36.

I slept shallowly, but my dreams were vivid and bizarre. Every few hours I would roll in my sleep into the couch and wake myself up, and the night began to take on a fragmented character, like a gem taking on facets under a jeweler's chisel. Around three there was a long stretch of time when I did sleep, and deeply - and it was during that deep sleep that I saw the most amazing things of all.

I felt myself begin to sink into the floor, I thought, as sleep came over me, and as my new dream began I watched my sleeping body descend magically through the carpet and plywood of the floor, and the basement of the house, and layers of dirt and rock. Eventually it broke through the top of a cavern deep in the ground, and settled to the floor.

The air swirled warmly around me, reminding me that I was still only dreaming, and yet, something rang very real. I watched myself stand up, brush off my pajamas that in the waking life were still packed in my suitcase, and start walking through the vast, rocky enclousure. Off in the distance, but somewhere hidden from sight, a fire crackled fiercely, softly, and friendly all at the same time. Most of all, it sounded inviting. I made my way around the glaciers of rock filling the cavern, my bare feet making faint slapping noises on the incongruously smooth, marble-like floor. Suddenly there was a glimmer of light, and I caught a glimpse of a fire through a giant pile of rocks in the cavern's corner. As I walked closer I realized that the pile was in fact made of tombstones of various shapes and sizes. I gazed in amazement at them and realized that, naturally, I would have to climb over the pile to reach the fire. Through the gaps in the stones I could see flickering flames and dancing shadows in the chamber beyond.

It took me a few minutes to make it to the top, and when I did I was a little winded. After a few breaths I stood up and looked ahead at a wall of flames, beyond which was a small doorway reminiscent of the back door of a bar in a crowded city. When I squinted my eyes I could almost make out a sodium lamp above the door. When I turned around, I nearly fell down in surprise. What had before been a small pile of rubble, had turned into a gargantuan mountain, the bottom of which laid imperceptibly far away. I couldn't imagine how many tombstones were now under me. As I gazed down at the mountain side, one of the stones caught my attention. Unlike the other stones, this one seemed unusually polished and upkept. It read Howard Charles Crawford, and then below it:

And when, with gladness in his face, he placed his hand upon my own, to comfort me, he drew me in among the hidden things. Here sighs and lamentations and loud cries were echoing across the starless air, so that, as soon as I set out, I wept. Strange utterances, horrible pronouncements, accents of anger, words of suffering, and voices shrill and faint, and beating hands—all went to make tumult that will whirl forever through that turbid, timeless air, like sand that eddies when a whirlwind swirls.

I gasped, lost my balance and tumbled down a few stones. When I passed by my grandfather's gravestone again, I looked away. When I was within a dozen feet of the door two large men, wearing anonymous suits and some kind of communication device on their ears, stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the lamp's glow. I looked at their faces, but as hard as I tried I couldn't make out any definite features, just shifting shadows.

"Who goes there," one of the men said, raising his right hand as a fist and striking it down into the upward-facing palm of his left hand. The other man repeated the gesture.

I hesitated, and then said, "Paul Crawford."

Both mens' faces lightened. "Ah," said the first man in realization. "Chuck's kid." He dropped his hands to his side and his partner dropped his too.

"Grandkid," I corrected.

"Whatever," he said. "He's in the bar."

I wobbled forward dreamily, and pulled open the heavy metal door. I found myself in a dimly lit corridor that apparently lead to the bar's bathrooms. Muttered voices and the clinking of glass on glass lead me into the main barroom. The bar's theme was obviously old and rustic, with saddles and boots and other cowboy paraphernalia hanging on the walls.

I had just noticed my regular bartender slouched at a table across the room with a few other patrons when a cool, feminine voice called from behind me. "Can I get you a a drink, kid?" it asked, "First one's on the house." I turned around to face the bartender who stood almost perfectly straight except for a slight, subtley provocative curve. She giggled and tossed her long black hair out of her face. She leaned forward into her arms, across the bar to look right into my eyes. "You're Chuck's kid, aren't you?" And then she said, "I'll get you hooked up." She winked, disappeared behind the bar, and then reappeared with two bottles-one reading "Vodka," and the other bearing a skull and crossbones. She poured both into a tall crystal glass and swirled the mixture a few times. When she pressed the glass into my hands I realized it was warm, even hot. The bartender gave me a gentle push away from the bar. "Now go and see your grandpa."

I looked around the room and soon enough made out a silhouette that caught my memory. Grandpa Chuck was seated on a tall leather chair across from the fireplace, back facing me, watching rodeo on a tiny black and white TV. As I approached, he banged his fist on the table in front of him. "Peanuts!" he shouted. "For fuck's sake, get me some goddamn peanuts!"

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