JLU 2001 - Vertigo Visions: Two if by Dream

	Vertigo Visions.... Two if by Dream
Vertigo Visions: Two if by Dream	Written by Michael Edwards

“They said to take no chances. They said move in swiftly, and it would be over. To Hell with 'em. They were all wrong. I put my hat down on the desk and that was that.”

 Staff Sergeant Roger Marguerite

The day was hot, humid, and the glass of tea could not quench a man's thirst. But, Sergeant Marguerite tried. He must have went through a whole gallon of store bought, refrigerated tea before he gave up, and set his glass on the wooden table next to his rocking chair. The wooden table only stood barely knee high, and Sergeant Marguerite stood at least six foot three. Fifty-six years with the army, and he didn't often regret it until 9/11 and the disaster that happened afterwards. His son Jean Luc Marguerite was killed in the Afghanistan conflict, and he nearly lost his daughter too. But, she was lucky – if you can call being paraplegic luck. Her husband left her, and she only had her kids to take care of her. Every day since then, he cursed the president. He wished the man had never seen office; that he had been aborted while in his mother's womb. But, all the good that would do. Now, the current president was making excuses to keep a lost war going, and he was making excuses for a lot of other things.

Times were getting tough, tougher for some more so than others. Sergeant Marguerite, no, he wasn't a Sergeant anymore. He was simply Roger Marguerite of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He realized thinking of himself as a Sergeant did him no good anymore. He couldn't throw his military rank around like he used to. Back then he used it to have fun beating up the queers, and anyone who got out of line. He used his rank to get special treatment for his son and daughter when they entered the service. He couldn't do that anymore. He was an old horse that had passed his prime.

His beliefs were often a contrast between himself and his kids. He looked at his cup of tea as he thought about the fights they had. Both his son Jean Luc and daughter Rosa leaned to the left when it came to politics involving economics, foreign policy, and health care. Now, there were no more heated discussions. He found the taste of his tea no longer quenching his thirst, so he walked inside and grabbed a few brews, then switched on the television. CNN was doing a grading report on the current president, and Roger changed the channel.

He was not in the mood to get worked up over his disgust of the problems facing the country. After two hours of flipping through channels. He decided to go out on the porch, and he brought his last two beers with him. He sat there, thinking of time gone by, and things he could’ve done, but didn't.

A wiser man would have quit a long time ago. But, he was not a wise man – just a soldier. A cynical old bastard.

He was not in any place to take charge of the situation. He just trained soldiers to die. And that was the burden he would carry. Along with the tragedies of his son and his daughter.

The night dragged on like a lingering cold. Roger felt his eyes droop, and he nodded off. The property he lived on was near the Mississippi River, where the Houma tribe used to be settled many years ago. As Roger slept, a chill wind blew through and the sounds of war chants could be heard. Spectral feet began to stamp up and down on the ground, and fully shaped figures took form from these feet. Each Native American, man and woman went about like nothing had ever changed since their deaths. Their wandering souls unaware of how things changed.

One of the little ghosts walked up from the mouth of the river not too far from Roger's property, and came onto his porch. It laid a hand on Roger's chair, and then propped itself on his lap. At first, Roger didn't stir, but then one of the war chiefs walked up to the house, and came up to the porch. He reached down and grabbed the child just as the drunken Roger woke up, and his eyes happened to gander up at the ghost in front of him.

Frozen with fear, Roger just sat in his chair, unmoving. Watching as this ghost carried the little ghost back to the tribe. His heart beat rapidly and a mild pain flared in his chest – he was in shock. Roger walked clumsily to the screen door, and opened it. Then fell forward after stepping inside, the pain becoming worse. The ghosts never strayed anymore from their tribe toward his property. They merely continued on with their usual fare. A mud-caked truck pulled into the small dirt drive barely an hour later and a burly man came inside of the house seeing Roger down. He called 911 and then did his best to arouse Roger so that he could ascertain his condition.

When all was said and done, Roger awoke in the hospital with breathing tubes in his nose. He looked around, and then saw Ned, his neighbor who lived a few miles from him. Ned leaned closer his arm propped on the railing, a smile on his bearded face.

“So, drank too much again, old timer?”

“Hell no,” said Roger and then flinched in pain. “Damn doctors, never give enough of the medicine.”

“Better you than me.”

“Fuck you, “ said Roger, a smile then formed on his face. “How's Martha?”

“She's fine, she's worried about you.”

“I'll be all right...as soon as I get my MEDICINE!”

A nurse peeked in through the door, and looked disapprovingly at Roger. She wheeled a portable X-ray machine in and motioned for Ned to leave so she could perform her test. Ned looked at Roger, who looked back at him.

“Looks like the old witch is coming in from the west,” said Roger.

“Take care, Roger.”

“You too, Ned.”

“That wasn't nice to say of me,” said the nurse.

“It was all in fun, hon.”

The nurse was rough in setting Roger up for the X-ray, which sent the message that she would not say. He would lie there as the radiation poured through the lead vest. Wondering if what he saw was real, or some surreal illusion created by a mixture of the booze and his pills. He looked at the nurse's plump, but not rounded ass, and gave her a squeeze. She yelped, and he laughed.

“C'mere. Let me get another squeeze!”

“Mister Marguerite!” she said with a loud tone.

An orderly came in and crossed his arms. Roger sighed and put his hands back where they would not bother the nurse again. After she left, the orderly closed the door behind him, and Roger lied back to relax.

Upon falling asleep, he had dreams of what he saw. Visions of Native Americans that danced around a spectral fire not too far from his property. He looked down in this delusion and saw that he was on his porch and a spectral dog lay at his feet. He rubbed his eyes trying to get the images to go away. But, they wouldn't. He had trouble discerning what was real because when he touched his rocking chair, it felt as real as the feeling of the cold wind whipping against his skin. He looked to the sky, and wondered.

Was he dreaming and still at the hospital, or had he been dreaming of going to the hospital? Neither answer comforted him. Nor did how the spectral war chief looked at him with narrowed eyes. Yet, he said nothing – he did nothing.

It would be so much simpler to open his eyes and wake up on the porch, with beers in hand and the sun shining down on him. Having imagined all of this. But, that didn't look to be likely. He sat in his rocking chair, rocking slowly, but surely.

A child, a ghost of a one, came and sat on his lap. He looked at the boy and he wondered what the boy must have been like. He remembered how his own son Jean Luc was like at the age the boy was. He cupped the boy's chin, and looked at him in the eyes. The eyes of the boy looked lost, and lonely. It was a sad thing to see. Roger held the boy, and then handed him back to the mother who came for him.

A loneliness swelled inside of Roger and he grew restless. He stood up, and came over to the Native Americans as they were carrying on. He greeted them as they were neighbors, and sat down at a nice quiet spot where he could look into the fire. The flames licked the air, and he stared at the fire with a transfixed glaze.

Time passed, but he didn't much care. The children frolicked and he watched them with a smile on his face. One woman sat beside him, and she got his attention by tapping his arm and then pointed at his pocket watch. A big grin formed on his face, and he showed it to her.

“It tells time,” he said, as he pulled it from his pocket. “Look.”

The woman looked at it, and her eyes widened. By her shocked expression, Roger could tell that she had never seen such a device before. He placed the pocket watch back into his pocket, and turned to the fire. He noticed the Native Americans were looking at him, and then one by one they faded from sight.

Perplexed, Roger looked around while the morning sun ate away the shadows. Soon, all of his guests were gone. He ran a hand through his hair, and then turned to the fire where one feather rested. The kind the tribe had in their headgear. He picked it up, and was rudely awakened to find himself in his hospital bed.

“Wha-what's going on?” said Roger, confused and rattled. “Where am I?”

“You're in the hospital, don't you remember?” said Ned.

“Oh, oh – I forgot,” was his response, and his face fell. Ned noticed this, and punched Roger lightly in the arm.

“C'mon pal, cheer up!” said Ned. A grin formed on his face after saying that. “Your grandkids have flown in to see you!”

“Really?” Roger said, a surprised look forming on his face as he turned to the door.

He didn't see his grandkids much to his dismay and shock. He saw the Native American children, and then a loud cracking sound caused him to jump. He found himself on the porch, beer bottles lying at his feet. It was raining and thundering. It seemed he had gotten drunk and fallen asleep on the porch again. He shook his head feeling like an idiot and headed inside to keep from catching cold. At his age, he didn't need to get sick.

Right on the spot where the campfire had been in his dreams lay the feather of the Houma tribe.

The End.

Author's Notes:

The early topical comments are merely to set in your mind what kind of character Roger is, and what kind of beliefs he has. Like Frank Miller, I believe it's best to let the readers be aware of what kind of person they are reading about while exploring their mind. If you have read this far, I hope you enjoyed this story, and if you obliged to comment, I and JLU 2001 would appreciate it. We have a great staff here and a great team of editors in Curt and Kim. I think if you look around you will find some great stories.

If you wish to follow my work on JLU's Nightwing series, follow the link below:

http://www.carnaj.com/JLU2001/Nightwing/wingstertitle.htm

I suggest starting with Dino Pollard's run. As he set the general tone and direction of the character, and my run picks up on some of the idea fodder that he left behind.

-Mick

2/9/10

P.S. The Hazardous Materials crossover starts in Steve Crosby's excellent Batman run and Dino finishes it in Nightwing’s arc. Just so you know where to pick up for that particular story.