Chapter 9
Stop. Think.
If I were designing a structure from scratch, I would start by looking at other buildings. See what they do well — what works, what doesn’t. See where I can add my own design touches. Make sure that it’s interesting, cutting edge, but still practical. It still has to work.
But this isn’t a building. I don’t have any other examples. But I do know what I want it to do. All I have to do is get it to work.
The first step is dream recall. In order for this to succeed, it has to work out of the box. I can’t expect the public to have to keep a dream journal for weeks. It just needs to work immediately.
So let’s work backwards. In order to remember your dreams, the machine has to wake you up once it’s done. But it can’t interrupt your lucid dream. It has to tell when you’re finished. So I need a chip to monitor your EEG levels — your brain waves. That’s probably beyond the level of something I could get for free at Northwestern.
What did people do before the internet? In just seconds I think I’ve found what I’m looking for. Blackmarketneurology.com is selling new EEG machines starting at two thousand dollars. And that’s the base model. I see they have refurbished — used — ones for $799. That’s not so bad. I mean, it’s a lot, but I’d be getting a lot, right?
I approach the subject with Lara over a plate of pork medallions with mushroom gravy.
“So, honey, you know how we were saving money in a vacation fund — “
“Where do you want to go? Greece? Japan? Ooh, what about Australia? We could see the Great Barrier Reef this winter, when it’s summer there. I hear it might disappear in like 30 years or something, so we should go while we still can.”
“Well, I was thinking about spending that money somewhere else, actually.”
She sets down her fork and gives me that look. “What, new golf clubs? No, let me guess, you need some new design software, didn’t you just update your computer recently? What is it now?”
“I feel like I’ve discovered something in lucid dreaming — I think there’s a lot of potential here. I mean, potential to make some serious money. If this thing works, we could travel for the rest of our lives. We could retire next year.”
“If what works?”
“I want to create something to help people lucid dream.”
She’s wearing her skepticism on her sleeve. “Like an instructional class?”
“No, a device that you actually wear while you sleep. A dream machine.”
“But you don’t know anything about building electronics.”
“I’m learning. I’m doing research.”
“Hold on, how much is this going to cost?”
I knew this was coming. “Well the first part that I need would be about eight hundred dollars.”
“Eight hundred! I thought you were going to say eighty! That’s the price of a plane ticket. What about going to Australia or Italy?”
“Well, you can still go. I’ll just use my half of the vacation fund for my parts.”
“That’s not even funny. And what other parts do you need and where did you come up with the idea that you can just invent a machine like this?”
“I don’t know everything I need yet.” At least I was being honest.
“So you don’t know how much this thing is going to cost? What will it be next week, eight thousand? And then what happens when it doesn’t work?”
“Thanks for having an ounce of faith in me. If we spend all that money on a vacation, then what? It’s gone, we spent a week on the other side of the world and don’t have anything more to show for it than some pictures and a keychain. If I invent this I could be famous.”
“So that’s why you’re doing this. To become famous. It’s not enough that you design buildings, now you need to be a big star. And you need to empty our savings just to do it.”
“When you went to medical school, we made it work. It was rough for a little while, but we got though it. And now wasn’t it worth it?”
“Yeah, but — “
“So why can’t I pursue this?”
“Fine. Go ahead. Buy whatever you need.” And with that she walked away from the table. I reached for her plate and scraped the half-eaten entrée on to my plate. I couldn’t let that much pork go to waste.
The first step is dream recall. The EEG chip monitors your brain waves. It can measure when you’ve stopped dreaming. So then I just need that measurement to signal the device to wake you up so you can remember it. It sounds so simple.
The second step is reality testing. For this I need an earpiece that speaks to you while you’re dreaming. “This is a dream. I am dreaming. This isn’t real.” If they only wear it while they’re sleeping, there’s no need to test it — I know they’re dreaming.
But is that enough? Do I need the device to produce dream signals? Maybe some flashing lights or something in front of their eyes, I don’t know. I guess I’ll come back to that.
The third step is taking control. Studebaker said it would be the hardest step. I look down at my sketchpad and I’ve got a mask with a brain wave monitor connected to an earpiece and maybe some lights over the eyes. But how do I give the dreamer the power to take control?
I don’t know yet. Maybe it will just work with the sounds and lights.
Only one way to find out.
As I’m about to click a button and order a refurbished EEG machine online, there’s a moment where I have to ask myself: Am I really going to do this? Is this for real? Am I awake?
When the EEG monitor arrives at our home, it’s a little less than impressive. I tell myself: If I am going to succeed, I need to follow some new guidelines.
I know lucid dreaming is possible. And I just have to operate under the assumption that this device will work. I just have to assemble it. From that perspective, the idea of inventing something new is not entirely crippling.
I spend hours researching online, finding hand drawn circuit diagrams for homemade applications. If you can dream it, people can build it. People build their own versions of flashlights or toasters, just because they can.
Now I know the difference between a resistor and a transistor. My workstation looks like a display at Radio Shack — scattered LED’s, wires, switches, buttons, and of course, a soldering iron.
If I’m going to fail, I’m going to fail seriously.
I guess the first thing to do is try on the EEG. Of course, I don’t know what to compare my brainwaves to, but at least it’s something. At least I can make sure that it works.
The monitor comes with directions. I have to prepare my scalp using “light abrasion” to remove dead skin cells.
I wonder what they consider “light.”
I find a towel that has been air-dried and rub my forehead and scalp. The package also included a sample size container of conductive gel. I bet it’s the same sort of stuff you need for an ultrasound. And just like that, I’m rubbing medical-grade lube on my forehead.
As I attach four electrodes to my head there’s just a moment where I wonder: Have I gone crazy? Am I dreaming?
I flip the power switch and the display comes to life. In the form of a silent glowing green line, I can see that I’m thinking.
I try and think of something interesting, to see if it can measure good ideas. But it fluctuates independently of my thoughts. I zone out for a minute, staring out the window. But the green line continues to pulse. I guess it’s not that easy to turn off your brain.
A part of me considers how many people would pay just to have this: a fully functional window into your thoughts. Probably just me.
I’ve got books and printed articles about dreams and brain waves and REM sleep spread out across my desk. They’re all saying the same thing but not agreeing on the numbers. Lucid dreams are most likely to occur in the REM stage of sleep. So I need to figure out when that is on the EEG.
One book says during REM, beta waves appear with a frequency greater than 12 Hertz. Another says REM produces alpha waves, 8–13 Hz. They all agree that during deep sleep, your brain experiences delta waves — less than 3 times per second.
I don’t know much about building circuits, but I know how the bomb was built in Speed. As soon as the bus goes over 50 mph, it’s armed. If it drops below 50, it goes off.
This is my model. This is my blueprint.
If my brain waves pulse faster than 10 times per second, I’m dreaming. As soon as it drops below that, the device will set off an alarm. And hopefully if it wakes me up as soon as my dream finishes, I’ll recall it. That’s the first step.
If I were building a house, this monitor is the foundation of my machine.
Right now, as I figure this out, my EEG is at 14 Hz. Either I’m awake or I’m dreaming. I’m definitely not in a coma.
The second step is reality testing. Before the alarm comes into the equation, I need the EEG to activate the voice in the earpiece. I should get Lara to record her voice. The last thing I need is to rip a hole in the space-time continuum by talking to myself in my sleep. At least that’s what happens when your future self meets your past self. I don’t want to take any chances.
So I’ve got an alarm clock, a tape player with a recorded message from my wife, an EEG and it’s all connected to a circuit board with some switches and resistors. Is it all connected properly? Not a chance in hell. I based my circuit design around a blueprint for a homemade toaster. Now all that’s left is for me to try this bad boy out. Kick the tires as they say.
My time is now. I’m in my cubicle. I check my email again.
I push in my chair and move my trash can out of my way. I get down on the floor staring at the coffee-stained carpet.
With my arms extended fully, I lower myself to the floor. That’s the easy part. As soon as I try to rise up, my muscles give out. They are ripping out of my body. On the first push-up, my chest is on fire.
On the second stroke, I feel tendons popping, cartilage tearing. I hear snaps and cracks and rips and feel my insides turning to mush. I collapse in a heap in the shadow of my own desk.
And then, I wake up. But not because of an alarm. And I was never lucid.
I ask myself: Am I in over my head? Did I just blow a thousand dollars?
I’m off to work and all I can think about is what I can do to get this machine to work. I’m sketching hotel lobbies but concentrating on connecting circuits.
When I get home from work I have dinner with Lara. Chicken cacciatore or veal piccata or something, I don’t remember. Once my wife falls asleep I finally get back to my workstation. I know I need some help working through these late nights, so I call the only friend I really have anymore.
“Can you come over?”
“Who’s playing?”
“No one. There aren’t any games on.”
“Oh. Okay. What’s up?”
“I need some help, I’m working on that thing. Why don’t you bring what you’re writing, and we can work together. Bounce ideas off each other.”
“Sure. I’ll bring my conspiracy book in progress.”
“Conspiracy?”
“Everything’s a conspiracy.”
Charlie walks in to the room, “Are you ready? Cause I’m about to blow your fucking mind.”
“I don’t think I am. Wait. Wait for it. Okay, go.”
“I’m going to prove to you that 9/11 was an inside job.”
“You just happened to figure all this out on September 10th, huh? Just in time.”
“It took 9 years, but I’ve got it all figured out. Okay, 9/11. It’s a date and a fraction. 9 divided by 11. Do that and what do you get?”
“Uh, like 80%?”
“It’s .81818181 forever. Okay?”
“Okay.“
“Well, using the most basic alpha-numeric substitution, A is the first letter, H is the eighth, what does that spell? HA-HA-HA-HA! 9/11 was an inside job! They’re laughing at us!”
“You just blew my fucking mind!
“I know, right!”
“What about this…” I dig a calculator out of my desk drawer and play around with it for a minute. “Okay, so on my satellite dish, channel 25 is CNBC, and channel 33 is MSNBC. Follow me now, NBC is owned by General Electric. 25 divided by 33 is…“ I show Charlie my calculator display: .75757575 forever.
“GE! Oh my God! How did you do that? You just totally blew my fucking mind! Wait, are those channels really 25 and 33 or your TV?
“No, but you get the idea.”
“Well played.”
“So what’s the name of the book?”
“Wake Up, Sheeple.”
“To the point.”
“Thanks. So how’s the dream machine coming?”
“It’s great. Except it doesn’t work. Yet. But I don’t know why.”
“I think I know why. I think it might be because you don’t know jack shit about electronics. No disrespect.”
“None taken.”
We settle into our respective crafts. Hours pass as I’m soldering random circuits together, hoping to get lucky. Charlie’s doing the same thing, weaving random sentences together.
A hunger pang strikes and a memory flashes across my mind. I break the silence, “Did I ever tell you about when I was a vegetarian?”
Charlie looks up at me, half-surprised, half-interested. He’s also half-tired. “No. When was this?”
“It only lasted for a few months. It was my sophomore year of college. I don’t even remember why I started, there might have been some sort of protest on campus. But I sort of liked doing it as a challenge, just to see what it was like.”
Charlie and I met during our junior year at UIC. He graduated with an English degree. We were both Flames.
“So were you hungry a lot?”
“You adjust. Our bodies are capable of adjusting to anything. Although I never really got that “big full” feeling. That feeling where your chest fills up after you’ve had a lot of meat. But that could be a good thing, depending on how you look at it.”
“So why did you stop?”
“Erin Walters.”
“A girl made you stop being vegetarian?”
“Not in so many words. This wasn’t just any girl. She was way out of my league. She was in the majors and I was in Triple-A, Division-III. She liked me cause I was sort of funny and I could help her in some class — economics, I think. I was probably funnier back then too. So eventually after a bunch of study sessions, I had the courage to ask her out. She said yes, which might have been because she was concerned with passing Econ, but whatever.”
Charlie interjects, “Beggars shan’t be choosers, as the old saying goes.”
“Right. So I let her pick the restaurant and she ends up picking a place in the city I had never been to. I thought it was just going to be a fancy American place, but we walk in and all I can smell is meat. She chose a steakhouse.
At this point, I shouldn’t have been so stupid, but I was. I didn’t really think about it. I hadn’t eaten meat in a couple months, and I didn’t see the point in starting again that night.
So the waiter takes her order, ladies first. I expect her to get the petit filet, or maybe the chicken kabobs or something small. She ends up ordering the New York strip steak. It’s right at that moment, that a light should have gone off over my head.
I’m out to dinner with this girl who might actually be interested in me, for all I know. And she is built. And she’s ordering an 18-ounce steak.
So the waiter turns to me. And I’ve been studying the menu, looking at my wide range of vegetarian options. So I ask him if there is any meat on the house salad.”
The waiter says, “Yes, sir. Chopped ham.”
“Okay, can I get that, but without the ham.”
“We can substitute pepperoni or turkey if you like, no charge.”
And then I say, “No thanks. I’m a vegetarian.”
And at that point, you would have thought I just told the waiter that his dog had died. Or that his son was gay.
“Oh, I see. Would you like a side of asparagus or baked potato for your entrée?”
“So I get the potato and Erin doesn’t say anything at this point. I don’t yet realize what I’ve done.
The food comes, and there I am eating my salad and potato and she’s putting away this giant strip steak. I’m watching her cut her meat, as the red juices drizzle across her plate and into her mashed potatoes. I’m looking at her facial expressions as she chews each bite of red meat. I’m staring at her breasts that are practically popping out of her dress and it’s right then, as my eyes are locked on her cleavage, that I wonder: Why did I order just a salad?”
“What happened next?” Charlie asks. He’s on the edge of his seat. Figuratively.
“So I’m still holding out hope, trying to play it cool. We walk back to her dorm, CMW, and instead of stopping for a good night kiss outside, I let her take me inside before she has a chance to say goodbye.
She gives me a soft, little hug and leans in to plant a kiss on my check. Her lips are delicate and I absorb an aroma — flowers on her neck and steak on her breath.
She whispers in my ear, “Let’s go up to my room.” Wait for it. “So we can cuddle.”
Charlie erupts in laughter. “You are so gay! I can’t believe you ordered a salad at a steakhouse! You love steak! So then what happened?”
“So we walked up the stairs to her room, my head held low. She ends up changing into her pink pajamas. In her bathroom, of course. She brought me into her bed, and there we were, cuddling. My face just inches from her pink pillows. I tried to make a few moves, but we both knew they weren’t going anywhere. The whole time I was just replaying the conversation with the waiter over and over again in my head.
And the next day is the day that I stopped being vegetarian. Which is ironic, because if I was going to stop the next day, I might just have as well have stopped the previous night and been able to fuck Erin Walters in her dorm room.”
“You are…so gay.”
“Thanks. But I’m not the one looking for 9/11 conspiracies in the NFL archives.”
“Well, I didn’t want to interrupt your little sob story but I think I’ve just uncovered the shooter on the grassy knoll, so to speak.”
“Let’s hear it.”
With a smile on his face, Charlie says, “The Redskins have beat the Giants 9 out of 11 times at home in the month of September, in the years leading up to 2001.”
“So?”
“Dude. Add it all up. Washington. New York. September. 9 out of 11.”
“What does that prove?”
Charlie the mastermind reveals it all. “It was an inside job! It’s obvious. I mean, why didn’t our Air Force shoot down the other planes once the first ones hit?”
“Rock solid argument, you’ve got there. And I thought you said non-fiction wasn’t your forte.”
“Dude, shouldn’t we start a band?”
“No. That’s a terrible idea.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
The clock in the basement reads 3:21. I’ve done all I can on the machine for now. I’m not sure if I’ve made progress or congress.
I wish Charlie goodbye in the early morning with, “Happy 9/11 Day.”
“You too, man.”
I connect my dream machine to my head and decide to sleep on the couch, so I don’t wake up Lara.
I’m in a studio reading off a teleprompter.
There are 300 million people in this country. Divide by 365 and you get a little over 800,000. I could round up to a million, but I don’t have to. 800,000 are enough. Enough people like me. People who got something taken away from them.
I know life isn’t fair. But come on. This?
If there’s one thing you can count on every year, it’s your birthday. The day that you’re allowed to call in sick from work, the day that you can eat cake at nine in the morning and not feel guilty. This is the one day that is your day. But not anymore. Not for me.
Instead of blowing out candles, I get newspaper sob stories.
Instead of opening presents, I get CNN anniversary specials.
Instead of going to happy hour, I get moments of silence.
Because if God forbid, I was happy, or even smiled today, then I would be unpatriotic. Why couldn’t they blow up those towers on the 12th? Those bastards were going to die anyways, would it have killed them to wait another day?
I’ve heard people complain about how it’s hard to be happy in this world, in this society, in this country. But at least they didn’t blow up your fucking birthday.
I wake up to Lara saying goodbye on her way out somewhere. Instead of being lucid while I’m dreaming, I wake up in a fog — not even fully lucid while awake.
“See you tonight. I love you,” she says as she kisses me goodbye.”
“Wait, what day is it?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“I mean the date.”
“It’s September 11th — you okay?”
“No, I mean, yeah, I’m fine…I had a dream that my birthday was September 11th. I was all upset about it.”
“So that’s your idea of a lucid dream, huh?” She smirks. “Well, maybe you’re just upset at the idea of turning 40. Just one week until you’re over the hill.” She was full of smirks this morning.
The next week goes by with more of the same. I thought the machine would work. Everything seemed to be in order. I’d make a little bit of progress one night — the alarm clock would go off. But then I change something and lose it by the next day. There was one day where maybe I was lucid, but I don’t quite remember it.
Nothing in life is worth anything if you can’t hold on to it.
Saturday rolls around and with it, my 40th birthday. September 18, 2010.
I remember when I was growing up in the 80’s. The future seemed so far away. Back to the Future came out when I was almost 15. The sequel when I was 19.
Back then the present was 1985. The future was 2015. Now it’s almost the present. But here we are. In the future. No flying cars. No hover skateboards. No time machines. Just me working on a dream machine.
It doesn’t seem as ridiculous from that perspective. Although anything can seem sane if you rationalize it enough.
Lara tells me that we should go out, someplace special to celebrate, anywhere I want. I tell her I just want to stay in. We invite some friends over and have the final cookout of the season.
Charlie brings a bunch of bottles of Goose Island Bourbon County Stout. 11% alcohol by volume.
I remember brats and beers and lighter fluid and laughing. I remember music and cameras and pictures and dancing. I remember cake and chips and pretzels and taking shots. I remember screaming and shouting and singing and high-fives.
I don’t remember passing out. I don’t remember swearing at pedestrians from our balcony. I don’t remember bragging about how I’ve invented a mind control machine. I don’t remember suggesting that everyone should try it on. I don’t remember being an asshole.
I wake up to find it’s no longer my birthday. It’s September 19th and I’m just a stupid, hung-over forty-year old. I’ve got chip crumbs in my hair and pretzels stuck to my feet. There are a bunch of my friends, and a few people that I’ve never seen before, passed out in my living room. And scattered among the bodies are various wires and pieces of a circuit board — the shattered remnants of my invention.
End of Chapter 9. Read Chapter 10 here.
