I pulled up to the complex in the Creampuff. Either my mother or my sister had given the ‘98 LeSabre its nickname after we bought it for its bulbous body and sky blue paint job. It made sense at the time. The complex and the surrounding parking lot was an amalgamation (I love that word) of the church I attended until I was seventeen and the minor campus of a furniture manufacturer I interviewed for years ago. I had come for a haircut, I think.
I entered a room similar to the glass storage room at the research institute I currently work at, led by a woman who must have been my stylist. The room had a sterile look to it, with clean tile floors and stainless steel walls with no adornments or aesthetic. Two hair-washing stations were set up towards the right side of the room, one of which was currently being used by the other stylist, a woman my brain chose not to identify or describe in any particular way, and an older man being the customer seated, also nondescript. My own stylist, a middle-aged woman with the curly hair, glasses, and attire that reflected what the actress playing the roll of secretary in a modern film set in the 1960s might have been given by the costume designer, beckoned me over to her chair on the left side of the room with a tired expression on her face and without speaking. I sat down in the chair, and saw that besides that and the countertop, there was nothing else around- no scissors, no hair dryer, not even a sink. I looked up at the woman, who spoke in an even, emotionless tone, like a surgeon walking a patient through protocol.
“Before we wash your hair, we must prepare you.” As she spoke, she drew from an unseen source a pair of electrodes, each about the size of a half dollar. I sat motionless as she attached one of the small metal discs to each of my temples, as if she were preparing me for an EEG. As she did so, she began preparing other equipment that seemed to appear from nowhere, as so many things in dreams do. There was what looked to be a projector set on the upper level of a two-tiered rolling cart, hooked up to unidentifiable electronic equipment on the shelf beneath it. While the “stylist” was getting everything ready for what was clearly not any sort of haircut, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I was held down with a mix of fear and uncertainty so strong I could not lift my arms from the chair I sat in. My heart dropped as the woman looked back at me, ready for the procedure.
She held a small white remote in her hand, and pointed it at the back wall while looking at me. The wall, about thirty feet from where we had entered the salon-turned-laboratory, was lined with old, dark wood paneling as opposed to the cold steel that surrounded us. As she clicked a button on the remote, the fluorescent lights above us darkened, and the small projector whirred to life, its warm tungsten bulb casting a small image onto the wooden panels. It was a biblical painting, quite clear and colorful despite its dark backdrop, depicting Jesus talking with a group of people, perhaps disciples. After letting me look over the projection for a few seconds, the stylist asked in her uncaring drone, “Do you recognize this as Our Lord Jesus, the Messiah?” She pointed to the Jesus figure in the painting. I looked at the painting on the wood-panel wall, and then back at the woman. Dream-me felt the crippling fear fade for a moment to give way to curiosity.
In both this world and my dream world, I had attended Catholic mass until graduating high school and moving across the state, and had gone through the sacraments of initiation, though I never ultimately saw myself as a member of the church. I remember wondering whether this question was merely a test of faith rather than a setup for insidious experiments; if that were the case, I could easily play the part of devout follower of Christ and get through whatever they had planned in this aseptic salon.
“Yes, it is,” I said with a nod. The woman said nothing, and walk a few steps over to the projector, turning it off. The overhead fluorescents were still off, though the room was not completely dark. On the panel wall, where the projection of Jesus and his followers had been, now shone a cross. It was crude but recognizable, as if someone had cut the shape of a cross into a sheet of cardboard and held it up in front of the projector’s bulb, though it was humming with life. The cross seemed to glow of its own accord, cast in a warm orange light from no visible source. The woman stepped towards it, stood against the wall a foot or two to the right of it, and placed her hands underneath the illuminated cross, palms turned upwards, as if she were to say, “Behold, a miracle! The heavenly light of the Lord, Our God, shining down from Heaven itself!” She let out a tired sigh as she turned to look at me, and my dreaming mind made sense of it all. As clear as it was that this was no miracle, though I still could not detect where the sign of the cross was being emitted from, it was standard operating procedure. The entire display was just that: a display, a song-and-dance that this old woman had done countless times before I walked in to get my hair cut. It was her job, her routine, no different than how a burnt-out career server might present a plated branzino to their table of guests that just want to engorge themselves.
I looked back at her with a blank expression, unsure of what she wanted from me now. Should I look astounded, speechless in the presence of this unexplainable holy light? Should I burst into heartfelt confession and weep for forgiveness in the name of the only Son of God? I did nothing, and sat quietly, staring at the woman. She sighed again, and turned towards the wall, placing her hands against the aged panels on either side of the cross, the wrinkles in her face now glowing with warmth from its light. She put her weight on her right foot and pushed into the wall, and a portion of it gave way. My heart sank as the woman pushed the hidden door inwards, revealing a small room illuminated with candles, another salon-style chair bolted to the floor in the center. Though I couldn’t see the entire room as the woman turned back towards me and moved closer, her eyes fixed on my own, I saw an assortment of devices and instruments beside the chair I could only assume were for a job much less innocent than styling hair, but perhaps just as transformative.
I heard something to my right and spun my head to the side to see the old man who had been quietly getting his receding hairline trimmed up across the room now making is way towards us, dressed in a priest’s vestments. I felt that deep sense of dread set in again, like a stake of ice being slowly driven into my spine. Whether my confirmation of Christ as Savior was a test or not, this procedure was only just beginning.
The priest grabbed my right forearm and the woman moved around the chair to grab my left. They proceeded to lift me up, and forced me to step forward as the wave of anxiety that had initially bound me to the chair was replaced with sheer panic. I fought back, tears now streaming down my face, twisting and pulling as the two struggled to push me the remaining twelve feet or so to the small glowing cell. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened my mouth in a silent scream as I pushed hard against the old priest. He tumbled over the projection cart as he lost his balance, and I spun with enough force that I thought my torso would lose its connection to my legs. My left arm tore free of the woman’s grip, and I took my only chance to run towards the entrance to the cold steel salon.
Though the fluorescents were still off, the candlelight behind me gave enough flickering light for me to see that where the door we had previously entered through only minutes ago was now replaced with another wall of dark wood panels, like those you’d find in an old rental home or your grandparent’s basement. There was no door in sight.
I didn’t have time for these tricks or games or whatever these people were pulling. In reality, I think this was the point where my brain had told itself, “Hey, you seem to be fucking terrified. Maybe you’re in a nightmare?”, and gave up on logic and reason. I slammed myself against the paneled wall, and pushed as I had seen the woman do, though there was no light here, no cross to be found. I did not turn to see how close behind the old couple were. I just closed my eyes and thrust my shoulder into the wall, and then again, and again, somehow sure that there was something on the other side, some means of escape, and that I just had to push hard enough to break through. After my fourth attempt, I heard the panels splinter beneath me, and give way.
I saw a dark room, a scarcely-furnished lobby, with slivers of gray daylight shining through the flimsy plastic blinds that covered the large glass windows of the door. The exit. I pried the boards of the wall away as fast as I could, not caring about the cuts and splinters they were giving me in return. I was sure that at any moment, the woman would grab me from behind, her cold eyes and void expression showing no sign of sympathy or mercy as she and the priest dragged me back to that sacrilegious room. I broke through the wall and bolted towards the door, nearly toppling over with all of my weight pushing forward. The blinds flung themselves upwards as I threw open the door, and was blinded only for a moment by the white light of the overcast day before me. I raced to the only car in the lot, the Creampuff, its light blue body shining above the cracked pavement like an oasis. I grabbed the handle and ripped the door open; the locks were broken, but I never kept anything of value inside anyway. I slammed the door shut, pulled out my keys, and started her up, only taking a second to look at myself in the rearview mirror. My eyes were wide, strained and shining with tears. The electrodes were still stuck to my temples, two silvery suction cups with wires now tangled in my hair dripping with sweat.
Then I woke up.
Madonna and Child 2, 2020