Yog-Sothoth!

I live with several people my own age -- which seems to be 13 or so -- in a lakeside squatter's camp. We've made it out of pallets, tarps and spools and whatever nails and rope we could borrow or steal. Everyone has their own sleeping quarters, but we're all working on an interconnected fort.

Mine is better-made than most; while some focus on defense or on décor, or were assembled in 15 minutes, my sleeping area is about the size of a van and sealed from the elements. It's up on cinder blocks for drainage and there are even several windows from old houses. Inside it looks like the inside of a VW van with no seats. And made out of wood. I have rich velvet curtains for the windows and the wood inside is rubbed smooth. I sleep in the area that would be over the engine. There are two doors, a sliding one on the side and a hidden trap door in the belly that leads to a crude basement. I keep food in the basement, which keeps it cold. It's really nice. I guess it resembles more than anything a cabin in a ship.

The kids are known collectively as the Bauhaus Boys. God knows why, okay? Our architecture isn't, and we don't have a band or anything. In waking life, I know very little about art history and have heard a total of ONE Bauhaus song.

The tourists and the locals both like to come down to our camp and hire us to do odd jobs. The local fast food joints give us crates of cold leftover burgers and sundry every afternoon. I think living in the lakeside squatter's camp is something kids just do for a year or so here. I don't think I'm an orphan or anything.

Besides washing cars and mowing lawns and stuff, which is an irregular thing, we have one main job. Other than continually assembling our shacks, that is. Every half hour or so a truck comes down to the pier with four or five mattresses in its bed. Kids crowd around it, and the driver picks one for each mattress. The bigger kids are picked more often than the smaller ones.

Once the mattresses are distributed, the kids take them across the lake. They're sealed in plastic, so some kids float them across, steering with a big pole like a river raft. Not very many, though. Most of the kids balance the mattress carefully on their head and walk across the lake. See, there's a tightrope about 2" below the water, strung across from pier to pier. Some kids use a big balancing rod, but some show off -- putting their hands in their pockets or walking backwards. Whenever one falls off, everyone laughs. It's hard to get back on, so the fallen kids usually get back on the mattress and paddle it across. If they had a balancing rod, they can pole it across.

I have a brilliant idea for mattress transport. Unfortunately, I'm not chosen for a while. I spend more time working on my house than waiting for the truck. When I finally get a mattress, I climb to the top of one of the tall spires of junk. I lie on top of the mattress and push it off the tower, holding to the edges. The wind catches the mattress and it glides beautifully. I can steer by pulling on one of the sides of the mattress. I fly slowly and gently across the lake and land in the sandy beach on the other side. All the other kids are in awe: I think the kid who came up with the tightrope got the same reaction. When I get back to the other side, I start making a launching tower out of pipes and boards.

It's later, but also earlier. I'm a lot younger, about 8 or so. I'm in the same camp, but it's a lot older. Some landmarks are weathered and some are gone, replaced by new development. If this is the town's rite of passage, it's gone downhill. A lot of kids have little plastic outboard motors they attach to the mattresses, and only one or two a day even try the tightrope. Many of the shacks are pre-built garage kits, purchased by doting parents.

I'm much smaller, so I don't even try to get a mattress. I'm still living in the same shack, though it's larger and has more rooms. It's underground and feels very cozy and organic. If I am someone different, the last person must have trusted and liked me a lot to let me have the house. The doors have locks now. The camp's gone downhill.

Although I don't have to build a house, I'm still working. I have many, many exercise machines, great beasts of pipe and pulley, and I am making a car out of them. It's turning out pretty well, too. It's the size and shape of a VW Beetle, if one were made out of pipes stuck together.

The cool part is that it runs, too. I have saved money from collecting cans and odd jobs and I have a big can of solar paint. See, you paint something with the thick solar paint, then attach wires once it's dried. Instant solar collector. I've finally finished with the car, so I've put out newspapers and I'm painting it. It looks pretty neat. Plus, because I made it myself, I don't have to have a license. That's a good deal.

It takes a long time to dry, so I go tend to my garden. When I get back, I'm older, as old as I was in the first part of the dream.

Once the car is dry, I connect the wires and install the battery. Looks like it's charging.

After a while, I get into the car and it runs beautifully. I drive it around the camp, but everyone is too impressed. They could have built this too, but they just didn't try. I decide to take it to town.

In town, I decide to drive the car into the mall. Nobody gets terribly upset. I drive around the mall and see a lot of kids. They should be at the squatter's camp, but they're not. This generation is going to hell.

As I pass one of the anchor stores, I see a temporary stage. It's furnished in rich velvets and large plants. An audience in folding chairs is sitting in front of it, and TV cameras are recording a show. I recognize the host, resplendent in jeweled robe and golden turban, as my (waking) friend Charles. He's going on about something occult or mystical, as Charles is wont to do. I stop the car and sit on the hood to watch the show. It's just about time for station identification.

Sweaty, near-nude muscle men walk in, bearing a litter. They could have come directly from building a pyramid. Charles nimbly climbs on, then looks right into the camera and exclaims:

"Yog-Sothoth! Television for the gullible!"