Crazy Knights

   I’ve always been a dreamer. I don’t mean figuratively.
 
   My sleeping hours, for as long as I can remember, have been packed with unusually vivid dreams. And I’m able to remember a good number of them. Sure, once in a while they can be a little fuzzy. But, more often than not, I recall my dreams perfectly after waking up – in sparkling Technicolor, with Dolby surround.

   If I ever took the time to catalog all the dreams I’ve ever had, I think it would result in a sizable, Netflix-like library, covering every conceivable genre. Rom-Com, Sci-Fi, Adventure, Documentary, Crime, Adventure, Animated, Horror, Drama. You name it.
 
   Scratch that. Netflix’s movie library is too limited. My library would be more like Amazon Prime’s. And just like Amazon Prime’s, some of my selections require me to pay a little extra if I want access.
 
   I’ve met a ton of people who either claim that they “don’t dream,” or that if they do, they don’t remember their dreams. They could be blowing smoke up my ass. But, then again, maybe not. If they’re being truthful, then the recallable breadth and vibrancy of my dreamscape is a departure from the norm.
 
   I guess I’m on the spectrum.
 
   Confession: It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve been accused of that.

*          *          *

   Speaking of dreams, I remembered an oldie-but-goodie last week. It was a pay-to-play recall situation, for sure, triggered by an EMDR session. (EMDR’s a topic for another time, friends!)
 
   As the result of this particular (horror genre) dream, I insisted on sleeping backwards in my bed from the ages of around eight to ten years old. By backwards I mean with my head and pillow down by the foot of the bed, and my feet up at the top end. The thing was: After I had this dream I wanted to be backwards so I could be in a good position to jump out of bed if I anything else came jumping out of my headboard.
 
   I remember describing my creepy dream to my mom the morning after, over Cheerios.
 
   “How’d you sleep?” my mom asked.
 
   “Terrible. I couldn’t sleep. I had a nightmare,” I answered.
 
   “Do you remember what it was? Do you want to tell me about it?”
 
   “Yeah. I guess. There was this dark thing . . .,” I began. But my mom stopped me short.
 
   “Make sure to finish your cereal and drink all your orange juice before you tell me.”
 
   “Huh?” I asked.
 
   “It’s bad luck to talk about your dreams before breakfast,” she replied, matter-of-factly.
 
   Blindly accepting this shibboleth, I dutifully finished my breakfast before continuing. “So, there was this dark thing, like a cloud, that came out of my headboard last night. I think it was a portal or something. A bunch of knights came out of it, and they were coming after me.”
 
   “Nights?” my mom asked.
 
   I clarified: “Yeah, knights on horseback. Like medieval knights.”
 
   “Oh?”
 
   “Yeah, they were wearing armor, and they had shields and swords and those swinging chain things. The horses were mean – with red eyes, and frothy mouths and everything. One of the knights looked right at me, and he was going to stab me or chop my head off or something. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I bet they were red like his horse’s. His eyes were just black holes in his helmet.”
 
   “That’s terrible!” I think my mom was probably less concerned about the nightmare itself, and more concerned about why her eight-year-old kid was thinking about getting decapitated.
 
   “You’re telling me,” I said.
 
   My mom was quiet after that. Quiet in her special way. There was certainly no more discussion about my dream. It was getting to be about time to leave for school, so I just busied myself with getting my books together, getting my shoes and jacket on and such.
 
   As I was stepping out the door, my mom offered the best reassurance she could muster. It was her final thought on the subject. Neither of us ever mentioned the nightmare again. “Don’t worry,” she said.  “It was just a dream.”
 
   I nodded my head and smiled, trying to convey that I wasn’t too worried. Even after I reached the sidewalk, though, I could sense that my mom was still looking at me from the doorway. I didn’t look back at her. I kicked a rock and started whistling instead.

*          *          *

   I was a walker. My school was just a few blocks away. I figured that would give me time to do some more thinking about those crazy knights and horses. And that’s exactly what I did.
 
   By the time I reached school and took my seat in homeroom, I had resolved that the horses were not mean by nature. They had been turned mean by the evil knights who rode them. And I had also cooked up a plan to deal with the knights, to prevent them from attacking me: I would close the portal that was letting them into my bedroom. I would accomplish this by removing the headboard from my bed. Simple.

*          *          *

   Over dinner that night, I casually introduced the headboard removal idea to my mom and dad. “I was thinking that maybe I could take the headboard off my bed. Could you help me do that, dad?” I looked down at my stew and waited for a response.
 
   “What the hell you want to do that for?” my dad barked.
 
   Not wanting to get into the details about closing portals and whatnot, I fibbed, “Well, I bump my head on it a lot when I’m sleeping.”
 
   “We’re not taking your headboard off. It’s part of your bedroom set.”
 
   I knew my dad had some serious ideas in his head about not breaking up “sets” of anything. Sets were one of his favorite tools for maintaining order in his special universe. Sets of furniture, sets of dishes, sets of clothes, sets of tools, sets of books, sets of Christmas tree ornaments, sets of commemorative coins from the Danbury Mint. You name it.
 
   This was not going as planned. I had forgotten that my headboard was a part of a set. And I had forgotten that sets of furniture were especially interesting to my dad. ‘Let’s swing by Ethan Allen this weekend,’ I had heard him say, countless times. I had inadvertently touched a nerve. Friggin’ Ethan Allen. Can you imagine?
 
   “I sure would like to see what my bed feels like without a headboard. I don’t think it would mess up the set,” I threw in limply.
 
   I looked over at my mom when I said this, hoping she would catch on to my real intentions, connect the dots with our conversation about my nightmare that morning, and maybe chime in with some persuasive words on my behalf. No such luck. She was busy stabbing at a cooked carrot.
 
   “A bed needs a headboard. Who the hell would want to break up a nice bedroom set, anyway?” my dad concluded.
 
   And so, my fate was sealed.
 
   My thoughts turned briefly to envy. I thought about all my lucky friends who were not required to have matching, weird, adult-looking furniture in their bedrooms with spooky, giant headboards on their beds. Unlike me, my friends also had cool posters on their bedroom walls and toys sitting around out the open too. It must have been nice for them to have a space they could call their own.
 
   I quickly snapped out of it. Such luxuries were simply not in the cards for me, so there was no use in feeling sorry for myself. The important thing I had to focus on was closing that goddam portal before I went to bed that night.
 
   I knew what I would do. I would figure out a way to take the headboard off myself each night and then put it back in place again in the morning. Boom. Problem solved.

*          *          *

   Unfortunately, when I went into my bedroom that night and had a close look my bedframe, I could see that there was no way for me get that blasted headboard off. It would have required grown-up tools and grown-up skills. Drat.
 
   So, I moved to Plan B. I would sleep backwards. That way I could keep an eye on the portal so it wouldn’t catch me my surprise when it reopened.
 
   It worked for about a week. The portal knew I was keeping watch, so it didn’t re-open.
 
   But then, alas, the knights came back again. Charging through their portal in my headboard, just like before. Evil intentions. Out for blood.
 
   In my new sleeping position, I was at least able to defend myself much better. That extra six feet or so of distance was the ticket. I could easily anticipate where the horses’ hooves would land, and where the steel blades would slice and jab. I was able to dodge this way and that, skillfully avoiding injury and/or death.
 
   The knights returned maybe a half-dozen times over the next couple of years, each time seeking the same thing: my head. They really had it out for me. Then, on their final visit, they did something they had never done before, something that let me know that I had seen the last of them.
 
   After charging over my head and into my room, per their usual routine, they did an about-face and charged right back at their portal, attacked it with their swords and maces and flails. I guess they got tired of me outsmarting them, and decided to scratch their itch another way. The thing is: When the knights attacked their portal, it attacked them right back.
 
   The portal turned from black to a fiery orange, and it sucked in all the knights and horses. Then it shrank down to a tiny, little pinpoint of light. That pinpoint looked pretty harmless, so I did what anyone would do. I crawled over to it and pressed on it with my index finger, like I was pressing a glowing button in an elevator. And then – poof! – it was gone, never to open again. Victory.

*          *          *

   During my backwards sleeping phase – which again, lasted for a couple years – my mom, bless her, never said a word to me about my weird sleeping arrangement, nor did she let on to my dad about it – as far as I know, anyway. She sure as shootin’ knew about it, though. There was no hiding the pillow that I sometimes left at the foot of the bed, or the pulled-out sheet bottoms, or the sleep dents showing that I was upside down all night.
 
   The closest she ever came to opening up the topic again was during a visit to my grandparents’ house for the holidays one year. When we visited my grandparents’ house, I slept in my Uncle Wally’s old bedroom, in his old bed that he slept in when he was a kid. Uncle Wally, my mom’s brother, had a headboard on his bed too. My mom must have noticed me eye-balling it.
 
   “Is this bed going to be OK?” she asked, as we were settling in upon arrival, putting our suitcases here and there. I guess she wanted to make sure that I was going to be OK, but she carefully avoided mentioning any details directly – so there was no mention of headboards or knights or the like. But I got the distinct idea that it was on her mind.
 
   “I think so,” I said. “I think it’s OK.” I didn’t tell her, but I knew straight-away that Uncle Wally’s bed was going to be just fine. He had a rather formidable headboard, sure enough – one that could have easily served the portal. But his headboard was covered in cool-looking sports and rock band stickers, and I knew in my heart that those stickers were talismans that Wally must have put in place, way back when, to keep any portals from opening. Genius! I wished I had thought of that.
 
   After a great night’s sleep – non-inverted, mind you – I went downstairs, where I found my mom in the kitchen, alone, smoking a Salem and loading the hopper in my grandma’s Mr. Coffee. Mom was an early bird, the first one awake that morning.
 
   “How’d you sleep?” she asked, as the Mr. Coffee began to gurgle.
 
   “I slept great. Really great.”
 
   I heard some footsteps upstairs, and a door closing. Then I heard the footsteps coming down the stairs. That might be my dad, I thought. So, I decided to ask a pre-prepared question quickly, while I had my mom to myself, one-on-one.
 
   “Do you think it’d be alright if I put some stickers on my bed at home. On my headboard, I mean?” I asked.
 
   “What?” my mom replied, mixed with a cough-hack. She wasn’t fully awake yet.
 
   “Can I put some stickers on my bed at home. Like Wally’s stickers. I really like Wally’s stickers. I think that would . . .”
 
   Before I could finish, my mom stopped me short with, “No.” She paused, and then added, “No. We don’t put stickers on furniture.”
 
   Before I could say anything more, my dad was downstairs and coming around the corner into the kitchen. “Thought I heard some voices down here!” he said, all chipper-as-can-be. “Ooh, is the coffee ready?”
 
– O.M. Kelsey