I have a dream about staircases. I have a dream about a great many rooms inside a house of unknown dimensions. I have a dream about a parade of bizarre machines going by my house. They all have wheels and wheels and wheels and they’re all inside each other and they’re all spinning all at once. They look like they should be doing something, but I don’t know. I wake up and slowly I start to forget.

I’m slouched in an old Impala in the motel parking lot. He’s still not there. Well, to be more specific, the lights in his room are still out. I untie the string that holds the glove compartment closed and a few empty packs of cigarettes fall out. I scrounge around in there for one that hasn’t already been smoked but there are none.

Then I look up and he’s at the window. I think. To be precise, I see a movement of white in the window and the lace curtain moves just a bit. Where’s the binnoculars? There. Ok. What’s going on up there.

Nothing. Same as before. Blast these street lights. Blast this sleep deprivation. Did I even see anything? Did anything even move? Yes? No?

This whole thing started when he started living in my shed. I didn’t even notice him at first. But then he’s start moving stuff around. Clippers, cans of oil, the lawn mower. I knew something was up when he fired up the axe-grinder at three in the morning. After that it was quiet for a while, but that darn axe-grinder was all burned up, like someone took a blowtorch to it.

This goes on for weekend after weekend, then one late Saturday night I stumble back there in search of the spare Shasta I keep back there in a cooler and he’s there, back turned, grinding away with that flaming sword of his. He spooks, and before he can stop himself he blinks out of existence. And leaves his sword.

So I go inside, flaming sword in one hand, case of Shasta in the other, and sit down at the kitchen table, and I’m all “What the dickens?” I mean, what are you supposed to do when you walk in on the Angel of Death in your own shed when all you want is some carbonated refreshment? More than that, he left his sword. The sword of flames. The Sword of Holy Wroth Incarnate.

The wife suggests that I track him down and make him pay for what he did to Sasha, her recently ex-pekingese. I give her a look and she goes back to tenderizing my steak.

I mull it over. Obviously I’ve got to return the sword and cripes, I’ll give him the axe-grinder if it means he stays the heck away from my house.

Seven months later, he’s up in that seedy motel room on S.R. 54 and I’m standing next to the car with the axe-grinder in the trunk. There’s trash in the parking lot and detritus floating in the swimming pool and he’s up there, watching HBO, trying to figure out how to explain his distinct lack of sword, which basically puts him in unemployment. It’s kind of sad, really. Without the sword, he’s just a schmoe.

I get out, holding the flaming sword gingerly at my side. I’m going to go up there and ask him a couple simple questions. I’m going to ask him why my Mom. Just want some answers. That’s all. Just want to talk.