face breaking once again into that curious, half-suppressed grin of hers, "Your unconscious certainly does have a whole mess of stuff going on in it, that's for sure."
She ponders for a few moments longer as you munch appreciatively. Then with a look of decisiveness on her face she does something quite unexpected - prods a button on the front of her CPU and hands you the 3'1/2'' floppy that pokes out of the front of her computer. "Actually," she says, "Why don't you try this out?"
You accept the disk form her, a little disappointed. You'd sort of been hoping for some masterful neo-Jungian diagnosis of the libidinal source of your inner demons. You look at the disk, which has a label with the words Crowther's Adv. 550 mysteriously incribed thereupon. "Is this some sort of bold new therapeutic technique or somethin'?"
"Well...not exactly," says Alice. "At least not yet. It may be one day, though, if I ever get famous. " She delivers up a full smile now, the kind that reminds you why she's been your favorite person to hang out with ever since you first arrived at University 'way back at the beginning of last year. "Just load it up on your PC and give it a try - if it doesn't do anything for you we can always resort to electroshock."
"OK, thanks - I will." You snag one more cookie before leaving. "It's actually nice just to be able to talk about all this disturbing shit, Al - I really appreciate it." You wonder as you head for the door of her room what Crowther's Adv. 550 might be, and what other weird surprises your friend might be harboring up her sleeve...
**********
In Your Dorm Room
Your room's lit up by this sort of sickly light, and of course it's a total mess. Along with the alarm clock there's an old pizza box, your laptop (which teeters precariously on the edge of a small stack of library books you got out for your essay on The Romance of the Rose ), and at least one visible pair of dirty underwear. The place seems incredibly small, this morning, almost like you're in a dark little cave under the earth, with the walls dripping quietly and the rest of the world a hundred yards up above your head.
You are awakened by a sharp, insistent jabbing in the lower ribs. When you look up and your eyes have adjusted to the pale light of morning, you can make out the thin, bearded face of a man who looks to be in his middle thirties. Although you can't think of who this fellow might be, he does has a vague, almost inexplicable air of familiarity. "Hi there," he says. "My name's Crowther. I'm here to guide you through this Adventure."
"Ehhhhrg...hi, Mr. Crowther," you gurgle from the depths of half-sleep. "I am Steven Morpheus. What...er...brings you to my humble....uhhhm..."
"C'mon, kid," he says, "There's no time for formal introductions. Wake up! And get on some clothes - you've got Things To Do!"
There's something big and freaky sitting on this guy's head. It looks like...a Miner's helmet! Before you have much time to register the peculiarity of this scene, you happen to glance over at your alarm clock and notice that ...ohmigod - it's 8:15 AM!! But...but...your Western Civilizations exam is at nine! If you don't score at least a B on that thing, your ass is dust. You have to get out of bed, like, right away.
The fellow in the helmet says - in a voice that is authoritative but also rather surprisingly gentle - "Listen, guy. It's none of my business how you choose to display yourself within these four walls, but given the job we have to do you might find it helpful to...er...locate your pants." Also here is a letter from Mom. Crowther follows patiently along behind you.