Fathermucker Read Online Free Page B

EVERY NIGHT, THE SORT OF crazy, densely packed-with-detail dreams on which Jungian disciples—like Rob—could write full dissertations. Every morning (as I’m pouring my second cup of coffee, but before the caffeine from the first has completely kicked in) she tells me, “Oh my God, I had the craziest dream last night.” And every morning she’s right, because each succeeding dream is, in fact, far loopier than its predecessor. As if the inner director of her subconscious—a cross between Fellini and David Lynch, but under the influence of some CIA lab–concocted hallucinogen—were constantly trying to one-up herself.
    If her dreams are 8½ and Wild At Heart on industrial-grade acid, mine are unedited raw footage of a C-SPAN feed from the Senate floor on a slow day. They could not be more dull. The palette is all earth tones: browns, grays, faded blues; the color scheme of a Banana Republic catalog from the late eighties. I’m usually a) wandering lost around some Manhattan-that-isn’t-really-Manhattan, trying to meet friends who never appear, b) in the HR-office-that-isn’t-really-the-HR-office of News Corp., my old place of employ, where I have not set foot in almost five years, fretting about a job posting that I’ve done incorrectly, or c) stepping away from whatever lame-ass dream-action might be happening in order to find the men’s room and relieve the Johnstown Dam–like pressure in my bladder, only to find new ways to have this mission thwarted (urinal is too small, bathroom is locked, stage fright brought on by professional wrestler standing next to me impedes flow, etc.). Most of the time I don’t remember my dreams at all, and when I do, they’re not worth remembering.
    But check this:
    I’m in a living room—it’s supposed to be the green room on some talk show, Colbert I think, or maybe Letterman . . . I’m the guest, Babylon Is Fallen has been made and is a surprise hit, I’m a Golden Globe screenwriting nominee, maybe even an Oscar contender, I’m vaguely famous, way more desirable than in real life; it’s the (ha ha) Dream Me—but it’s actually the den at Meg and Soren’s house. There are two couches, not matching, at a ninety-degree angle, one on each wall. I’m sitting by myself on the longer couch, all the way to the right, in the corner of the room. On the other couch are a few people, girls I think, whom I can’t identify. Maybe they’re the Suicide Girl –pictorial SUNY coeds, all piercings and tats, who work the counter at the Convenient Deli. I’m not sure. But they all rise as this stunner makes a grand entrance. The newcomer has long blonde hair, straight with bangs, like Jenny Lewis, or Feist, or perhaps Janel Moloney from The West Wing , but she’s not someone I recognize. I can’t really see her face. She sits down next to me in such a way that her skirt—a short skirt, off-white—hikes up, and I can see her white silk panties and her white silk stockings, and the thin white line of the garter running down six inches of bare white leg. I reach out and touch what I see, and I can feel everything—the smooth, almost-cold silk, the heat radiating from her leg, the little ridge where the strap bisects the warm peach-pink flesh. She lifts herself up slightly, so my palm can further slide beneath her ass, and lets out a soft moan. I lean closer to her, my eyes not straying from that glorious patch of leg.
    And then, story of my life , I wake up. Or rather, am woken up.
    â€œStates!” comes the voice from the baby monitor, holding out the long a as if singing. “Daddy! I need my states!”
    I squint at the clock: 5:03.
    Jesus Fucking Christ.
    I must have fallen asleep, mouse soundtrack or not. The way I feel—hung over, but without the preceding alcoholic reverie; headache, dry mouth, general lethargy—I almost wish I