This is a dream sequence from my novel-in-progress A Long Slow Aftermath. This is the story of Preston, a man who has just come out of drug rehab and who is trying to get his life together as he oscillates between the drug world, the underground scene, and a normal, mainstream life. He is the main character of my second novel The Falling Circle and also a speed-dealing supporting character in my two books Crash Shadow and The Clubber.

In this work, Preston has a series of very vivid dreams, as he deals with his anxiety about his present and near future at the same time he is detoxing from his meth amphetamine and alcohol addictions.

     The place looked like the Gilman club and it didn’t. He kept staring at the rafters, the criss-crossing beams of thick wood on the ceiling, trying to decide if he was in the Gilman club or not.
     He stared at the ceiling even though there was a huge, roiling pit in front of him full of moshing punks. He could not make out any one person in the pit. It was a whirlwind of limbs, jackets, metal jacket studs, and colorful hair, as if all of the moshing punks were congealing into one violent mass.
     A punk band was playing. All of the musicians had short dark hair and were wearing plain white t-shirts. Preston could not make out the song they were playing. It was as if the sound of the music was getting mixed in with the breakneck movement of the pit.
     Preston kept looking around the club to see if he could recognize anyone. He did not recognize anyone in the pit, even though the center of the club was brightly lit. He tried looking at the side areas of the club where a lot of people were standing still and watching the show, but the corners were too dark. He could only make out the outlines of the wallflowers in the club.
     Continuing to look around the club, he swore the pit full of moshing punks started to tilt when he moved his head around, tilting as if it were a merrry-go-round run amok.
     He felt something brush up against his leg. Looking down, there were short legged pit bulls running around his feet. He started to call out for Joey, but all of the pit bulls that were running around the club floor were too short and stocky to be Joey. He called out for her. He looked around and called out her name. Every time he called out all of the pit bulls at his feet would stop running around and stare up at him, quickly returning to their running around and skittering just a second later.
     Looking out at a far wall, he did his best to ignore the tilt-a-whirl mosh pit that kept growing and threatening to engulf the club. He saw someone standing at the merchandise table. She was tall and thin and dressed in all black.
     Preston walked towards the merchandise table, even though the flailing pit grew wider as he moved around the club. He was staring at the tall and thin woman, wondering if it was Miranda. He was hoping that it was Miranda.
     Approaching the table, he realized she was too tall and too thin to be Miranda. She looked impossibly thin, but had chubby cheeks and a button nose with hard and cold doll-like eyes.
     “Don’t you remember me?” asked the thin woman.
     Preston looked at her and did not say anything.
     “How could you forget me? You were supposed to remember me.”
     Preston looked at the shirts, buttons, and albums on the table. They were all blank.
     He looked back up at the thin woman who held out her hand. “Why don’t you do some speed?”
     “We can’t do speed in here.”
     “Do some speed. It’s not beer.”
     “We can’t do speed in Gilman.”
     “Do some speed. You can’t remember who I am.”
     Preston looked down at her hand. There was a clear plastic bag bulging with white powder.
     “I can’t do speed in here,” yelled Preston above the music. “I don’t remember you.”
     “You can’t remember who I am. Now you have to do some speed.”
     Preston looked at the thin woman. He tried to look at her eyes through her hair. He could only see white, blank eyes, as if they were made of cotton. He looked down at the table and then looked back up at her. Her eyes had turned black, completely black, like a doll’s eyes. Looking back down at the table once more, all of the merchandise had disappeared. He looked up at the woman again. She did not have any eyes. Her face was a blank slate save for a thin, nearly imperceptible mouth and a small button nose.
     “Are you the one who stood on her bass? With that psychobilly band? Are you her?”
     The woman put her hand down. “I’m waiting for the ice cream truck.”
     “What?”
     “The ice cream truck is coming by. My son always loved the ice cream truck.”
     The thin woman lifted her hand again and showed Preston the bag of speed once more.
     The woman said something, but Preston could not hear her because the music had gotten much louder. Glancing over his shoulder, the pit was getting bigger and spinning wildly, tilting back and forth like a gigantic top. Preston could not see any faces in the pit, only flailing arms, legs, torsos and hair.
     Preston tried to run for the door as the pit kept growing, almost filling up the entire room.
     He ran into the snack room, the small side room next to the main club floor, and looked down at his hand.
     He was holding onto the large bag of speed.