DREAM TIME

Mike’s presence in this place was either a sparkling miracle, or just another sad consequence of genocide. He was part orphan, part refugee, and a world class loner. The locals all said Wichita was the center of America’s “heartland,” though he found scant evidence of any such implied empathy. Around here there wasn’t anyone who looked like him, and as far as he knew, there wasn’t another Aborigine for hundreds and hundreds of miles.

By day he earned his living as a roofer and rarely spoke unless forced by circumstance to do so. His nights were reruns unto themselves, a sad requiem of television, fast food, and the cold embrace of dreamless sleep. For Mike, the last twenty-five years had been one long, weary catastrophe.

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Her name tag said “Grace,” and her mug was his mug, the same mangled nose squished into the raw putty of a wide, brown face. His eyes searched hers for clues, and it burned his soul to hold back the ‘asking’ of just how she’d made it to Kansas and this moment…instead, he simply placed his usual stale order---Whopper with cheese, large fry, medium lemonade.

Grace had taken his money with a knowing smile, and upon returning his change, their hands had lingered briefly, like almost-lovers, yet somehow he’d escaped with his hard-won façade intact. As a measure of self-defense, he found another Burger King to patronize the next day. The dreams had begun that very night.

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Tonight, Mike falls quickly asleep and into the dream. From some unnoticed vantage, he watches as a young boy sits in the cool shade of a tree polishing a crescent of gleaming wood…Do I know this child? Nearby an old man speaks in reverent tones. The boy rises with obvious respect, and offers the object to his elder. The old man takes this offering and begins to chant as he lifts it high over his head, the sinew of his ancient arms trembling in anticipation.

Suddenly, the old man shouts “Amaroo” as he points purposefully into the great distance. Without hesitation, the boy grabs the crescent from the old man’s grasp, takes a few quick steps, and flings it across the small arc of his body and the vast expanse of this dream. The old man turns slowly, his smile radiant and warm, and says, “The Dreamtime comes.”

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As Mike awakens, he’s startled to find a smooth, gleaming boomerang lying across his chest. It seems to vibrate beneath his fingers. His eyes cross for just a moment as he attempts to read the single word etched into the right tip, and he’s mildly surprised by the odd vigor in his voice as he speaks it:

“Amaroo…Amaroo…AMAROO!”

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Mike, fairly bursting with primordial memories, pilots his battered pickup along still sleeping streets in search of breakfast, but mostly Grace. And the boomerang rides shotgun, rattling happily against the floorboard as its magic seeps into the world.