Sam Alper
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2008 in American Electoral Politics
I had a dream, Joan
Last night
Yes, right here next to you
That there had been 2007 years before us
Strange, I know
And every year 2 people had been chosen, and given three days
To run across a plain and through a valley
Over a mountain to the top of a tower
They had chosen us, Joan.
And the tower would be so wonderful, if we could only make it they said
Oh we were so excited, Joan
Our very first adventure as a couple
So we packed sandwiches in wax paper and filled our backpacks with compasses and jars Of
fireflies
Dog treats in case we came across dogs
Laser pointers in case we needed laser pointers
The sun was shining and we would sometimes stop
To hold each other and kiss with the sun on our shoulders
Of course there was a light wind
There were things like firecrackers lining the horizon but they weren’t they were men exploding
We brushed their drifting ashes off our arms
And waited until night to cross, our fireflies lighting our compasses.
By morning we stood at the base of the valley, and it stretched on forever in front of us So we
walked and came across a pack of wild dogs howling
Oh you were so clever, Joan
You threw the dog treats out in front of us
And as they ate we got on their backs
We were through the valley in no time, throwing treats in front of us to move the dogs ahead
And by night we were at the foot of the mountain
We ate our last sandwiches and slept near each other but not entwined
Because it’s hard to sleep entwined
In the morning we climbed
Using our laser pointers to point out handholds to each other
Enjoying the teamwork
And at the top of the mountain was the tower, spiraling up into infinity
Inside there was a staircase and we started walking
Oh you were so tired, Joan
I had to carry you
I walked for hours, days it felt like
And when we finally reached the top, we were shocked
It was only a little room, no bigger than my bedroom and with glass walls
Looking out we could see in every direction the mountain, plain and valley
In every direction dogs and fireflies and men exploding
And deep in the distance two figures, sometimes stopping to kiss
Post-Apocalyptic
I dreamt of wandering through a desolate city.
The water had run out.
Or the bread. Or the room, the pillows and beds were all full, there was no comfort left, maybe,
no more thick soaps, cool verandas, seared tuna. Actually, maybe it was still there, but I couldn't
have it. Maybe I was poor.
But if I was poor I couldn't understand it as such. I thought all the material comforts were gone
for everyone.
And maybe the water too, and the bread. Maybe everything.
And what's more, there was no way out of the city. The gates were guarded out to land and then
there was the ocean.
I was with my dull, smiley, adopted sister.
I was with all the smiley stupid people I'd ever felt affectionately towards.
Friends from childhood with whom I'd played obsessive make-believe games while their mothers
hovered over, excited and scared by my company.
Men and women I'd seen on corners, clothes ill-fitting, picking absently at the stickers on the
stop-sign pole, they were there too.
Two sunken eyed teens wearing belts made of bullets and inexplicable "Fuck Reagan" t- shirts,
from my brief flirtation with volunteer work. I'd helped them put on a play and had felt a pang of
such force that I had made an internal promise to look after them, somehow, to keep coming
back. And of course I had never gone back.
I hadn't gone out of my way to see any of these kind of people, not recently.
And now they were all following me.
It had been assumed that I would be able to find help. That I was the best-equipped post- apocalyptic
problem-solver.
All the advantages I'd had, the sweet special nectar I'd been fed: a mix of compliments, carefully
packed lunches, quiet times to read.
This was its price.
We passed a towering apartment complex guarded by armed men in blue and spilled onto the
beach, stared at the ocean. We'd run out of room. I had found no help.
I had only led them to water. Maybe it was a Jewish impulse. I guess I had been banking on a
Moses.
And just as I about to announce my failure to the herd of thick bodies I led, a caravan of trucks
pulled onto the sand.
A towering diesel truck followed by other towering diesel trucks. And then a succession of mobile
homes.
And a woman stepped out of the largest truck. Like in the movie: first I saw her high black stiletto
boots click out onto the whiffled metal stairs from the truck's cabin, then the world panned
up. She had gold flecks on her lips. Her head was a tiny moon. I was very taken with her.
Through the windows of the mobile homes I could see immense spreads of beautiful foods and,
in front of everyone, a tiny porcelain dish full of gold leaf.
All the people I'd ever known were in these mobile homes, laughing and dipping bread in gold
leaf, then slathering it in rich tapenades.
They were dressed beautifully, semi-formally, buttoned shirts and dresses.
How happy they looked. How fortunate. How appreciative of each other’s company.
Like a shot, the Woman stuck her hand in my mouth.
I shut my eyes. I felt somehow that she was a professional and should be allowed to operate.
My army of lost dullards silent behind me, shuffling slightly, milling.
I felt her fingers run over my gums, behind my lips. She petted my tongue, grasped my teeth and
pulled as if testing their strength.
It felt wonderful. I thought of nothing. I saw nothing.
All I felt was the pleasure of being examined, attended to, taken care of.
She removed her hand.
I felt empty. My mouth enormous. And I was so hungry.
The pleasure was instantly gone.
How was that I had felt taken care of? What had she taken care of for me?
She'd done nothing! She'd put her hand in my mouth.
And I had responded like a pooch, in front of all these people who were watching me.
I rose from my knees in disgust and looked behind me.
The herd had disappeared, I was leading now only my good-natured adopted sister.
We ambled towards the water. I couldn't look her in the eyes at first. I was so ashamed. The sun
came out from behind a thick bank of clouds and for the first time I could feel its warmth.
Beside my, my adopted sister shone. There were colors under her skin, moving warm colors.
What was her background again? Her mother had been partially native American? She was indigenous.
Her mother had taken some kind of drug when she was in the womb. You could see it
in her ears they were too thin, and darted in at the top, suggesting a point.
Her ears were beautiful. The sun shone through them. You could see all the fine veins, and warm
colors.
Her conversation too, was everything I could want. She spoke simply and directly to me, looked
me in the eye. She showed none of the nervous gaze-avoidance of so many of my rich friends.
She laughed, even when I made a joke I knew she didn't understand, because she heard the
rhythm of a joke.
We held hands. We kissed a little. She was adopted, after all.
Every once in a while I would root around inside my mouth with my index finger and remove a
fleck of gold from between my teeth, then hold it up to the light so she could see it and press it
onto her cheek.
By the time the sun set, her face was shining.
I watched the light bounce back and forth between the sun and her face while we felt the waves
lap at our feet.
The ocean was our dog now. The city was behind us, for good.
I hadn't expected this dream to end well and then it did.
When I woke I poured myself a glass of milk and watched the sun rise, wondering if I had
changed, and if so, how?
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Sam Alper is a writer & theatre artist from LA currently living in Brooklyn. He is a founding member of The Collectin. His writing has been performed in NYC at: The Brick, Brooklyn Arts Exchange, Dixon Place, 13th St. Rep, Jimmy's No.43 & Fonda Nolita & has been published in: Toad: The Journal, The Susquehanna Review, The Writing Disorder, The Brown Literary Review & Glasschord. Most recently Sam performed his play LOVEPLAY on Valentines Day at Cloud City in Brooklyn. Upcoming projects include: directing Celine Song's Columbia MFA thesis, FAMILY, at Signature Theatre Center in April & a performance of his poetry, directed by Morgan Green, at Dixon Place in May.