I’m in a seaside city. My brother and I are looking for a place to eat, and find a fastfood seafood restaurant . Upon entering, we notice that the tables are filthy, and all of the help are saddled with various physical anomalies, such as missing limbs and hair lips. Despite the unappetizing nature of the establishment , it is quite crowded and I tell my brother to find a table while I wait in line. As I’m standing in the queue, my brother begins to wipe down the trash laden tabletop, only to be approached by an obviously outraged waitress. She has “flipper” like arms, the type usually associated with Thalidomide. She rudely berates him for trying to make her lose her job. I leave my place in line and quite loudly begin putting the waitress in her place. My brother is apparently embarrased by the commotion and leaves. I finish my tirade, leaving the waitress with tears of rage streaming down her face, and leave the restaurant in pursuit of my brother. I wander down a street lined with stately brownstones that fronts onto a harbor. In front of one I see a small sign denoting that this building is a museum. I go up the steps, open the door and am in a small lobby, lined with heavy red velvet drapes. A bookish middleaged woman looks up from the book she is reading and informs me that the museum will be closing in 15 minutes. I explain to her that I am waiting for my brother , and would greatly appreciate the opportunity to look around for a few minutes. With a conspiratorial wink, she tells me that it should be OK, but to please make sure I leave when the closing announcement is broadcast. I step through the red velvet curtain...
I’m in a long narrow room that resembles an early 1900’s private train car. The room is filled with mannequins in period dress, as well as racks of clothing. I see the torso of a mannequin that is wearing a brocaded, double breasted vest, and immediately attempt to steal it. unfortunately it is attached by a thin metal chain. I move deeper into the room. Lining the right side of the room are identical life sized “soft” sculptures (these are dolls that are made using stocking like materials to craft their faces). They are all wearing elaborate purple victorian style gowns with big plumed hats with veils covering their faces. They are all sitting in turn of the century rattan wheelchairs. I examine the face of one of them closely, and am not alarmed when I see it attempt to smile at me. I move towards the far end of the room and find a Civil War tableux. A handsome young soldier mannequin is posed with a female mannequin who is wearing a blue civil war era gown. It is apparent that the female mannequin has been modeled after my younger sister. I see a lever next to the display,and pull it back, starting up the clockwork mechanism inside. The two figures begin enacting a lovers quarrel, which quickly degenerates into violence, the young soldier repeatedly striking his lover with the butt of his musket rifle. Frightened by this I turn away and am facing an opening surrounded by more heavy, velvet drapes. I step through...
I am in utter darkness. I hear a sound repeating steadily, gradually getting louder : boom..boom..BOOM... and there in the darkness a spotlight is starting to come up. It is focused in the middle of what now appears to be the gymnasium from my grammar school. Under the narrowly focused light is Mahatma Ghandi. He has an 8 inch diameter rubber ball which is he is throwing against a far wall, catching and throwing again. Boom..Boom..Boom...As he throws the ball he starts talking and begins to relate a tale from his childhood where in he is telling his audience (me) that as a child he was an orphan and lived in a state run home. At this point , stepping from the shadows is a small figure, bald and wearing a loincloth, just as Ghandi is. When he gets close to the light, it is apparent that it is a young boy who is afflicted with premature aging syndrome. He dances around spastically throwing his arms over his head while Ghandi continues. He tells me about a boy who was afflicted with spinal meningitis which caused his spine to twist and his hip bones to flatten and splay. A new light appears in the gymnasium , revealing a metal cot upon which lies the afflicted boy of whom Ghandi speaks. The little Ghandi begins freaking out at the sight of the older , diseased boy, making horrible keening sounds. The older boy on the cot, reaches under his mattress and reveals a length of surgical tubing. He grabs the little Ghandi by his ankle, and with an old fashioned glass hypodermic syringe, injects him with a blue fluid. Pulling the drugged child close he begins to tie him to the metal cot with the tubing, and once secure, again reaches under the mattress and removes a steel scalpel, which heliographs ominously in the spotlight, which begins to grow dimmer and dimmer as Ghandi begins detailing the torture and subsequent sexual assault which was perpetrated on him. The lights continue to darken and Ghandi’s speech becomes muffled, until it is pitch black again. All I can hear is the steady rythym of the ball as it bounces off the wall. BOOM..BOOM..BOOM. I wake up.
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