A Dream About "The Gates"

by Steven Smith

posted 03.01.05

I had a dream about “The Gates” last night.

I was standing near Strawberry Fields, swathed in Saffron fabric. As I circled the inlaid tiles spelling out the word “imagine” I noticed that the fallen snow was stained orange. I turned around, away from the slush and the bright color, which burned my eyes, and caught an eyeful of Jeanne-Claude. She was squatting over a drift of white powder, pants around her ankles, with a torrent of bright orange urine surging from between her legs and spraying everything within five feet.

“Look away!” she cried. “Don’t look at me! The Gates! The Gates! You must look at The Gates!”

I stepped back trying to avoid a small orange stream of melted snow and piss that was winding its way towards my feet. As I moved backward, I bumped into a man sitting behind me. I turned to see Christo, dressed to the nines in a tangerine tuxedo, top hat and mischievous smile; like Willy Wonka promising a child a handful of gobstoppers if only they’d accompany him into the sanctity of his private compound.

“Don’t mind her,” Christo said, before taking a long pull from a cigarette and holding his breath. He coughed up several clouds of pale orange nicotine smoke, which drifted into the shapes of male and female genitalia and began to waltz back and forth.

I spun around and ran down an adjacent path. After taking several twists and turns, I found a set of wooden bleachers at the edge of a ball field. Crouching under the bleachers, I steadied my breathing and planned my next move.

“Wot’s this all ‘bout, den”, said a voice above, all gravel and glass.

“Eet’s a little lad underneef me seat, innit?” said another voice, this one shrill enough to make my ears ring.

“Fuckin’ tosser—,” called Gravel.

“—best be gone if he knows what’s good for eem!” answered Shrill, finishing the others threat.

I rolled over onto my hands and knees and scrambled out from under the bleachers. As I made it to my feet, I stumbled away, not sure of where I’d go but positive I didn’t want to stick around there. Before I’d made it two steps, my body was lifted and thrown back hard against the bleachers.

“Ahhhhh, fuck,” I screamed. “Watch it asshole.”

“Oy Tommy, did this lil’ nonce just—"

“—call me a arsehole?” asked Gravel, finishing Shrill’s question. “I fink he did, boy-o. I fink he did. Tell me ‘enry. What do we do—"

“—to fucking tossers like ‘is one ‘ere, dat calls us names? We fucking bash dem cunts, yes we do,” said Shrill.

Shrill pulled off his orange smock while Gravel extended a telescoping baton to its full length. As he approached me, swinging the baton and leering, Shrill climbed up on the bleachers behind me.

“The Lord and Missis gives us dees bats so we can keep dem orange bed sheets straight. But me and ‘enry found us –"

“—a better use for ‘em,” said Shrill in my ear. Even his whisper stung. Gravel stood a few feet in front of me and held the baton like he was about to swing a cricket bat. I sucked in my breath and braced myself for what was about to happen.

“Don’t worry ya doss cunt. This’ll hurt. Lots,” said Gravel. Before I saw the baton connect, Shrill had his smock over my head. One moment I was swimming in darkness, the next my vision was lit up by orange starbursts as the baton connected with my nose.

“Ohhhhhhhhhh, now that’s a nice fucking—"

“—shot,” hissed Shrill. His mouth was no more than an inch from my ear. Something warm spilled out of my nose and ran down my face.

“Whose the arsehole now—"

I heard the baton whistle as it cut through the air.

“—boy-o!” More fireworks in every shade of orange lit up the blackness in front of my eyes. Gravel would shout, I’d hear the screaming whistle of the baton, big, bright, burning orange fire and then Shrill would finish his thought with a whisper in my ear.

Shout. Whistle. Fire. Whisper. Shout. Whistle. Fire. Whisper. Black…

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