1: The Dream?

Taro, by the way, is an alien. In terms of human understanding, Taro came from a planet light years away from earth. But for Taro, it was just a short stroll… or rather a short roll because Taro was familiar with the seams and back alleys of the universe. About the size of a house fly, Taro exists in a virtually indestructible round red sphere called a chi transducer. Taro took Buddy on an adventure so unbelievable, that even Buddy isn't sure if the event was a dream or reality.

Taro found its way into Buddy's ear one night when Buddy was sleeping, an hour at which the entire family was dead to the real world. Taro tunnelled its way through earwax, right to the eardrum. There, he started beating some prime numbers to the music of the opening scene of Mozart's opera, The Marriage of Figaro.

Bump a dump, Bump a dump, bump a cinque

Bump a dump, Bump a dump, diechi uno

Bump a dump, Bump a dump, ventitre

Bump a dump, Bump a dump, trenta uno

Bump a dump, Bump a dump, trenta septo

Autistic to the sound, Buddy kept to his sleep. He was too busy being a butterfly.

Having failed to reach Buddy with prime Mozart, Taro resorted to Louis Armstrong:

Grab your coat,

and get your hat,

leave your wor-ry

on the door-step.

Just di-rect your feet

on the sun-ny side of the street.

Buddy stirred. Still dreaming, he opened his eyes. The song continued, as loud as if it were playing right inside his head. He yelled out: “Turn off that goddamn stereo. It's the goddamn middle of the night.”

Buddy often protested not to believe in God. But his mind hated to be alone. He needed someone to trust, someone constant and true, who could accept Buddy for who he was, and still love and protect him despite his shortcomings… sort of like a good wife. So he prayed to the Heavenly Father every night while at the same time verbally abusing Him whenever there was anything turbulent going on in his mind. Buddy had fashioned a very tolerant God.

The music stopped, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even the rat who had turned on the stereo. Buddy looked at his sleeping wife, Susanna. She was wearing flannel pyjamas, tucked away under a mountain of covers… an electric blanket, three quilts, and one down comforter.

Buddy himself couldn't tolerate more than a single sheet, which he would peel off in the heat of the night, even in the dead of winter. The bedroom thermostat was a constant battleground, Susanna clockwise, he counter-clockwise. It was strange to have two individuals sharing the same bed, and at the same time living in different climates, Buddy tropical and Susanna temperate.

Buddy looked at his wife, studied her, and contemplated. How can she stand the heat? How can she sleep through such a racket? He recalled her telling him that once, as a child, she awoke one morning to find the house across the street had burned down during the night. Susanna was a sound sleeper whereas any sound kept him awake.

Now, who's the prankster!

He checked the four children. The oldest Danielle – or Danni, 18, – was on her stomach with her head nestled between her knees, obviously dreaming she was a frog. In sleep this one could fold herself like a shirt.

That's strange. Why is she here? I could have sworn she was away at friends in Montreal .

The second daughter, Rickey, 16, stricken with a bad case of Eeyorism , preferred to isolate herself in her room. Her door was always closed. She was unlikely to provoke contact with another member of the family during the day, let alone in the middle of the night. So, she was unlikely the culprit.

Buddy had always felt a special bond to this child, but there was some toxic chemistry in the family keeping them apart. He stayed patient, confident that one day their relationship would bloom, hopefully before he was on his death bed.

The third daughter, Jodi, 12, hated change. She slept clutching the last surviving threads of her baby blanket to her face. To Buddy, she was the ultimate in kindness, much too nice to play practical jokes in the middle of the night.

The youngest child, finally a boy, Joey, 8, was certainly not beyond practical jokes. This curly haired Bart Simpson wannabe had no trouble justifying someone else's heart attack for a good chuckle. But this night he was definitely asleep because had he been awake, there was no way he could have controlled his laughter.

Buddy checked every stereo in the house, all six of them. The family had sold their souls to the Japanese. Every individual in the house had his or her own musical taste. They rarely tolerated the music of the others, especially when it came to Buddy's preference. The only music that seemed never to bring protest was that of John Lennon.

Come to think of it, nobody except me likes to hear old Satchmo singing, On The Sunny Side Of The Street.

Buddy was afflicted with a love for a type of music, which in this house, dared not speak its name . He had a love for classical music. Nobody had imposed this love upon him. It just came out of nowhere, perhaps from Nature.

At the age of 17, he heard Beethoven's Egmont Overture. It played over and over in his head, each time evoking goose bumps of pleasure.

One day while browsing in a record store, he came across a recording of the Egmont on the Vanguard label, with the London Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Sir Adrian Boult. It also had Beethoven's Seventh Symphony . The second movement seduced him the moment he heard it. He was so moved by this music, that the floodgates of his mind were opened to classical music, like the mind of a baby to the new world.

Within a few weeks he knew every note of all nine symphonies of Beethoven, as well as the violin concerto and all five piano concerti . Within a few months he knew all the piano sonatas, string quartets , piano and string trios, violin and cello sonatas and overtures. When there was nothing but a few obscure Beethoven bones to pick, he devoured Brahms, Bach, Mendelssohn, and Mahler, among others.

It took a few years before he realized what all the fuss was about Mozart, but when he got there, he listened to little else for the longest time. Then he got stuck on Schubert.

Somehow contemporary music of the ‘70s and ‘80s had passed him by. Finally, in the late ‘90s under the influence of his children, he was getting acquainted with the popular music of his time.

Well, I don't have a clue where that music came from, he thought. I'll have to figure it out in the morning.

Buddy lay down and got his feather pillow fluffed up just the way he liked it.

With a smile on his face and a little drool from the corner of his mouth, his right and left sides embraced at his center. He was like a small protected child in this state, unquestioning and vulnerable, ready to embrace the comfort and escape of sleep.

Buddy tucked away all of his little appendages, especially that shrivelled member that liked to give a standing ovation to Buddy's dreams. It's nice to hapenis… my wife, no got hapenis… not happy about my hapenis, smiled Buddy as his mind embarked on a voyage into a sea of dreams , drifting without a paddle into nothingness, waiting for the gates, kept firmly closed by reality , to open for the free-for-all of characters that were soon to invade his sleeping mind, his movie projector of the night.

He hoped to wake in the morning with an erection, for if so, like standing up and stretching in satisfaction after a great film, he knew it was going to be a great day... much better… or boner as the French would say, than a limp-dick day.

The music started up again, blaring in his head:

I been loving you…

too long…

to stop now.

Bup, bup, bup. Bup, bup, bup. Bup, bup, bup. Bup, bup,

You were tired

and you want to be free…

my love for you

has become a habit for me.

Buddy's head jumped off the pillow. Holy Shit! Who the hell is playing Otis Redding! He got up and checked everything again. Buddy was amazed that everybody was still in slumber. No stereos, no TV's were playing.

What are they…deaf? What kind of practical joke is this… could I be losing my mind?

He lay down again.

Here in some stranger's room,

late in the afternoon,

what am I do-ing here at all?

Ain't no doubt about it,

I'm loo-oo-oo-oosing you.

Buddy bolted upright, his hands over his ears, heart pounding badeep- badoop, badoop- badeep , trying to wrench itself out of his chest.

The music continued:

Here in the valley of indecision,

I don't know what to do,

I feel you slipping away,

I feel you slipping away,

I feel you slipping away.yay.yay.yay.yay.yay.yay

“I know what's slipping away…my sanity. Either John Lennon is singing away inside my head, or else I'm flippin' out.”

Then spoke this voice: “Calm yourself. Come together . Don't panic. You're not hallucinating. You're not insane”

“What is going on here?! Who is that?!”

“Buddy,” the voice said, “get yourself downstairs. I'll reveal myself to you there.”

“I'm not going downstairs. I can go nuts right up here in my own bed.”

The music started up again.

Soon your name will be in lights, saying Johnny B Goode, tonight.

“My God… Chuck Berry too!” Buddy exclaimed. “What's happening to me?”

“Try to be quiet,” the voice in his head urged. “Don't wake anyone. Go downstairs and I'll come out of your ear.”

What was Buddy to do? I can't wake up my wife and tell her: Dear, there are voices in my head. I think I've caught a psychosis. Would you be kind enough to drive me to the hospital to see a shrink ?

Buddy, who himself was a physician, a neurologist with twenty years experience, had no patience to be a patient. It would take something much worse than insanity to get him to the hospital. He would bite, scratch, and thrash before betraying any personal weakness to his peers.

I don't know where this voice is coming from, buddy thought fearfully, but nobody is going to stone me with pills or stick needles into my butt. My schizophrenia is my own business!

“Of course it is,” the voice agreed. “Now, get your butt downstairs so that I can reveal myself to you.”

“Who's that?” Buddy demanded. “Who's speaking to me?”

“Don't ask questions,” the voice warned. “You don't want to wake the others. Get yourself downstairs and I'll reveal myself there.”