Trespass | The Dreamweaver

Updated: Jan 13, 2021

I bid my daughters goodbye and returned home after a short family holiday as I needed to get back to work.

Upon arriving home to our detached, single-family dwelling, there was a peculiar air about the house; things out of place; the sofa moved slightly off the Persian rug; a brass menorah had been pushed to the back of the bookshelf where it was always sat pushed forward.

As I closed the front door, I heard what sounded like footsteps coming from upstairs. And just as I thought it may have been the neighbors prancing about, I quickly remembered that there were no upstairs neighbors like the ones I had always been accustomed to my entire life living in apartment buildings.

Just then, five young adults—three women and two men—appeared in the living room.

They were attractive and handsomely dressed in summery clothes—airy chiffon dresses, cotton skirts, Ralph Lauren polos, gingham shorts and Top-Siders.

The kids casually looked at me without even batting an eyelash and proceeded to walk through the kitchen and opened the back door.

I ran to the door and slammed it as quickly as it had been opened and confronted the intruders.

A husky boy with a burly ginger beard stepped forward and attempted to push me out of the way but I quickly reacted, and in seconds had him in a headlock and pinned to the ground to the shock and disbelief of his companions.

When I asked them to account for why they had been in my house, no one replied; not a word.

Then I strengthened my hold on the boy’s neck and said, “I’m going to show you how to snap someone’s neck in three seconds.”

While there was no verbal reaction, fear came over the faces of the boy’s companions.

I went on to explain about how the carotid artery that supplies blood to the brain is damaged causing an immediate inadequacy of blood flow to the areas of the brain supplied by those arteries leading to respiratory and cardiac arrest and, soon thereafter, death.

It seemed my little description served to finally capture their attention and one of the girls quickly apologized for the incursion saying that they meant no harm and that they didn’t steal or break anything and only wanted to have a fun weekend.

I asked them to remove their IDs and place them on the table where I would photograph them with my smartphone.

The other young man quickly reproached and started for the door so I quickly pulled back on the ginger boy’s neck until he gave a gravelly grunt which stopped his friend in his tracks.

The kids acquiesced and placed their IDs on the kitchen table.

I released the boy, walking him back around the table to the other side where his friends were standing.

Just then, the other boy lunged at me and I quickly deflected him and punched him squarely in the eye. Coming to the aid of his friend, the first boy charged, also meeting my reproach with a punch to the eye.

By this time my patience was beginning to wane and I quickly snapped photos of the ID cards and sternly told the kids to leave at once.

After assessing the state of the house and finding no damage or missing items, I went outside and got on my cargo bike and rode away.

I then found myself at a train station where I had just gotten off of a train with my bike. It was a station and place I was unfamiliar with and couldn’t find a way downstairs to the hall and exit.

Just then I saw a young woman getting off the train with a bike and decided to follow her, hoping she would lead me to the way out.

She scurried through the station, weaving in and out of the fast-walking travelers and finally arrived at a strange conveyor that she proceeded to place her bike upon and it was taken to the station’s lower level.

I walked over to the conveyor and placed my bike on it and watched as it descended.

When I turned around to see where the young woman had gone to retrieve her bike, she had disappeared into the chaos of the busy station and I couldn’t see any means by which to get downstairs.

I starting walking around and came upon an information desk manned by two older gentlemen. I asked the one with a dark mustache if he could direct me to the bicycle retrieval area downstairs and he smiled at his colleague who returned a smirk.

“Come with me,” said the mustachioed stationmaster in some foreign language that I understood.

He said the exits were badly placed and the signage poorly indicated and led me to a narrow ramp that I had to walk down—or slide down while standing.

I thanked the stationmaster and slid my way down the ramp and was reunited with my bike.

Then I woke up.

5 June 2020

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