“Don’t you dare put any more paper plates through my new paper shredder,” Sherri called from the bathroom.
Ken froze in place, paper plate just millimeters from the mouth of the shredder. “I was just getting them ready for the composter.”
“I don’t want those dirty plates in my new shredder. Use the old one. I put in on the porch. Somebody put humus into it and the office stunk like a falafel house for a week.”
“Sorry,” Ken called back, “Two plates were stuck together. I didn’t notice until it was too late.”
“And you’d better not have those kitchen scraps in there on my new carpet.”
“No,” said Ken as he quietly picked up the plastic bag from the cream-colored sisal which had been delivered a few weeks ago. “I’ll just go use the shredder on the porch shall I?”
The old shredder did smell of rancid garbanzo and tahini, but it growled appreciatively as Ken fed it paper plates from last night’s dinner.
“I’m not sure why I’m still feeding the composter,” Ken told the shredder. “Sherri was the one who wanted to build the thing. But I’m the one who brings out all the scraps and turns the stinky thing with a shovel.”
“Grrrrgggrrrgggrrrgggrrrggg—aakk,” replied the shredder.
“I borrowed CC’s rototiller and laid out that garden plot in the back yard, but we never planted anything. It’s too late in the summer now and the grass is taking over already. It’s like I never did the work. She just doesn’t seem interested any more.”
“Mmmmm, quite tasty,” growled a voice from behind Ken. “Lost ambition, tangy with a salty touch of self pity.”
Ken whirled around to see a glowing ball of fog hovering near the rhododendrons. It shimmered as if lights were rotating slowly within it. The next door neighbor drove past the house in her SUV and waved at Ken as if it were just a normal Wednesday morning, as if there were no preternatural glowing fog throbbing gold and red on her neighbor’s front porch.
Ken waved back, but he was watching the misty orb. “Did you just say something?”
“You could be going crazy. Hearing voices. Halucinating.” The fog thing pulsed in time with the voice which unlike the misty appearance of the apparition sounded solid, like stones clacking against each other in a stream. “Of course I said something. The question is did you hear anything?”
His knees wobbled a bit, so Ken sat down on the plastic lawn chair. “I’m talking to a glowing fog.”
The front door opened and Sherri came out briefcase in hand. She walked past Ken and retrieved her cigarettes from the matching plastic table. The fog lifted gracefully up to avoid Sherri’s hair and then lowered silently back down to hover over the rhodis again.
“Illusions of lost youth,” the fog said with a hint of a wistful sigh. “Maturing nicely, but she’s not quite ready to let go yet. Oh, well I can wait.”
“Don’t sit here all morning, and don’t forget to take those packages to FedEx,” Sherri said as she lit a cigarette. “They have to be there before ten or we will miss the deadline.”
Stepping off the porch, Sherri waved with her cigarette over her shoulder and headed for her car, leaving behind the smell of tobacco and hairspray.
“She didn’t see you, Mr. Fog,” said Ken.
“Hell,” replied the mist, “She doesn’t really see you. Why would she see me?”
Ken cocked his head to one side and lifted an eyebrow in his best Spock imitation. “I get it. You’re that glowing light creature from Star Trek, the one that made Kirk’s crew and the Klingons fight each other with swords while it fed off the violent emotions. You’re trying to make Sherri and me fight with each other.”
The mist rippled and made a grinding noise like waves on a rocky beach that could have been laughter. “No, no, and no. That was the Plot Monster. He is in most movies and TV shows. You just don’t usually see him. Old PM makes the characters do inexplicable things to drive the plot into the direction the writers or the director want.”
“I’m not the Plot Monster. You can call me Eater, or Baku if you speak Japanese.”
“I always wanted to learn Japanese,” said Ken.
“Don’t tempt me with fast food like that, Sonny Boy. I need something more substantial, something that won’t leave me hungry again in an hour.”
“What is it you eat exactly?” Ken asked, not sure at all that he wanted to know the answer.
“Dreams. We haven’t been formally introduced. Sir, I am The Eater of Dreams.”
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t say pleased to meet you? I’m not sure I like the idea of someone eating my dreams.
“It’s all just recycling. Don’t be squeamish. You didn’t apologize to those hotdogs last night. You ate them. And if you hadn’t there is any number of organisms waiting in line to eat them, from the neighborhood cat to microscopic bacteria. They will even eat you someday. In fact that fungus between your toes isn’t even waiting for you to die.”
“But dreams are different,” said Ken, not sure he really believed it as he said it.
“No they’re not. Can you imagine how crowded the world would be if no one ate the dead dreams? You’d be drowning in them within a week if it weren’t for me. It’s only natural, everything gets eaten.”
“So what eats you, Eater?” Ken asked. “And why can I see you?”
“Don’t be vulgar, Meat Boy. And I am not the Eater of Unanswerable Questions. You’ll have to talk to Koan and his Zen Gang about that. But I can demonstrate the sound of one hand clapping. Shit, I don’t have any hands! Sorry.” The Eater made that rumbling laughing sound again.
“Okay,” said Ken nervously. “So what do you want?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just thought I would thank you in advance.”
“Thank me for what?”
“That would be telling, and loose lips spoil the soup. Just wanted to say that every dark cloud has a silver lining, or a jelly-filled center.”
The Eater of Dreams, contracted slightly then the lights seemed to speed up their rotation within him with anticipation.
“Gotta go now, Ken. Hang in there Kipper. It’s election season, so there are discarded illusions of democracy all over the place that need cleaning up. Nice chatting with you.”
There was a blinking, winking flash of light and the Eater was gone leaving behind a whiff of ash and dust.
Ken stood and carried the bag of table scraps to the garbage can by the curb and threw them in. The composter was too full already.
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Credits: Words and Collage by Jay Larsen
Can I Buy A Ticket To The Mountain?
