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I Dream of Janine
"Egon?"
I turn around, feeling remarkably light and warm despite the swirling snow around me. It reaches to my ankles, and I do not believe I have boots on. Yet I am not cold. I'm peering in the blinding whiteness of the thickly falling flakes to try and see who is calling my name. It is a soft voice, very soothing. And though I am in the middle of what appears to be a huge snowstorm, I feel relaxed and safe.
"Where are you?" I call, looking around in vain.
"Here," and then from the mist, Janine, dressed in white, appears, holding a bag of some sort. I wonder why we are out in this storm and where Ray, Peter and Winston had gone.
"Where are the others?" I ask, when she gets close enough to me to hear me above the wind.
"They've gone," her eyes sparkle. . .the only word I can think of is mischievously, and I began to grow even warmer, though the snow is coming down quite hard.
"We're alone." I say, more in wonder than in question.
"Yes. Alone." She's quite close to me. Her auburn hair tossed around her shoulders, those porcelain cheeks tinged with red. Apparently, she is cold. Her eyes, like shining emeralds twinkle up at me.
She steps closer, as do I. My arms encircle her tiny form and I hold her against me for a long moment, feeling her heart thud against my own chest. . .my fingers absently playing with her hair. Her hands stroking the small of my back.
"Egon," she murmurs. And that is all she says.
"Janine," I respond in kind, continuing to stroke her hair. "Janine. . ." It is like an echo, yet it is my voice.
Janine.
I wake up with a start, sitting bolt upright. I am in bed. Not outside. Not in a storm. Peter and Ray are snoring in the beds on either side of me. I hear Winston is breathing softly. Beads of persperation adorn my forehead and my mouth feels dry. As if for confirmation, I look around. No snow. No wind. No Janine.
I had been dreaming. That was all. I sighed softly. A dream.
************
I tiptoed stealthily down the stairs, throwing anxious glances around at almost every step. I knew I was being somewhat ridiculous -- Ray, Peter and Winston were upstairs, sleeping, and Slimer had taken to sleeping under Peter's bed -- but I knew that I'd feel even more ridiculous if I were to be surprised in what I considered a highly embarrassing act.
The bottom step groaned underneath my weight, a sound as loud to me as a gun firing, and I froze, ears cocked like an animal's, heart racing and throat dry as I waited to hear any stir from upstairs. A beat. Then another. I heard the clock in the office ticking, I heard the familiar, if disturbing sounds of panhandlers outside rifling through garbage.
But nothing from upstairs except silence, punctuated by the muffled snores of Peter. I sighed and continued, still moving slowly, though feeling more confident that I had again stolen downstairs in the middle of the night without attracting notice.
I checked the clock; it was almost time. . but I had a few minutes in which to make a mug of cocoa, and going into the kitchen, I was mildly surprised to note that Slimer was nowhere to be found. I set the water on the burner and emptied the next-to-last packet of cocoa into my mug, relaxed now, but still listening for any signs of pending company.
As I stirred the boiling water in, I pondered again why I felt so embarrassed. After all, it was Ray who turned me on to this activity. . .and even Peter and Winston were known to partake at times, though it was very difficult to get Peter to give up sleep. There was nothing wrong with it, I thought, carrying the mug into the living room and, very gently sitting on the couch and, as I had been doing for two months every night at 2 a.m., turning on the television to the stirring music and somewhat crude, but cute, animation of a syndicated television show -- one that had long since been off the air -- featuring a very beautiful woman, a "genie," dressed in a very provocative outfit for the times and her hapless, but extremely intelligent astronaut "master."
When I first viewed this particular show with Ray, I'd found little to like about it -- the premise was implausible, the jokes were somewhat esoteric and/or unfunny, and the plot was never-changing. . .the woman, madly in love with her master would attempt to do something for him, it would backfire miserably, he would get into a lot of trouble, she would find some way to make it right and save the day.
From what I could gather, many situation comedies produced and aired during that time period, the late '60s, were flawed in similar ways. . .and that there was an entire channel -- the Sitcom Station -- devoted to them seemed to me to be a tragic waste.
That is why I was quite surprised when I found myself on the couch beside Ray the next night. At the time, I think I wanted to confirm my hypothesis that the show's plotline, tactics and dialogue would not change. I was correct.
This time, the astronaut lost some very important papers and his superior officer -- a very tiresome man who seems to believe the younger man is mentally impaired -- seems on the verge of closing the net, and then the genie comes up with some ingenious way to make everything come out all right.
Complete drivel. But, somehow, I found it somewhat entertaining. . .in a mindless way, and, in a very odd way a little comforting. Problems, sometimes quite large ones, solved in half an hour, 27.87 seconds, to be exact. If only real life were so simple. . .
Entertaining though it was, I may have ended my late-night peeks at the show -- Ray had seen all the episodes, and wanted to get plenty of sleep so he could wake up in time for the Captain Steel cartoon show -- if I hadn't noticed an abrupt change in the plot line: The astronaut, heretofore tolerant, yet unreciprocating of the affections of his genie, was beginning to act in quite the opposite manner.
Take last Tuesday's episode for instance: The genie, in an attempt to make her master jealous, conjured up a "suitor," whom she tried to pass off as her new love.
The astronaut was sick over it; unable to concentrate at work, scrawling the genie's name on important NASA documents. But, the episode ended predictably: He found out the man really didn't exist and the lady was once again thwarted, but I have noticed that in subsequent shows he is looking at her with an increasingly love-sick air. I surmise that it will not be long before they begin a relationship outside of a, well, master-servant one.
It is quite fascinating. . .and interesting. I seem to feel some empathy with the young astronaut. He's brilliant, respected, even if constantly misunderstood, and somewhat repressed. He has a jokester best friend, whom I would cast in the role as Peter any day, who is all for wine, women and song. . .who constantly berates his sensible friend for ignoring the feelings of the genie, and advises him to change his view of the situation.
At long last it looks as if that advice would be heeded.
I find it interesting that I fashion myself the protagonist in the show. . .for, really, any one of the other Ghostbusters could be the conniving best friend. . .any of our clients, especially the New York "Ghosts-are-a-figment-of-one's-imagination" bureaucrats could be the tiresome commanding officer, and as the genie. . .Janine. Of course.
I smiled when I thought of our flame-haired receptionist. . .a tough-talking Brooklynite who could give as good as she gets. . .especially in a battle of words with Peter. She had been with us from the beginning, answering the phones, making sure we were never seriously late in paying our bills, soothing irate customers, and, in dire emergencies, strapping on a proton pack and joining us in a bust. She was almost like a den mother in the way she fussed over us. . .it was easy to. . .I sense very strong maternal instincts in Janine Melnitz and who better to visit them on than four misfit bachelors?
Her feelings for me, however, went a little beyond the typical mother-son bond. She had actively pursued me for years with little result: It was not that I wasn't fond of her or unattracted to her. I simply was not quite sure how to process her advances. . .out of all of us, I think that I have had the least amount of experience in dealing with the opposite sex. . . even Ray has had long-term relationships. Janine came on so strong, so often that I suppose I was ill at ease, and, perhaps a little intimidated. I decided that doing nothing at all would probably be the most prudent course of action.
Over time, as we six (I am including Slimer) evolved from a team into a family, her pursuit of me took on a decidedly different turn. She was not quite so vocal, not so brazen. She stopped catapulting herself at me after particularly arduous busts, for example. I stopped finding discarded pieces of paper with "Mrs. Janine Spengler," or words to that effect, on her desk.
Yet, I didn't feel as if her ardor for me had cooled. . .just changed in a way I would not have expected. Perhaps because she had gotten to know more of me than just the surface. . .I do not know.
But oddly, I have begun to change, too. In the beginning, I had never encouraged her advances, preferring rather to diffuse them without hurting her. Every invitation she flung my way, I rejected. I deflected every hint, insinuation or attempt at flirting, finding it very uncomfortable even being in the same room alone with her. But I, too, have begun to change. Janine is as much a part of my life as Peter, Winston and Ray. I cannot imagine it otherwise, and I realize that the thought of her leaving for another job, as she so often threatens to Peter, would wound me tremendously. . .though it is difficult for me to completely understand why.
The guys have been nudging me toward her. Peter, with his sly comments, Ray with his boyish charm, and even Winston with his calm and cool, seemed to be determined to see us together. That puzzles me: in the past, they teased me about Janine's affections, but never actively took a part in helping her. . .'win' me. In the past year, or so, however, they have been trying harder and harder to get me to make some sort of move. . .ask her out on a date: a real one, Peter specifies, not one in which I vehemently protest that it is, in fact, a date. Ray even convinced me to buy roses and candy for Valentine's Day. I can't understand it, but somehow, it did not take Raymond long to persuade me. And I remember the surprise and joy that lit up Janine's face when I presented them to her. I remember experiencing a certain amount of joy myself at her expression.
As usual, she had gotten me something: a card and a tie with cupids in different colors -- I remember looking at her gift without the usual wry feeling that Valentine's Day was a useless sentimental holiday created by card companies and ad agencies. I felt pleased, and, much to my surprise, guilty. . .guilty that, for years, she had tirelessly given me gifts on that day and never gotten anything from me in return. . .and yet, she would keep on giving.
I pondered that for a long time, alone, in my lab. I could come to know significant or concrete conclusions. . .but I became conscious that it would not do, no matter what my prejudices against the holiday, to ignore it as I had been. I rationalized it to Peter by saying that it was rude to expect to get something -- as, I'll admit, I had every Valentine's Day -- without giving in return. But later, I admitted to myself that it was seeing Janine's face light up that prompted my change of heart, as it were.
Ah. . . .this is an interesting episode. The genie, who, appropriately, I suppose, lives in a bottle, somehow got locked up into a safe that was put on a shuttlecraft going on a permanent mission to the moon. The astronaut and his friend are trying to desperately to figure out a way to retrieve the safe and the genie inside. That should present a challenge.
I find this episode to be particularly telling as the plot seems to lean more and more toward the falling in love of the two main characters: In the early episodes, the astronaut often expressed a wish to be rid of the genie and the subsequent problems possessing such a being posed. Now, inadvertently he got his "wish" -- no pun intended -- and he was willing to do anything, including risk his job, to get her back.
It reminded me of the frightening experience the five of us had when we discovered Janine was under the influence of a Makoveris Lotsabucks posing as Janine's "fairy godmother." Janine used this entity to change her appearance. . . ostensibly to become more physically pleasing to me. We'd saved her just in time, barely.
We had some sticky times there: the Lotsabucks tried to turn Janine against us, Janine railed at me -- with good reason, I privately admitted to Peter later -- my indifference was as much a part of the problem as Janine's own low self-esteem was. I never told her that I thought she was lovely -- which I did. I never told her that I. . .loved her, just as I love Winston, Ray and Peter -- which I did, and do.
I told her that day.
And she believed me. . .so completely so that she threw herself in between a desperate energy blast the entity threw my way. . .saving me from certain disaster, possibly even death.
But we have not really spoken of it since, and I remember thinking in the weeks that followed the incident that she was as willing as any of us to put herself on the line for any of us.
It was then, I think, that I begin to feel. . .differently about her, to notice the little things. . .such as how lithe and graceful she was. . .how beautiful her eyes were. . .how much I enjoyed her laughter. Her smile.
Especially when that smile is turned on me. I found myself looking forward to her arrival at the firehouse in the morning, and saddened by her departure in the evenings. More than once I considered asking the guys about converting the attic to a sort of basement studio in which she could stay sometimes. . .but I decided against it. I did not want them to think. . .how odd.
I do not know what I did not want them to think. Besides, I sensed Janine would never go for it: Peter and Slimer's atrocious habits in all things domestic would have her running away screaming.
And now the dreams. Janine has appeared in them for nearly two weeks now. Much like my dear benighted '60s show, the dream never really changes.
To start, I am alone. I call out, she answers. She appears. We embrace. It would be quite fascinating if it weren't so bewildering. I turn my attention back to the television.
Ah. . .it will be a two-part episode. The last scene showed the shuttle in which the genie is trapped, in the safe, rocketing peacefully to the moon. The astronauts arrived too late to stop its launch. But there will be the part two the next day. . .and I am sure some plot device will have been found to get the genie back.
I yawned. It was 2:30, and all that week, we'd been called out on busts before nine in the morning. I switched the set off, took my mug into the kitchen and washed it, and crept back up the stairs to my room, my bed.
***********************
At the end of the workday the next day, tired though I was, I finally hit upon a possible hypothesis as to why Janine was so frequently appearing in my subconscious.
We had just gotten back from our last job -- a very nasty Class 2 hiding in the refrigerator of a Long Island hausfrau, dripping ectoplasm on her roast. Returning to the firehouse, we were met at -- well, more like pushed out -- the door by Janine's sister, Doris. Doris is a hard-looking woman, in my opinion. . .she doesn't appear to have the sweetness and calmness of Janine. . . though that could be because she never seems to smile. At any rate, as she breezed by Winston without even saying hello, though she paused when she got near me -- and gave me a look I can only describe as withering, before moving on.
"Geez, what the hell got up her bra?" Peter was not in a very good mood. Our last client had followed him around the house relentlessly; alternately screaming at him not to knock her good china over with the proton pack and grabbing onto his arm and screeching every time she saw the tiniest movement.
But in this case I felt Peter was right in his irritation: Doris had acted in a very rude manner. . .and though Janine had hinted that her lifestyle was not exactly embraced by her mother and sister, Doris had always been at least polite when she visited the office. Her behavior now was as puzzling to me as the very woman herself.
Going into the office, we found Slimer hovering round, ready to attack Peter once he was satisfied he was all in one piece, and Janine, who was sitting very quietly at her desk, her head down.
"Calls, Janine?" Peter threw his pack in a corner and started unzipping his jumper, we followed suit almost mechanically. I was thinking about a hot bath. . .about dinner (we'd been working through the day). . .about the sad way Janine said, "No, Dr. Venkman."
Janine, sad? As I stepped out of my jumpsuit, I studied her closer. She seemed downcast, her shoulders drooped and though I could not see her eyes, I suspected they were not shining with the light we were all so used to. I wondered if her present demeanor had anything to do with Doris' visit.
As if reading my mind, Winston said, "Hey, your sister almost ran us down out there. She looked pissed. Everything all right?"
Then she looked up and I was conscious of a speeding of my heartbeat. Her eyes were red and swollen and looked glassy. She had been crying. I do not know why, but at my moment of discovery, I felt an unmistakable sadness. . . at that moment, I wanted to take her into my arms. . .cradle her. . . anything to take that look of hurt out of her eyes.
"No," she said, dully. "Doris just came by to. . . to . . . wish me a Happy Birthday. She's going to be out of town on Friday, so. . ."
I'll confess I did not hear the rest of the statement,(and it did not matter, for I do not believe we were being told the entire story behind Doris' visit), because an idea was beginning to work itself in my head. Janine's birthday!
Of course. . . that was near the time the dreams began -- last week when I had decided that this year, we were going to do as much for Janine's birthday celebration as she had for ours.
It only seemed right. . .she, in conjunction with the everyone except the birthday person, would plan a celebration tailor-made to our tastes and pleasures. Last year, for Winston's birthday, she'd arranged for all of us to go to a "Murder Mystery Party." I thought I had the crime figured out from the first clue. (I was right -- but it was fun in any event.)
For Ray we went to Coney Island and rode the rides and had a picnic of sorts on the beach. For Peter, who usually did not make a large fuss out of holidays, we went to a nightclub of decidedly questionable repute (and it was quite providential that we'd gone in Ecto, for a couple of Class Threes appeared on the dance floor, one of them sliming Ray almost beyond recognition.) And for me. . .we'd all gone to the opera, and then to a lecture on spore families at the Museum of Natural History.
With all those instances in mind, I decided it would be unfair to mark her day with a duly bought cake and ice cream. I wanted it to be something special. . .something unexpected. The problem was, I could not think of a thing she might like to do on her birthday, so I apprised the others of my plan and polled them for ideas. They all agreed wholeheartedly that we should do something special.
And I was not positive, but I thought I saw Peter looking at me with a mixture of pride and, I suppose it would be glee, as he pledged, in his words, "To give Melnitz a blowout she'd never forget."
So we decided to plan a party around a pastime she very much enjoyed, and, as a result, received a lot of grief from Peter: Disco Dancing. It wouldn't have been my first choice of activities, but the others were able to convince me that she'd love it. And so we agreed that we would have a surprise party of sorts in the firehouse, after which we would go to the disco (Peter suggested we go in '70s outfits, but I drew the line there, and got the support of Winston and Ray), and dinner after that.
As I had come up with the initial idea, I decided to take it upon myself to do the majority of the planning: making reservations at a nice place: Italian seemed safe enough. . .she liked it a lot, as did we all. . .finding a disco club. . .getting decorations. . .all the while trying to keep Janine from finding out what we were up to. It was quite difficult -- sometimes she would walk in when the four of us were talking over our plans, and when we'd hush abruptly, she'd look at us strangely, or point-blank ask us what was going on. There were some touch-and-go times in which Ray, not thinking, would almost blurt something out, but we always managed to corral him before he said anything incriminating.
At times, I would catch her looking at me with suspicious, yet amused eyes. She truly does have beautiful eyes -- she has said the same of mine. . .but whereas my own eyes are pale almost to the point of translucence, and, therefore, not what I would consider attractive, hers sparkle with an irresistible vitality.
At any rate, as the week went along, between the four of us, the topic of Janine came up, understandably quite often. . . but it seemed it did not always have to do with the. . .what is it Peter called it? -- 'shindig' we were planning.
One day last week, Wednesday, I believe it was, Ray was stricken with a stomach virus and was bedridden. We were not very busy that day, thankfully, but on our final bust, we knew three people would probably not be enough to handle it. . .so, as we had done in similar situations, we pressed Janine into service. The bust was successful, and I'll admit, she performed as admirably as any of us. I was very proud of her, in fact.
That night, Janine had long since left for the day when, during dinner, Peter, of all people made the suggestion that we make Janine a Ghostbuster. . .and either work on a paging system, like doctors, or turn our phones over to an answering service.
"Let's face it," he'd said. "Business doesn't seem to be slacking off, and it always seems as if we could use another pair of hands. This way, we would absolutely have our backs covered during jobs. . .and, maybe save a little time, too."
Peter's idea was that on the occasions in which we got calls at the same time, three of us could handle one job while the other two went to the smaller job. . .unless, of course, the larger job required the entire team.
Ray and Winston seemed to be all right with the idea, Ray nodding enthusiastically and Winston looking thoughtful as Peter talked. I, however, felt extremely uneasy. I could not say why. . . but when Peter called a vote, I found that I was the only person to vote, 'no.'
"But Egon, why not? You don't think she'd do a good job?" Ray asked me with surprised eyes.
"No, that is not what I think, Raymond," I cast around in my mind frantically for something to say other than what I was thinking -- that I wanted her out of harm's way. . .to protect her -- "We all know that Janine is capable. . .but her ability to do the job is not the point."
I took a breath. "Ghostbusting is what the four of us decided to do. That is why we're here. We knew, to use a very trite phrase, what we were getting into. That is not true of Janine. She came here expecting to be our receptionist; to answer our phones, calm our customers and keep us relatively organinzed. . .not to run around chasing ectoplasm and/or metaspectities. We are fortunate that she so readily assists us when we are shorthanded. But to propose to make her a fifth Ghostbuster is. . .not acceptable to me."
I finished, looking around the table, expecting to see looks of. . .what? Shock, perhaps? Or, more likely, disappointment. Much to my own shock, however, the only disappointment I saw was in the face of Ray -- Peter was looking at me with a most curious expression on his face, and Winston was looking down at his Mu Shu Pork, biting his lip as if to keep from laughing.
"But Egon--" Ray began before Peter nudged him -- hard -- in the ribs. Ray looked over at Peter and seemed to be about to speak, but Peter gave him a look and poor Raymond fell silent, and began picking at his broccoli. . .his stomach had not yet fully recovered.
"Spengs is right," Peter said, that odd expression still on his face, but tempered a bit with the familiar sarcastic smile. "It probably wouldn't be fair to ask Janine to make a total career change at this point. Besides. . .business isn't really so good that we could really afford another person. . .and knowing Melnitz, she'd probably demand a raise after the first day."
With that, Peter changed the subject -- asking Ray about some new book on the occult he wishes to purchase as a gag gift for a friend -- and Winston and I resumed eating. Yet I could feel Winston's eyes on me. Once, when I'd derived a definite pattern to his surreptitious glances, I looked up before he expected me to. He was, as I surmised, startled, but immediately broke into a grin.
I smiled back, albeit uncertainly. . .wondering if I were the unsuspecting victim of an inside joke. Which was a feeling made stronger by a glance I can only call *knowing* that I saw pass between Peter and Winston.
***********************
The dreams began that night. Snow, wind, but not very cold, Janine. Embracing. Then warmth. . . comforting, soothing warmth. I awoke, feeling somewhat disoriented and disappointed. The disorientation I could understand, but disappointment? I seemed to recall some conversations I'd overheard in which Peter was recounting a dream -- usually a lascivious one -- and then the confusion he felt when he awakened, and the let-down (I choose to take this figuratively, not literally, but knowing Peter, one never knows) when he realizes that he had been dreaming.
I cannot say for sure, but that seems to be akin to how I felt -- and feel -- when I awake. A sense of loss and longing that I cannot explain, no matter how hard I attempt it. I confess, even while watching television late at night, I will brood over it, wondering what it all means. A barren landscape, bitter conditions, and, apparently, just us two, in each others' arms.
Oh yes, which brings me to my hypothesis: Because these odd dreams began the night the guys brought up the idea of making Janine a Ghostbuster, I can only surmise that it is my concern for her well-being that is manifesting itself in my subconscious in the form of these dreams.
It makes sense: We are alone. . .the weather is horrendous, yet we find comfort in embracing. Embracing. By holding her close to my person, I am keeping her safe. . .shielded from the elements, away from disaster. . .as I believe I have done by preventing her from becoming a Ghostbuster.
I do not have a doctorate in Psychology as Peter does, but I believe my hypothesis is sound. It pleases me to have an explanation.
There is one thing that seems out of place: It is always Janine. Why? I do not want harm to come to any of the people whom I care about. . .so why is it Janine I am holding close and protecting? Why not Ray or Winston or Peter, or even Slimer?
I sigh and realize that yet another hypothesis must be formed.
***********************
I drain the contents of my mug and prepare to switch off the television. It seems my deduction was correct in how the writers of this flawed -- but charming -- show would solve the problem of the genie-trapped-in-a-bottle-trapped-in-a-safe-going-to the-moon. Of course, after the astronaut and his friend run around, attempting to find a plausible solution to the problem, nearly get booted out of NASA for pains, it appears that she had not been in the safe in the rocket ship, but another identical safe kept in a storage room. I smile. A happy, if not predictable, ending.
I know I should go to bed, but I can't. Not yet. Instead, I turn on the lamp and sit quietly, listening to the mingled sounds of chaos just beyond the firehouse doors: homeless scouting for food, police sirens, new-wave punkers singing and reconstructing the dream from which I'd awakened just moments before my late-night trip to the living room.
Again, I am alone. . .but the elements are different. It is rainy, but not cold. Yet I am getting soaked to the skin and no shelter is in sight. I call out, wait for an answer, and wait for someone to join me. After a minute, I call again, louder, and I believe I hear something. And, sure enough, the raindrops seem to. . .almost part, as Janine, in a long, flowing blue dress appears, an umbrella in one hand. Yet, she does not have it open -- she is as wet as I am -- her hair is slicked back and her face flushed, presumably from the pelting of the raindrops.
Her eyes glow -- they seem to bore into me as I imagine a proton blast would. Yet it is a gaze of love, of passion. . .and moving as heavily as if I am underwater, I move toward her, drawn. I point to the closed umbrella in her hand. She looks, too, and begins to laugh. I laugh, also. Apparently, she did not even know it was there. . .it does present a comical situation.
She stops laughing after a time and looks at me with that look again. She opens her mouth. Speaks.
"We are alone."
"Yes," I reply. "And the others?"
"Are gone." She gives me a most significant glance, but I don't know how to decipher it.
"They wanted. . ." Then she stops.
"Yes," I prod. "They wanted? . . ."
She looks shy then, and turns away. This action provokes a very strange response in me: I can not bear for her to turn away from me. It is causing an almost physical pain, right in the middle of my chest. How curious.
I go to her and turn her around. There is a smile on her lips. Her lips. They are pink. . . almost too pink to be believed. I touch them, I suppose, to try to ascertain if the are real. They are. And soft. Like rose petals. For some inexplicable reason, I cannot stop touching them. Tracing them gently with a finger enjoying the feel of the yielding softness beneath the tip of my finger.
She does not stop me; rather, she drops the umbrella to put her arms around my waist. She is trembling, as am I. . .though I feel no cold whatsoever. I continue tracing her lips. One curve, than another, down, over and up. Again.
And again. And again.
And that is when I woke up, drenched to the skin in sweat, almost as if I had been in a rainstorm, Janine's name on my own dry lips.
***********************
Janine squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling deeply at the same time. After what I surmise to be about 5.6 seconds, she exhaled loudly, blowing out all of the sixteen lit candles (despite all his subtle attempts, Peter could not get Janine to disclose her age, therefore, we simply bought a box of candles and used all of them) on a large chocolate cake.
We applaud, and Janine, wearing a smile that I can only describe as dazzling, began to reach for the mound of cards and gifts Peter and Ray, not so neatly placed on her desk. She stopped when Slimer hovered near her, anxiously eyeing the cake and giving her a pleading look.
"All right, Slimer. . .you've been so good. I'll cut the cake now." She took a large knife laying next to the platter, and Slimer's eyes widened, ectoplasm jiggling in anticipation, and she proceeds to cut a large hunk off, which he barely waits to be put on a plate before swooping down to devour plate and all.
"I told you we should have gotten him his own," Peter hissed to me from where he stood near the door. I merely shrugged. Slimer's antics are to be expected. Besides, Janine was clearly enjoying herself, despite the colored bits of paper still stuck in her hair and on her skin.
Our ploy to get her out of the office while we set up could not have worked better: While pretending to be out on a job, Peter called the office from a pay phone around the corner and told Janine that an important piece of equipment, to be used for the containment unit, would be ready at such-and-such a time, and that when the shop called, she must pick it up immediately. We then employed a friend of Ray's to pose as the "clerk," and call.
As soon as we saw her car pull away, we sneaked in the back and began to decorate the area near Janine's desk. We worked quickly, knowing that it would not take her long to realize that the address given her did not exist, and when Slimer, acting as lookout, darted in to tell us she was back, took our hiding places. I do not think I will ever forget the look of utter shock on her face as we jumped out of our hiding spots and screamed out, "Surprise!", throwing all types of confetti in her startled face.
I was concerned for a moment that the unexpectedness of it all might have an adverse effect on her cardiovascular system, but when I saw her break into a grin at our (horrendously) off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday," I was able to breathe much easier. I didn't even mind (much) wearing the ridiculous party hats Ray had been so . . .thoughtful to get.
I thought the conical shape of the hat made my chin look pointy, but I ceased to care when Janine told me I looked adorable. Besides, the others were wearing them, and looking just as silly. As the birthday girl, she got a special hat . . .one in the shape of a tiara with silver and gold glitter trim. It was, perhaps, a little over the top, but I liked it.
She looked regal (despite the confetti), and, at the same time, like a little girl, as she sits eating cake and strawberry ice cream, laughing at our cards, and obviously impatient to open her gifts, fidgeting absently at the wrapping paper. She was laughing at something Winston said, and instantly, I was transported back into the dream of the previous night.
Her laughter. . .I woke up with it ringing in my ears. It was almost like the tinkling of bells, but not quite. In fact, so enraptured was I, after waking up that I missed the first half of the show. It did not seem very interesting anyway. . .which said to me that I was nearing the show's final episodes. . .the character development and plotline always seems to disintegrate when a show is nearing cancellation.
I brooded for some time over my cocoa last night, trying to come up with a plausible reason for the abrupt change in theme to my dreams (I have not given up trying to fix on a plausible explanation for my having the dreams in the first place, but one thing at a time). The embracing . . .it was comforting, soothing, almost familiar, but that was all that it was.
But last night's dream seemed to fall outside that sphere. The way she looked at me, the touching of her lips, her eyes. . .it bespoke a much different emotion -- one I am hesitant to name, for I am not particularly familiar with it, nor do I understand what it would have to do with Janine and myself. Unless, of course --
My thoughts were pre-empted by the sound of Raymond's enthusiastic voice urging Janine to "open his first," followed by the sound of rustling paper. Janine had finally gotten to the wrapped gifts (Slimer had presented her with an uneaten pastrami on wheat. . .her favorite, and his) and was tearing into an oblong box wrapped in pink, cotton candy colored, shiny gift-wrapping.
Ray's cherubic, good-natured face became even more so as Janine, upon discovering the contents of the box, smiled in appreciation. It was a silk shawl, Kelly green, I believe, fringed in a lighter green color. She held it up for the rest of us to see, turning the delicate item over in her hands.
"Ray, this is lovely," she said as he bent down to peck her on the cheek, pleased that she was pleased. He'd agonized almost as much as I when we went out on what Peter termed the 'gift mission.' He'd nearly run the saleswoman out of the place with his indecision until she convinced him -- after half an hour -- that such accessories were in.
"Me next," Winston pushed aside balloons to push forward a squat, square box, closely resembling a cinderblock in shape, toward her. "Knowing how things go around this place, you probably won't have much time to use it, but. . ."
I suspect Janine was not listening, so intent was she on undoing the sailor's knot Winston had made of the bow. After a brief struggle, during which Slimer made off with half the cake, she triumphed, and pulling aside the wrapping, revealing a boxed set of green-spined books.
"Omigod! Annabeth Pristy!" she said, clapping her hands in delight. She had only told Winston, an avid reader of mysteries, about loving the work of a little-known mystery writer she'd discovered in Reader's Digest, she'd endeavored to find more by the author, but was thwarted in her efforts. Winston, however, is a man of many resources.
"This is great," she ran her finger along the stiff spine of one volume. "But how did you. . ." She turned wondering eyes toward Winston, who shrugged in mock helplessness.
"I have connections," was all he would say, with a wink.
"I guess it's my turn, huh?" Peter, his mouth ringed with frosting, came to the fore, and gestured at a hastily wrapped box. "Happy birthday."
Janine, with a faint smile, tore it open, and was greeted with a rectangular package that was also wrapped up, much more neatly than the outer package, I might add. She cast a puzzled look at Peter.
"Go on, Melnitz, open it. It won't bite you," he said, smirking. "If anything, it's the other way around."
That remark had me wondering what the heck it was when Janine finally got it open. She gasped in pleasure as she took out a framed painting of a bridge over still, blue waters. . . impressionistic by the looks of it.
"Monet!" she exclaimed. I was correct. "Oh Peter, how did you know I've been wanting a Monet for my living room?"
"A magician never tells his secrets," Peter teased. "But it's not a real painting. Look at the back."
Stunned, Janine flipped the frame over and read aloud: "Gourmet chocolate painted in the style of French impressionist painter Claude Monet, using special confectioner's colors." She grinned. "It's candy! I would never have guessed. . .it looks that real," she hugged Peter. "Thank you, Dr. Venkman, for finding a way to combine two of my favorite things: art and chocolate."
"I try," Peter shot a warning look to Slimer, upon hearing the word "chocolate" had hovered dangerously near Janine's painting. "Slimer, don't even think about it." Chastened, he moved away and contented himself with another slab of cake.
Suddenly all eyes were on me, and I blushed self-consciously. Apparently it was my turn to present my gift. I felt a great deal of apprehension as I came forward, slowly, hoping with every step that my face would lose some of its redness. But to no avail. I reached Janine, and her desk, with only a slight fading of the blush.
I saw Janine looking at me with a large smile on her face, I smiled back uncertainly, and discovering that my throat had suddenly gone dry, swallowed a couple of times before I ventured to speak.
"Ah. . .here you are," I handed her a present wrapped in deep-blue paper. "I hope you like it. . ." My voice trailed off as she gave me an even larger, more dazzling smile, looking into my eyes.
"Thank you, Egon. I know I will," she slid the wrapping off to reveal a velvet box, longer than it was wide. She glanced at me questioningly before opening the box. I held my breath as she looked inside, but exhaled as if I had been punched when I saw her blanch. "Egon. . ." she breathed, looking inside the box still, not at me.
"You don't like it." I was, for an instant, crushed, but attempted to rally before my disappointment was evident. "You can exchange it. I believe the receipt is my lab --" By this time, the others had crowded around her as she lifted out a delicate, slender bracelet set with emeralds. Winston whistled appreciatively, Ray's eyes widened, Slimer flew around in frenzied circles, and Peter gave me a look of what I would almost term admiration, which fled as a wry grin took its place.
"Jeez, Spengs. . .had to show all of us, huh?" he said, nudging Winston, who laughed. I was stunned. That had not been my intention at all -- the bracelet caught my eye in the store, and, after walking past it several times, a saleswoman finally persuaded me to buy it. It was a reasonable price, and I thought that jewelry would make a nice gift. Somewhat reluctant to ask the others, I called my Mother, a veritable expert on such things as gift giving, and she concurred with the saleswoman, adding, as almost a non-sequitur, I thought, that she was very fond of Janine. This I knew, as I assumed Janine did also.
I began to tell the others all of this when Peter threw me a conspiratorial wink and pulled Winston and a still-gaping Ray toward the stairs, mentioning something about having to get dressed for dinner.
"But Peter, I thought we already were dressed. . ." I heard Ray's voice trailing off as they went up the stairs, Slimer following them with the last slice of cake in his hands, leaving Janine and me alone.
The heavy thud of their footsteps, seemed to snap Janine out of her reverie -- she was turning the bracelet over in her hands, her fingers tracing the facets of the jewels -- and she looked up at me, her eyes glowing.
"Egon, I don't know what to say," she murmured softly. "How could you think I didn't like it? I love it! I was just a little. . .taken aback that's all."
"Oh. Well, uh. . .it's just that, I wanted to, um, keep within the theme," I suddenly felt uncomfortable. "I mean, everyone got you something green. Ray's shawl, Winston's book, Peter's, um, painting. And Slimer's sandwich did have lettuce in it, didn't it?" I felt silly, even as I said it, and though her eyes betrayed some amusement, her expression remained serious, much to my relief.
"I just can't believe it," she laid the bracelet against her wrist, admiring the way the emeralds twinkled against her fair skin. "No one's ever given me anything this nice before."
"I. . .well. . .you deserve it," I said softly, feeling a strange urge to tell her that her eyes are even prettier than the jewels, "Happy birthday, Janine."
I leaned forward, poised to kiss her on the cheek, but at the very moment my lips get near the side of her face, she turned her head in a manner I did not anticipate and our lips brush instead.
Startled, I jumped back, the tips of my ears burning. She looked as shocked as I did -- apparently the move had not been a calculated one on her part. She blushed, too, and I admired the sight. She blushed prettily -- a delicate pink -- unlike myself. My face turns a blotchy, almost choleric red.
"Egon --" she began.
"Janine --" I interjected, almost simultaneously.
We stopped. And smiled. She was looking down, almost shyly, and I was looking at her, wondering why I felt at that particular moment the need to brush back the strands of hair falling forward into her face. Wondering why I felt the urge to let our lips brush again, for a longer moment. Wondering why I was just standing there.
I moved toward her, thinking that her lips appeared to be as soft as they felt in my dream.
My dream. . .
She looked up at me as I advanced toward her, and I believe she was about to say something, but, just as in my dream ,I placed a finger to her lips. Call it an experiment, if you will, to discover if the subconscious could recreate accurate tactile sensations.
Apparently they could. Her lips -- make-up free -- were as soft as rose petals, I thought to myself as I traced their outline. It was almost as if I was standing outside of myself, acting and reacting due to a force from without -- and within-- at the same time. Standing quite still, she regarded me with wide, but serene eyes. Just as she had in the dream.
The dream.
What is happening to me? was the thought that screamed through my brain as I removed my finger and bent my head down, my lips slightly parted in anticipation; her own seemed to be trembling.
She had placed her arms around my waist, drawing me closer to her, the bracelet, forgotten, clenched in one hand, when a series of thumps and Ray's dismayed voice pre-empted the moment and startled us apart.
"Egon," Ray wailed from the steps, oblivious to what he had just disturbed. "You've got to come upstairs and talk to Peter. . .what he's wearing. . .try to talk him out of it!"
I felt a sense of annoyance that I hadn't experienced in quite some time. Glancing over at the flushed face of Janine, I could not tell what she was experiencing, but I can not imagine it was anything pleasant. However, Ray seemed truly agitated, so I could not stay annoyed for very long, and I followed him up the stairs, wondering what nonsense Peter was up to this time.
But I couldn't help but cast a glance back in Janine's direction. I was mildly surprised to see that she was not looking at me as Ray tugged me determinedly up the stairs. Rather, she was looking at some fixed point in the distance. And smiling.
***********************
"I'm telling you, the waitress dug the outfit," Peter called over to Winston as they slammed Ecto's doors. "Why else would she have given us free dessert?"
"Because we told her it was Janine's birthday, that's why," Winston rolled his eyes as they joined Ray, Janine and myself on the curb. "We're lucky we didn't get thrown out of there. It's a real chi-chi type of place."
"Yeah, well, it couldn't have been too buttoned up," Peter shot back. "The chick at the table next to us had a nose ring. . .at least I was wearing a suit."
"You call that a suit, Venkman?" Winston said as we turned a corner, "I call it a travesty. You're lucky you didn't have enough time to change."
At this, we all turned our eyes toward Peter, in a suit right out of Saturday Night Fever. . . polyester and powder-blue, with his white dress shirt unbuttoned nearly to his pectoral muscles; showing gaudy fake gold chains, and obscenely tight bell-bottomed pants with the bells as large around as some potholes. Add to that bright white dress shoes, and the picture of total horror is complete.
"Jealousy, that's all it is. . ." Peter said smugly. "You'll be the ones looking like outcasts. Hey, Egon, are you sure you got the address right?"
"I'm sure," I said somewhat stiffly, glancing around. I was beginning to feel a little uneasy. . .so far, we'd seen nothing but closed up factory buildings and shops. The surrounding area looked desolate and still. . .it didn't seem as if any kind of social facility whatsoever would be located in the vicinity. But I was sure of the address.
"It should be on this block," I said, and we stopped and looked around.
"Hmm, you don't think it could have gone out of business, do you?" Winston queried, eyeing the terrain with as uneasy an eye as my own.
"I called the establishment two days ago," I said. "And asked about hours of operation and confirmed the location. Now --"
"Hey, maybe that guy over there knows something," Ray pointed across the street toward a man who appeared to be sleeping on a chair. "Let's go ask."
"Ray, he looks like a bum," Peter said.
"Or a drunk. I don't think he'd know anything, let's call Inform-" Winston broke off with a sigh as Ray, already more than halfway across the street, approached the man.
We watched Raymond from the curb as he talked with the unknown, but apparently conversant, individual, and were taken aback when Ray turned to us and beckoned us over.
"This is it! This is the place!" Ray said excitedly, as soon as we got near.
"Here?" Winston looked skeptical. "Ray, I don't see anything."
"Look," Ray gestured behind the man, who was busy ogling Janine, and we saw a set of stairs leading below the ground to a large red door. "ESKIMO DISCO FANTASIA" was written on the door in large, block letters.
"Well, I'll be. . ." Winston said, with a grin.
"Yeah, isn't it great?" Ray enthused. "An 'underground' club!"
"I haven't been to one of these in a while," Peter, whose attire prevented him from walking very fast, had finally joined us across the street. "Congratulations, Spengs, I think you just guided us to one of the wildest places in the city."
"You got that right," the man cackled, still staring at Janine. She looked uncomfortable under his leering gaze, and, almost without thinking, I took her arm, drawing her closer to me as if to shield her from his look. That seemed to have the desired effect as the man looked at me, and then looked away.
"This looks highly unusual," I observed, "Maybe we should try to find somewhere else--"
"Are you kidding? Spengs, do you have any idea what kind of place this is?" Peter asked, incredulously.
"I believe I do, Peter. That's why I propose we leave."
"Hey, it's not your call, Spengs. Why don't we ask the birthday girl?" Peter turned to Janine with the question on his lips, but only a muffled sound came out as his eyes dropped down to our linked arms. I followed his eyes and let go immediately as soon as I ascertained what he'd been staring at. He glanced up at me for a moment, before turning again to Janine.
"So what about it, Melnitz? You wanna stay? Or does the thought of having actual fun scare you, too?" This last sentence was directed at me, I presumed.
Janine seemed to waver a moment, looking at the amused face of Winston, the eager face of Ray, the cajoling countenance of Peter, skipping the lecher on the chair, and, finally, looking up at me.
Her face seemed different in the moonlight, luminous. Almost ethereal. . .and her hair gave off a subtle glow, like foxfire. It was a mesmerizing sight. . .so much so that I temporarily forgot my surroundings.
"Well, how about this," she said. "We could check it out, and if it's too weird, we can leave."
"Yeah, but 'too weird' to Peter means something totally different than Egon's 'too weird. Or my 'too weird' for that matter." Winston pointed out.
"I'll make the judgment call," she said, turning back to find me still gazing at her. "Is that okay, Egon?"
"What?" I was caught unawares. I hadn't been paying attention -- I had been wondering if moonlight had such an entrancing effect on all red-haired individuals, though it didn't even dawn on me to glance at Ray to compare. "Uh, yes, of course. I agree wholeheartedly."
"Right on!" the man cheered suddenly, grinning at Janine. "The lady can get in for free."
His gaze traveled the length of her body, and I had to hold my fists tight against my sides, for I suddenly felt the urge to knock his teeth in. "And you fellas can get in half price, 'cause you brought such a pretty one with you."
"Well that caps it," Peter tried to take too swift a step forward, and by the expression of pain on his face, it was not a wise decision. "Let's go," He said through clenched teeth, following Ray and Winston, who were already going down the stairs.
I stepped aside to let a smiling Janine go in front of me, and I descended last, giving what I considered a dirty look to our chair-bound friend. It was to my mild surprise when, instead shooting me a similar look, he gave me a wink instead. . .reminiscent of the one Peter had given me earlier that day.
***********************
After passing money through a Plexiglas partition to a very perky young woman, we were granted entrance into the elusive Eskimo. Loud music seemed to emanate from its walls, and, despite its name, was as hot as a sauna. It was a smallish, dingy-looking hole, which seemed to contain nothing more than a large, sparkling disco ball and 30 or 40 gyrating people -- many of whom, much to my chagrin, were dressed exactly like Peter. He gave us all a "What-did-I-tell-you?" look before turning to survey the crowd.
I was doing the same. So far, I didn't see anything I would consider dangerous or life threatening, though I couldn't fail to notice that the little club lacked an adequate ventilation system and emergency exits.
"Well?" Winston turned to Ray, who turned to me, who turned to Janine, who would have turned to Peter had he not caught the eye of a blonde woman in a very short red dress, who proceeded to lead him to the dance floor.
"I like it," Janine said, swaying slightly to the music. "It's kind of hot in here, though."
"Yeah, that's because so many people are packed in here. . .this must be a pretty popular spot, not that I've ever heard of it," said Winston, moving out of the way of a laughing, sweating couple.
"Hey, look at Peter!" Ray gestured to the middle of the dance floor, where Peter and the woman in red were doing a series of complicated, and I'll admit, impressive, given the movement-restricting clothing, dance moves.
"C'mon guys, let's go!" Ray's voice could be heard clearly over the music, so excited was he, as he charged forward, dragging Janine with him, into the churning throng. Winston, with a grin, followed him, being careful not to bump into too many people.
I looked around and was fortunate enough to find a nice, dark corner in which I could stand unnoticed, and as far away from the fray as possible. From my little corner, I had a fairly comprehensive view of the entire dancing area -- which was not saying very much. The entire area appeared to be no more than 35 square feet, not including a small bar located at the rear, and a little pit area in which a bored looking man -- the DJ -- played records on an antique turntable.
I was getting quite comfortable in the shadows watching the action. Occasionally, some passers-by would glance at me, perhaps wondering why I was not bopping up and down wildly like everyone else. I am decidedly not a dancer. . .disco or otherwise. I can do a fair waltz, and, in a pinch, a very slow foxtrot, but I have always been rather awkward in movements outside of running and walking.
In my youth, I had never really been one to go to parties. . .and at the few I did attend, I was usually too embarrassed to attempt to dance on my own, or too shy to ask anyone to dance with me. Yet, the others seemed to be having fun. Winston was dancing with Peter and the woman in red; Ray, who was quite good as far as I could see, and Janine were in a crowd of people. I smiled, even as I felt a little sad about not being out there with them.
But they were enjoying themselves and I was enjoying watching them. I felt a slight sense of satisfaction that the day had been such a success. I had not seen Janine smile so much, and for so extended a time, in a long while.
The earlier incident kept popping into my mind, however, and it made me uncomfortable. I have no logical explanation for my actions earlier in the day. . . except to say that, at the time, when Janine and I were close, when we were touching, when my lips were but a scant distance from hers, I could not think of anything except kissing her.
Kissing her was what felt right at that moment, and I would have -- we would have -- had we not been interrupted. What would have happened had Ray not called me at that crucial moment? I ran through some potential outcomes in my mind: We may have stopped abruptly for fear of someone coming in unexpectedly; we may have done it, and felt remorse immediately, endeavoring to avoid each other all night; she might have stopped me; I might have stopped myself; we may have kissed again.
Hmmmm. To me, out of all the possibilities, the third and fourth seemed the most unlikely. The first seemed the most likely, and as for the last. . .that seemed the most. . .desirable?
I didn't have time to think much on it, for a young woman, her dark hair in a state of disarray, sidled up to me. She smiled, and I smiled back uncertainly. She had lipstick on her teeth.
"Hi." She was rocking back and forth in a most distracting manner.
"Um, hello."
"You're not dancing," She was so close to me that she didn't have to yell to make herself heard. . .entirely too close, in my opinion.
"Uh, no. I am not dancing."
"Why not? Didn't you come here to dance?" She was moving closer. Her breath smelled of stale cigarettes and spearmint chewing gum. I tried to move a little farther into the corner.
"Well, no, not really. I am a very bad dancer," I smiled at her somewhat nervously, hoping she'd tire of this meaningless conversation, or, at the very least, step back a little.
"I could teach you," she was roughly six inches from my face, whispering. "I'm a real good teacher."
"Uh. . ."
She was coming closer, making any hope of escape quite impossible. This was swiftly turning very bad.
"My name's Bunny. You know, you're kind of cute. You have nice eyes." She took another step closer.
Very, very bad.
"Do you think I'm cute?"
Very, very, very bad.
"Um. . ." I began to sweat. "I--"
"Egon?"
My visitor whirled at the voice, giving me room to breathe. Standing behind Bunny was Janine, with Raymond slightly behind her.
"Janine. . .Ray. . ." I was at a loss for words. Though I was now breathing relatively fresh air, Bunny was still uncomfortably close.
Janine was looking at Bunny with narrowed eyes, Bunny was looking at Janine with a smirk, and poor Raymond was looking at me perplexed.
"I was just going to teach him how to dance. He thinks I'm cute," Bunny said, somewhat smugly, attempting to snake her arm into mine.
I DO NOT! It took all the decorum I had at my disposal not to scream it aloud, but it flashed as loudly as the god-awful music my mind, and I scooted away with all apparent haste, nearly tripping over my feet in the process.
"We've been looking for you everywhere," Janine said sweetly, "You know you promised to dance with me when 'Night Fever' came on." I looked around somewhat dazedly, 'Night Fever' was blaring through the packed room. "So, come along."
I gave her a blank look, knowing I promised no such thing, but she darted a glance over at Bunny, and then again at me, and I understood: She was attempting to get me out of this sticky situation by employing a blatant falsehood. Ray seemed oblivious, but perhaps that was part of the plan.
"Ah, yes, yes. . .that is correct," I turned to Bunny, as apologetic as I could pretend to be. "Well, if you'll excuse us-- "
"Sure," she seemed unfazed. "But I'll be here all night if you still want a couple of lessons."
She smiled in a way that made my skin crawl and I was glad to feel Janine tug me toward the dance floor, Ray in tow.
"Lessons? What was that about lessons?" Janine turned to me, a slight smile on her face.
"Nothing, nothing believe me. . ." I said nervously.
"You actually told that girl she was cute?" She was incredulous.
"Of course not! I didn't tell her anything. It --"
It wasn't until we were in the midst of a crowd of sweating, gesticulating people that I realized that I was on the dance floor. Surely Janine did not expect --
"You owe me, Dr. Spengler," she said, almost as if she was reading my mind.
"And I am grateful. . .but, Janine, you know I can't dance--"
"Egon, this is disco," she said with a grin. "Do you think any of this is what you call dancing?"
I looked around. It was true that there appeared to be no set patterns or guidelines to the dancers' movements. Peter, for example, was doing something with his feet that defied description. . . and gravity. And Ray was behind me, bopping as contentedly as if he had been in the privacy of the firehouse.
"Come on. Just do what you feel like doing, move when you feel like moving," she began to do so, gracefully, I thought, a contrast to the wildness and disorder that was all around us.
I watched for a time, still feeling somewhat skittish, but Janine gave me an encouraging smile and reached out her hands toward me. I took them, and, almost imperceptibly, my feet began to tap. And then my legs began to make movements approximating those of Janine's. My body rocked, my shoulders dipped. All in time to the music. I was dancing. It felt odd, and I'm sure I did not look as impressive as Peter or Winston, but I was dancing all the same. I had to admit it was not half-bad.
I was expecting that she would let go of my hands then once she ascertained that I had some rudimentary moves down, and that I was not going to bolt.
But she did not, and it took me less than no time at all to realize that I did not want her to let go. With that in mind, I gave her hands a slight squeeze and we danced. And danced. And danced.
***********************
"Egon, aren't you gonna come down and eat something? You've been in here all day."
I looked up and saw the concerned face of Winston poking through the door of my lab. I had been so engrossed in my work that I had not even heard the door open. Glancing up at the clock, I saw that he was right: I had entered my lab at nine that morning. It was now nearly 4:30. There had been no calls, and I found it quite easy to spend some much-needed time in the lab working on one of my and Ray's pet projects: expanding the capacity of our traps.
Too many times we'd been called on one bust after another without adequate time to get back to the firehouse and empty the traps. Ray and I had done some calculations and found that, with some modifications, it could be done. However, in trying to put our theory into practice, we'd run up against a few unforeseen problems.
I'd spend the day trying to figure out where our calculations had gone wrong, and, when I discovered the problem, I started building a prototype. The morning seemed to have flown by, yet I had accomplished much, and at the mention of "food" my forgotten stomach growled quite insistently.
"I'll be down in a minute." I said to Winston, who nodded and left me alone. Putting the prototype trap aside, I removed my glasses and rubbed the bridge of my nose.
It had been a relatively quiet day; too quiet, I would have thought, had I not been so engrossed in my work. Raymond was supposed to assist me, but Winston had needed his help with a transmission problem Ecto was having and Peter had gone to have a 'friendly' meeting with our favorite people in New York's office of the Environmental Protection Agency, (something about the containment unit on the verge of being declared a nuclear biohazard).
Though we all, to some extent, grumble about slow days, I for one am never very sorry to have one, for I know that they are few and far between, and I rather like being able to spend quality time doing experiments. I am not sure, but I think the others might sense how fond I am of being in my lab alone.
It is not that I don't like to share, or to have company, but sometimes one needs a space he can call his own. In the firehouse, the four of us live like college students: we share a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, office space, living space, etc. As much as we all care for one another, there are times we need our space -- therefore, there are certain areas of the firehouse to which we seem to always go when we want to get away from the others: Winston goes to the garage. Ray to the basement, Peter to his office, and I to my lab.
But even that gets tiresome at times, and we very rarely stay secluded for long; a few hours is the most we have needed of this sort of "down time." I had been working for more than a few hours, however, but I was confident that the others would know that I had lost track of time trying to achieve some result from my research, not because I was being antisocial.
I walked down to the kitchen and saw Ray sitting down at the table eating a slice of pizza and Slimer shoveling a whole pie in his mouth. Winston was at the sink trying to find a clean glass. Peter was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey, Egon, you get the new trap working yet?" Ray said around a mouthful of pepperoni.
I sat down, taking a steaming slice from an open box, nearly burning my fingers on melted cheese. "Not quite yet, Raymond," I said, "There are a few anomalies in the overall unit I can't quite account for. I fear it may be some time before we are successful."
"Not if we keep having days like this one," Winston, successful in his search for glasses, sat with us. "I don't know about you guys, but it was nice to have a day off to just catch my breath."
"Did you get the transmission in?" I asked.
Ray made a face. "Yeah, but a shot transmission wasn't all that's wrong. The shocks are bad, the brake pads are nearly worn through, the steering column is off. . . it's amazing we haven't had an accident!"
I looked at Winston who nodded glumly. "The good thing is, it won't take long to fix all that stuff. The bad thing is, Ecto'll have to be out of commission until it is fixed. Peter already asked Janine to donate her car for awhile, so. . ." Winston shrugged.
"That's very nice of her," I said with a slight smile, knowing that in the past when Janine had lent us her vehicle, we never returned it quite in the condition in which it was given. "Where is Peter, anyway?"
"He and Janine were in the office talking when Winston and I came up," Ray said, beating Slimer to the last slice of mushroom. "He said he'd be up in a second."
"Ah?" my brows knitted together in thought. What could Peter be talking with Janine about? It could be that she had again asked for a raise, but usually Peter only acknowledged those demands in order to poke fun at her. It was unlikely then, that he could have had a change of heart in a matter of days. It was more likely that they were discussing something about the office, or perhaps working out the details of what donating her car was going to mean for her commute home every day.
But something was making me uneasy. Maybe it was the fact that that Ray had forgotten to specify no anchovies --again -- on the supreme pizza, or the fact that the four of us, plus equipment would have to drive around the city in a Volkswagen Beetle.
I could not say what it was. All I knew was that there was a growing knot of tension in the pit of my stomach. My first thought was to go for a glass of milk; my second thought was to go downstairs and grab a tech manual I'd left in Peter's office. I wasn't sure why I thought of it right then, but the need to retrieve that manual from downstairs was very great.
"Uh, I'll be right back," I said, standing up. "I just remembered that there is a technical guide I left downstairs that may have some information of use for the trap modifications." I started toward the stairs. "And I will see what is keeping Peter," I said casually, "Also, Janine may want to join us for dinner. There's plenty here."
I walked down the stairs feeling even more odd. It could have been my imagination, but I thought that just as I said the last sentence, Ray was about to say something and was prevented from doing so by a look from Winston.
I walked slowly down the stairs, ears pricked for sound, eyes darting around. Everything looked in order, but I couldn't hear anything. It was not until I had reached the bottom of the stairs that I saw Janine, at her desk with Peter hunched over her, both of them talking quietly.
The sight did little to put me at ease, especially since neither had turned around to see who had come down the stairs. Granted, Peter was bending in such a way so that I was obscured from Janine's view, but surely Peter had heard footsteps? Yet, it didn't seem so. I stood there for a moment watching them before I ventured to make my presence known.
"I'm sorry, I did not mean to interrupt," I said, a trifle louder than was necessary -- in fact, the entire sentence appeared unnecessary as they still seemed oblivious to my presence. Peter whirled around, and Janine looked up. I could not make out the expressions the two had on their faces . . .neither seemed to be looking guilty or very surprised. Rather, Peter was looking quite tired, and Janine, well, I could not tell. It seemed to be a cross between trepidation and weariness.
"Hi, Egon." She smiled at me faintly, darting a look a Peter as she did so.
"Spengs," his voice definitely had a tired tone to it.
"I, uh, just wanted to get a manual I left in your office, Peter," I said awkwardly as I remembered suddenly that I had retrieved said manual a few days before when we were experiencing a slight power surge in the proton packs.
He looked puzzled. "Huh?"
"Um, never mind. Dinner is getting cold," I noticed Janine looking down at something. . .a card of some sort. "And we were wondering what was keeping you." A slight stretch, perhaps, but not completely untrue.
"I told Ray I'd be up in a second!" He looked agitated.
"Yes. Ahem. Well. . .I. . .thought I would come and collect you," there was a slight edge in my voice I could not find any plausible explanation for. "and ask Janine if she would care to join us," I smiled at her and was rather surprised to receive only a wan smile in return.
"Uh, Spengs. . ."Peter glanced at her and then at me. "It--"
"I can't tonight, Egon," Janine stood up, elbowing Peter into silence. "I have, um, something to do. In fact, I need to get changed."
I'm sure I looked as confused as I felt. "But--"
"Egon," Peter's voice was tight. "We'd better get to dinner. The food's getting cold, right?" Peter walked toward the stairs and me. I was by now thoroughly confused, but I knew I did not want to leave yet.
"Well, it was quite warm when I left. Janine, what did you mean by changed? Where--"
"Egon," Now Peter was gripping my arm and almost pulling me up the stairs. "I am -starved-. Aren't you? And I don't want to get up there only to see that Slimer has eaten his way through five whole pizzas. Let's go." The last words were spoken lightly, but there was a grim look in Peter's eyes. I became even more determined to find out what was going on.
"Peter, I hardly think the food will get so cold that it will be impervious to the microwave," I said. "Now, Janine, what is it you were--" I turned back toward her desk but it was empty, and I heard moving around in the bathroom near Peter's office. Janine obviously had gone in there to "change." But "change" for -what- and to -do- what was what I did not know; what I did know was that I was being kept in the dark about something. But what? And for what purpose?
"Peter, what is going on?"
"Spengs--"
"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what is happening around here." I folded my arms and leaned against the banister.
"Egon," Peter's voice was soft. "have you ever betrayed a confidence?"
The abrupt change in subject threw me, but only for a moment. "No," I answered warily.
"Have you ever known Ray to betray a confidence? Or Winston? Or me?"
"Well. . ." I eyed him skeptically.
"Come on, Spengs, I mean about something important." He rolled his eyes. "Give me -some- credit."
"All right, all right. But what--"
"I can't tell you what you want to know," Peter said in that same soft tone, "because it would be betraying a confidence."
"Janine's?" I found myself speaking softer, too.
He nodded. "But I -can- tell you something. . .but we've gotta go upstairs, okay?" He looked at me pleadingly, and I found myself sighing, giving into this -- this whatever it was.
"Fine. Let's go." I joined him on the stairs, and we walked unnaturally slow, speaking in such guarded whispers that, as we neared the top of the stairs and the kitchen, we could hear Ray and Winston debating on what auto-body shop had the best deal on brake pads.
"All right, here it is," Peter paused a bit and we stopped on the stairs a moment. "Melnitz is going out on a date."
I felt a sensation like ice water being dumped straight onto my central nervous system, and shivered accordingly.
"A date?" My voice shook a little and my teeth chattered. Was it possible the front door was open?
"Yup, a date. Some stockbroker friend of her sister's," Peter looked glum. "Harvey something-or-other. There're going to some gala benefit dinner. Real frou-frou. Valet parking, ball gowns and old women in crown jewels."
"I see." I swallowed, the cold feeling still there, but lessened somewhat as we neared the warmth of the kitchen. We took another step and stopped. "It sounds. . . elegant."
He shrugged. "I guess. It's at the Waldorf-Astoria. . .not too shabby."
"No." I paused, waiting, looking at him. He returned the stare blankly. "And?"
He glanced down the staircase, sighed and shook his head. "Sorry, Spengs, but that's all I can tell you."
"That's it?" I found myself wanting to shake more information out of Peter: Where did they meet? What was he like? Why hadn't she said anything about him before? What was Peter not supposed to tell me? What? "That -can't- be it."
"Egon, I'm sorry," he shrugged helplessly. "I promised. I didn't want to, but I did."
Now what was -that- supposed to mean? Peter must have sensed I was going to ask another question, for he shook his head again quickly and led me to the top of the stairs, and the kitchen, without another word.
"Hey, there you are!" Ray beamed. "We were just about to throw the rest of this stuff in the fridge."
"There'd better be some pepperoni left or there'll be hell to pay," Peter said, glaring at Slimer, who evidently decided it would be safer for him to be anywhere else.
Ray looked contrite. "Aw Peter, pepperoni's his favorite, too. There's plenty of supreme left."
Peter sighed and sat at the table. "I'm too tired and hungry to argue or heat this mess up right now. What a day!" he began chewing noisily.
I stood apart from them all, feeling another knot of tension build up in my stomach. Somehow, I didn't think milk would help, but perhaps another few hours trying to modify the traps would. I turned and headed for the third floor.
"Egon? Where're you going?" Ray called.
"Yeah, you hardly touched your food," Winston added.
I hesitated on the stairs just one moment. "I. . .I'm afraid I've lost my appetite. I'll be in my lab if anyone needs me."
"Egon--" Peter's voice followed me up the stairs, but I neither stopped nor looked back.
***********************
I took the readings again. A little better, but not quite where I wanted them. I'd checked my equations and found an error in one of the inverse functions. Therein lay the answer to why all my earlier attempts failed. Expanding the capacity of the traps was, indeed possible, and it would take less time than I had estimated to complete, test, and put into use, a modified trap.
But my breakthrough did not fill me with any sense of accomplishment or satisfaction. In fact, for the two hours I'd spent working through the equations, I'd worked rather distractedly, my thoughts wandering, and, more often than not, wandering downstairs to the ground floor, to Janine.
A date. She was going out on a date. That in and of itself didn't bother me.
Well, it didn't bother me much.
After all, Janine has dated a few men in the past, all of whom were rather. . .odd. Off in some way. Not that they weren't successful, educated or well mannered. Most of them were, in fact. But they all seemed wrong for her in some way or another. I could always see it right away, as could Winston and Peter. Ray chose to like every suitor Janine introduced to us until he had reason to do otherwise. Usually, she never saw these men more than once or twice.
But this time seemed different. Felt different. Why was it necessary to keep me in the dark? Peter had said something about betraying a confidence. I didn't understand. . .was there something about Janine's suitor that they believed would not sit well with Ray or Winston or me? No. . .that made no sense. Janine is a grown woman. She can date whomever she pleases. We are her friends, not her parents. She needs no absolution from us.
Perhaps, then, there was something else, something having nothing to do with what Peter told me, that Janine did not wish anyone to know. Could she be ill? Considering taking another job? And why, of all people she could choose, would she want to confide in Peter? They never seemed to do anything except argue and insult each other (in a non-serious way), but they were huddled together like best friends.
I could understand her confiding in Winston, or even Ray. But Peter? I would expect her to come to -me- before she'd go to Peter. I shook my head. I wasn't going to get any answers by questioning myself, so I tried to re-focus on the task at hand.
I was well into the second set of algorithms when my stomach rumbled. Apparently, my appetite had returned, full-force. I stood up and opened one of my desk drawers, and stared in shock, then irritation. An empty Twinkies box. I knew there was something I'd meant to do that day -- drag Ray with me to the grocery store. . .the kitchen was nearly bare. No wonder Ray and Winston had ordered pizza for dinner.
Pizza. My stomach rumbled again. I sighed. There was nothing to do except go down to the kitchen and forage for whatever was left. After that, then perhaps I could finish the calculations, run some preliminary tests, and then go to bed.
I wandered down the stairs and was met with an empty kitchen. Even Slimer was absent, unless he'd taken to hiding in the refrigerator again. The pizza boxes were still on the table, some half-full, I was pleased to note. I went to the refrigerator and got a cola, and was just going to glut myself with low-nutrition foodstuffs when I heard a tangle of voices waft up from the ground floor. I paused with a slice of supreme in my hands. I could hear Peter. . .and the low treble of Winston's voice. . .and someone else. Someone unfamiliar. And loud.
Curious, I put the food down and started down the stairs, able to hear more as I closed in on the bottom. The unknown voice was getting louder, it had a touch of an accent. . .South Jersey, from what I could surmise, and the speaker seemed to either be afraid of Peter and Winston's not hearing him or unaccustomed to the acoustics of the firehouse. In any case, his voice was booming through the entire lower level.
". . . .So I told the sucker, 'Buy! Buy! It's gonna go through the roof!' But he said to me, 'What do I look like, an imbecile? The company's started by two college dropouts with their heads in their behinds.' And then -I- said, 'I'm telling you, you're gonna be sorry-' and the bum walked out! My boss nearly killed me! But that's when the company -- you might of heard of it, it's called Microsoft -- went through the roof. And all of a sudden, I'm the golden child. . .-the- broker to see if you want results. And don't you know that bozo came crawling to me a couple years after that, broke, wanting some tips. But -I- said. . ."
I had reached the ground floor and was listening to this diatribe while staring at a short, square plug of a man, in a black tuxedo with tails, hair glistening as if he'd come in out of the rain. Peter, Winston and Ray were standing in a semicircle around the man, listening with apparent interest. Peter spotted me and the polite smile he had on his face transformed amazingly into a look of surprise.
"Spengs! We thought you were in for the night."
"I heard voices. . ." I smiled tightly, my face feeling like a mask as I moved toward the little man, who, by this time, had turned to face me. His countenance was as bland as a boiled ham and about the same color. His hair didn't move one iota as he turned; leaving me to assume that the shiny, wet appearance was due to an inordinate amount of hair gel. I could smell his cologne from the stairs, no doubt an expensive one, but layered on so thickly as to render it cheap. And his smile was wide and bright. Much like an alligator's after a satisfying meal.
"I thought there were four of you. I was thinkin' to myself, 'There's four of 'em, right? Coulda sworn Janine told me there were four. . .but there's only three here.' But I was right. There're four of you. I knew there was. I'm Harvey. Harvey Gorman." He took a breath and extended his hand at the same time.
"Dr. Egon Spengler," I shook his hand. His palms were sweaty.
"Y'know, Doc, I was just telling your colleagues that you're sitting on a goldmine, here. A gold. . .mine," he cast an eye over the office. "I mean, I don't know much about this supernatural stuff, but I do know a -lot- about makin' money. . .and there's money to be made here. Big money." His eyes shone and I found myself suffocating under his heavy cologne.
"Harvey thinks that we should put Ghostbusters on the New York Stock Exchange and let people invest in it." Ray explained.
"You'd make a ton of money. Could you imagine?" Harvey grinned. "You'd be able to expand. . .have a Ghostbusters franchise in every borough. . .then in every major U.S. city. . .then all over the world. . .like McDonald's! You'd be able to build state-of-the-art facilities. . .get out of this dump, and--"
"This dump," my voice was ice, "is ourworkplace and home. And has served us quite well all these years. I don't think--"
"Come on, Dr. Spanker--"
"Spengler."
"--Every successful small business could use a little capital to nudge it up to the next level. You guys are celebrities! What you do. . .and however it is you do it. . .is phenomenal!" He took a breath -- just one -- and ran on. "The stock would blow up bigger than the Empire State Building. And you'd thank me for it. Trust me, I have tons, -tons- of clients who didn't want to put their businesses out on the market. Rich people now, every single one of 'em. Here," he broke off and reached for an attaché case near his feet. "I have some names, references, if you want them." He started digging through a sheaf of papers. I looked at Winston who shrugged in reply.
"Here we go," he held out a sheaf of papers to me. "Successes. All of 'em. Mine. The bottom line speaks for itself. Go on, take a look."
I did not take the proffered papers. "I really don't think you understand, Mr. Gorman--"
"Please, Dr. Spangles, call me Harvey."
"Harvey," I amended. "And -please- call -me- Dr. SPENgler." I paused and saw Winston and Ray unsuccessfully attempt to smother smiles. "We are not interested in your proposition. We're quite content--"
"All right, all right, I won't twist your arm. Not my way of doing business. . .arm twisting is -very- bad for business," he sighed and looked sad for a moment, and then gave me his alligator smile again. "But I'll leave my card," he took one out with a flourish, and it was in my hand so quickly it was almost like a magic trick. "just in case you change your mind about wanting to be absolutely, positively, filthy rich."
"Oh yeah? How much money are we talking?" Peter began, when we all heard a door open and close as Janine called out, "Harvey? Sorry to keep you waiting so long." A moment later she was in the room, and all movement ceased as we all gaped at her.
She looked around, nervously smiling in Harvey's direction, who, thankfully, was standing silent, and settled a skeptical look on Peter, standing open-mouthed.
"What?"
"Uh. . .nothing, it's just that you look so. . .um. . ." he fumbled for words as Harvey, having found his voice, I suppose, supplied, ". . .Hot! Wow! Doris was right, you're a knockout!"
As annoying as the little man had proved himself to be, I could only agree with his assessment. Janine was a vision in green satin; she wore a long gown with a full billowing skirt (very similar to some of the costuming worn in Cosi Fan Tutti, one of my favorite operas).
As fetching as it was, I found myself mildly surprised. . .Janine was not given to wearing such "frilly things," she would call them. . .even on special occasions, but perhaps this event had a specified dress code. Her hair was swept back into a demure bun and the style emphasized her eyes, especially since, to my chagrin, she was not wearing her glasses.
She did not appear to be as heavily made-up as perhaps such an occasion would require, but that seemed to me to be only a testament to her loveliness. She did not need to put much on her face to look absolutely stunning. I often heard Peter lamenting the "overdone" beauty rituals of some women he had dated, and in meeting some of these women, I sometimes had to agree with him.
Perhaps, I thought, they could do well to follow Janine's lead, but then, in remembering some of Peter's past paramours, I realized that they had not had quite so much to work with.
"Jeez Janine, you look so pretty," Raymond exulted, a slight flush on his already ruddy cheeks. "I wish I had a camera."
Winston nodded in agreement. "You -know- you look good, don't you?"
She smiled and waved them away. "Cut it out, you two. It's not as if you've never seen a woman before."
"Well, I don't know about Ray. . ." Winston began, before Raymond cut him off with a scowl.
Peter, who was standing quite close to me now, his arms full of papers, gave me a nudge with his elbow that brought me back to myself. I shut my mouth and shook my head as if to clear it as Harvey strutted over to her like a peacock and took her hand to kiss it. I would like to say that he bowed, but he was so much shorter than he that all that was required was a slight bend of his head.
"It's an honor, a privilege and a pleasure for you to be my escort tonight, Miss Melnitz," he said, in all seriousness, still bent over her hand.
"Um. . .thanks, I think," she said, a slight smirk on her lips. Janine looked up at me, then and the smile faded. She managed to extricate her hand from his, and suddenly she seemed very self-conscious, fiddling with her handbag and moving noticeably farther away from the drooling Harvey.
"Egon. I thought you'd be locked away in your lab for the night." She seemed to have found an undone clasp on her shoes, for she was looking down at them, not at me. The phrase nearly mimicked Peter's. Somehow, I had the nagging sensation that my appearance was not only unexpected, but unwanted.
"Er. . .yes. But I was--"
"I was talking to Dr. Sprinkler there about letting other people in on this little business," Harvey, in full irritation mode cut in. "I mean, this outfit could make buckets of money." His face was turning red and he seemed ready to launch into another salespitch, but Janine laid a hand on his shoulder, and murmured something about the time, forestalling what could have been yet another asinine exchange.
"Holy cow! You're right! We gotta be there in 20 minutes and the limo's charging by the hour! Let's jet," he grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the door.
The others' voices met in a chorus of good-byes and "have funs." I did not join in. I could only stand and stare dumbly, feeling detached. . .as if I were viewing the events from outside of my body. The diminutive little man waving from the door, addressing me this time as "Dr. Spinster," Janine holding his hand, the two of them climbing into a stretch limousine. The car driving into the night. The roaring quiet that ensued.
I was vaguely aware of footsteps going up the stairs, and I sluggishly turned to see Winston and Ray, engrossed in conversation, heading to the upper levels of the firehouse. Peter was sitting at Janine's desk, perusing some of the information Harvey had left. I dimly recalled that hunger was what had drawn me out of my lab in the first place, and I slowly walked toward the stairs, feeling strangely drained of energy, due to, I supposed, a lack of sustenance.
"Spengs?" Peter's voice stopped me at the stairs. I looked over at him and he had a slight frown on his face.
"Yes, Peter?" I was aware of a certain dullness, a hollowness in my voice. I was indeed hungry.
"He was kind of a jerk, huh?" he smirked, pushing aside Janine's pencil holder to spread more papers on the desk.
I grimaced. "Jerk" was putting it mildly. "You seemed quite impressed with him, Peter." I nodded toward the papers.
"Professionally, maybe. His firm's got a good reputation. But -you- didn't seem too impressed, Dr. -Sprinkler-," he grinned up at me, but his smile seemed to lack a little of the sarcasm usually present. That caught me off guard a moment, and I again had the odd feeling that I was on the receiving end of either a large conspiracy or an inside joke.
Neither thought appealed to me, so I simply wished Peter a good night, and trudged up the stairs toward the kitchen, my heart sinking as I heard Slimer's voice coming from the kitchen. I hoped beyond hope that there was at least a crust left.
***********************
Janine and I walk through a forest-like area, our collective focus on a small clearing approximately 5 meters ahead. Trees around us swayed in a gentle, northwesterly breeze, and I find myself looking around curiously, half-hoping to stumble across some rare woodland fungi.
Neither Janine nor I know where we are exactly, or how we got there. One moment, Ray, Winston, Peter and I were running through this very forest. The next, they are gone, I remain and Janine appears. And now, our efforts are concentrated on finding the others and getting out of this decidedly odd landscape.
I walk a little ahead of Janine, whose hand is in mine, keeping on alert for any unusual sounds or voices. I hear nothing save the rustle of leaves in the wind and the indistinct twitters of birds. Surely the others would attempt to make their presence known by raising a yell. . .I had thought of that earlier, and Janine and I screamed for some minutes, however, only our echoes answered us. And as it was getting colder, and darker, we decided that moving to a more open area would be a prudent plan of action.
We reach the clearing and look around. There is nothing. I call out for Ray, for Winston, for Peter, and listen intently. No response. Janine tries. . .she can yell remarkably loud. . .and we listen. Again, nothing.
"What if they're hurt or have been kidnapped or something?" Janine turns to me with wide, frightened eyes. I admit, similar thoughts had crossed my mind, but now, as then, I squelch them.
"I do not think so. I have no idea how large this area is. It is quite possible they cannot hear us. Perhaps they, too, became separated. . ." My voice trails off as I see Janine shiver.
"It's getting really cold out here," she says through chattering teeth.
She is correct: the wind has turned colder and is blowing a little harder now; wearing a thin sleeveless shirt and a rather short skirt, she is dressed quite inadequately for such temperatures. I am wearing my jumpsuit (though I am puzzled to find that my proton pack and thrower are absent) and therefore have nothing to offer her in the way of more substantial clothing. She looks to be in a great deal of discomfort, however, and as it gets darker, I fear it will only get colder.
I look around and am surprised and dismayed to find at there are no sticks or twigs or even fallen leaves with which to start a fire. In fact, the leaves that are rustling above us are at the very top of the trees. . .and these trees have no branches, much like palm trees, an oddity well worth exploring, but not now.
I turn to Janine and notice that her face is alarmingly pale and she is trembling harder; she has wrapped her arms around herself in a futile attempt to keep warm. I wonder why -I- feel no cold . . .my jumpsuit is quite warm, but it is not insulated or especially thick. She is getting paler and the wind more insistently cold. I cast a last, helpless look around and, satisfied that there is nothing at hand that could be used to warm her, I draw her into my arms hold her tightly against my person, sliding my hands rapidly up and down her frigid arms, hoping the friction can bring some heat back to them.
"Maybe we should keep moving," her voice is lower than usual and it trembles, she is shifting her weight from one foot to another almost as if in impatience, but I surmise she is only trying to generate more body heat. Her suggestion seems a sound one, yet I am reluctant to leave the little clearing.
"Well," I hesitate, noting that my efforts at warming her seem to be having a positive effect. She has stopped shivering and her arms are warmer. "Perhaps, we should stay here, and wait a little longer."
"Egon, look!" She tears away from me and points excitedly at something behind me.
I turn and see a path through a cluster of trees, shadowy, barely discernable, but a path all the same.
"A little road. Let's go! Maybe the guys are down there."
She starts to walk off, but I grab her wrist. I had not noticed the path before, and its sudden appearance made me somewhat wary.
"I do not think so, Janine. We should stay here." I raise my voice a little against the wind, which has noticeably gotten stronger.
"But it could lead us to the guys! Or at least someplace warm."
I look at the narrow road of earth suspiciously. It beckons, but I resist. It could be dangerous.
"We don't know where it leads! It could be dangerous."
"Egon, I can't believe you'd really want to stay here!" Her eyes aren't angry, they are pleading. "It could be dangerous, but it could be our savior. We have to chance it."
"No!" I start to shiver, though it has nothing to do with the swirling air around me. "I--I can't. Please, Janine. Stay here with me."
She looks up at me, resignedly, sadly, and I have the vague feeling that I have let her down somehow. She may be right; the road may lead us out of our predicament. . . but I cannot bring myself to trust the unknown.
"All right," she whispers. "We'll stay here."
I sigh in relief, and bring her back into my arms. The wind is blowing her hair wildly about her face; not an unattractive sight. I place one hand atop her head to smooth the wayward strands. She burrows her head into my chest, for added warmth, I presume.
"We'll find some way out of this, Janine," I say, absently stroking her hair. It is pleasingly soft. "I promise."
I feel her nod, and then she looks up at me, her eyes bright, without a trace of the fear I'd seen in them earlier. I felt a little bit more at ease and more confident that we will find our way out of this devilish forest.
She pulls away slightly, and I tighten my arms around her. I don't want to break the embrace. It is getting colder. . .and somehow, her being so close is having a warming effect on myself. . .though I still am not adversely affected by the weather.
She moves away again, and I look down at her. She is looking up at me with a mixture of puzzlement and, yes, the fear has returned.
"Do you want me to let go?" I query, a trifle anxiously.
"No. . .no. . ."
"Then why are you moving away?"
"I. . .I don't know. I don't want to. I. . ." Her voice is drowned out as the wind howls around us, making the trees sway violently, some of them almost bending to touch the earth.
"It's getting worse," she has to shout to make herself heard. "Egon, trust me, whatever we find at the end of the road has to be better than this place."
The wind gusts strongly and as she moves farther from my body, I realize with a gasp that she is not moving of her own volition. It is the wind. The wind has gathered enough strength to push us apart.
The road. The road may protect us from the winds.
Yes. . .but. . .no. It is dark. In the shadows. I cannot. I am afraid of what we may find.
"Janine, no. We cannot go down there."
"Egon, -please-!"
"I. . .can't."
"It's our only hope!"
I am still holding onto her, but she is at arms' length and steadily moving farther away, I move with her to prevent the distance from growing.
"I can't! I can't! We don't know--"
And then there is a terrific crash and I feel a force knock me flat on my back. In the fall, I unwittingly let go of her and from a prone position I stare as her slight figure, buoyed by the wind, begins to rise off the ground.
"Janine!" I struggle to get to my feet, but, for some reason, I am pinned to the ground. The winds roar in my ears and she is yelling to me, stretching her arms out for me to grab onto. Yet I can't. I cannot move. It as if some invisible force is sitting on my chest, rendering me motionless, and helpless.
She is four feet of the ground now and moving away swiftly, toward the road she so desperately wanted to take. Her arms still outstretched. Her eyes imploring.
"Egon!"
I feel the force -- whatever it is -- release its pressure. I can move my legs a little, and groggily, I get to a kneeling position, and, with every ounce of strength I have, manage to stand.
She floats between the trees, being borne away by the wind. Run! My mind screams. And I am surprised that I am able to, quite swiftly in fact, toward her as she goes into the shadows.
"Janine! Wait!" I scream as I reach the aperture. I see a flash of her hair and then nothing more. As if by magic, the path disappears. Impenetrable trees spring up in its place. No road, no light, no Janine.
I look around, trying to make sense of what has happened. None of it makes any sense. It is neither logical nor physically possible for wind to carry off a grown woman. . .although Janine is slender in build. Yet, it has happened. And she is gone.
"Janine!" I yell, frantic, hoping that perhaps she is not far way and can hear me. She may have found the others. Or perhaps she is hurt, or being held against her will. The last thought makes me shiver.
But the sound I hear is my own voice, faintly, mockingly, echoing back. Janine. . . Janine. . .Janine. . .
I sat bolt upright in bed, pulse racing, breathing heavily. I am quite unable to see without my glasses, even in broad daylight, and in the dark, my vision is even worse, so it took some minutes until I realized I was not in a forest, but in the bunkroom, in my nightclothes. The snores of Peter and Ray confirmed my location. I was, indeed, in the firehouse. I had been dreaming.
Janine! The thought came unbidden and I felt my heart race again. She was not here. . .where was she? And then I remembered: The date. The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Harvey Gorman. I sighed, albeit uneasily. She was safe, then, relatively anyway. I shuddered as I rose from my bed and prepared to go downstairs.
Half asleep, I stumbled around the kitchen making cocoa, getting perturbed all over again when I realized there were no Twinkies. It didn't matter. Cocoa would suffice, but I really would have to visit the local supermarket in the morning.
I took my mug into the next room and sat gingerly on the couch. It was five minutes of two. I wondered idly if the benefit dinner were over. I glanced over at the phone and briefly contemplated calling Janine's apartment, but squelched the desire. How silly: of course she was home. I could not imagine that she would want to tolerate Harvey Gorman's company for any longer than necessary.
With that thought in mind, I flipped on the television set and was met with the sight of the genie on my favorite late night show talking to an overweight bearded man in a turban. Unfortunately, I had missed the opening of the episode, so I did not know who the bearded man was. I hoped the relationship between the two would be explained again, if it hadn't been already.
As I watched, my thoughts idled back to the dream. It was still very vivid in my mind -- as such dreams usually are for me -- and I pondered its significance. What a disturbing dream that had been.
I had accepted, and almost expected, the dreams of Janine. I still searched for a plausible explanation, but as the dreams became an every-night phenomenon, I hardly noticed them anymore. It was an odd occurrence, yes, but not quite so foreign and jarring as they had been when they first began. Furthermore, the dreams were always quite. . .pleasant. I would not go so far as to say I looked forward to them,
but. . .
Tonight, however, was decidedly different. In previous dreams, she and I had been separated, had been walking through forests, had been in bad weather. But never had the winds blown so hard, never had a road appeared out of nowhere. Never had we disagreed.
But we did all that in this dream. And the result was her disappearance.
I looked at the phone again, then, after a long moment, back at the television. Though I had been only half-listening, I was able to discern the relationship between the genie and the turbaned individual: he was her uncle. I had noticed that in recent weeks, many of the genie's family members had made appearances on the show, all causing trouble for the genie and her smitten astronaut.
First her mother arrived, then her evil twin sister, and now her uncle. In this episode, her uncle is trying to convince her to return to Baghdad and leave her loving "master." I wondered idly if it had ever crossed the minds of the creators of the show that a typical Iraqi woman would not be blond haired and blue eyed? But perhaps -accuracy- was not high on their priority lists.
During a commercial, I flipped to an all-night news station and listened to a sullen-looking newscaster give a dismal report on a series of subway muggings, convenience store holdups and attacks on the homeless. Nothing mentioned about any car wrecks, shootings, kidnappings or mishaps at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.
I flipped back to the show in time to see the astronaut arguing with. . .a trash can? This odd turn of events successfully corralled my wandering thoughts and allowed me to focus entirely on what was taking place. Apparently, the uncle had caused so much mischief, the astronaut had connived at trapping him in a waste receptacle, and was in the process of the telling the unfortunate jinn that his niece was under -his- command and he was the master, and a number of somewhat unflattering remarks about the genie, and so on.
The uncle's predicament reminded me of an event that took place at one of my family's reunions. I was nine years old at the time, and somehow, my cousin Edward convinced me to hide in a closet. He promptly locked me in, of course, and left me. I remember fashioning a key from a nail I'd found on the floor and. . .
My memories trailed off as I saw who really was in the trash bin: It was not the old uncle, as the astronaut had supposed, but the genie herself. She had heard every word and was not pleased. Apparently, she was hurt enough to decide to return, with her uncle, to Baghdad, and tells her master goodbye, forever.
Ten minutes later, I was still sitting, transfixed on the couch. I was not very conscious of what program was playing on the television only a few feet from my eyes. I was thinking about the episode and it's very unpredictable ending. I was also recalling the look of horror on the astronaut's face when his genie said goodbye and then disappeared. I was thinking that when he called for her, his voice had quite a frightened and anguished tone to it; it matched my own, when Janine had been carried away from me in my dream.
***********************
"But they didn't -look- real, Peter. How was I supposed to know?"
Even a brush with death couldn't take the ruddiness out of Ray's cheeks, I thought to myself as Ecto rolled into the firehouse. We had had a very close call on a warehouse bust.
The Class Fours were poltergeists armed with what looked like spears, and wasted no time in throwing what seemed an inexhaustible supply at us. Ray had stumbled on some loose wiring and narrowly missed getting impaled by one of the opportunistic specters I had failed to detect. Winston had swung around just in time. It was too close a call, and I blamed myself for it.
My reflexes had been woefully slow, I initially had my pack on a much lower setting than was required, and I nearly caused an even greater mess by fumbling with the traps when the others were struggling mightily with two very -frisky- and powerful ghosts. No one had said anything, but I knew that my conduct had been inefficient at best. . .and Raymond nearly paid the price for it.
"Fine, Ray. Just next time, if we come across goobers who're armed, let's just -assume- the hardware's real, okay?" Winston patted Ray on the shoulder as we walked from the garage toward the office. Ray just nodded and headed with the traps straight for the containment unit.
"Whew, I don't know about you two, but I'm going to eat whatever's in the fridge, take a nice hot shower and hit the sack early. I feel like I just finished a marathon." Winston stretched his arms far above his head and trudged tiredly toward the stairs. "You coming?"
"Yeah, in a second," Peter nodded to Winston, who lightly jogged up the stairs. "Spengs, you OK?" Peter's voice had its usual light, semi-sarcastic edge, but I'd known him long enough to be able to dig beneath the surface to discern his true emotions, and right now, I was picking up a concerned overtone.
"I'm fine Peter, I. . .I'm very tired is all, as I'm sure you could ascertain during the bust," I said a little sharper than I intended to. I took my glasses off and rubbed the bridge of my nose. A migraine was beginning -- I could only hope that there were Twinkies and Excedrin handy.
"Egon, listen. Everybody has a rough day sometimes, y'know?" He put a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it away, reluctant to be soothed, and feeling the slight aching in my brain develop into a sharper pain.
"Well, my -rough- day nearly cost Raymond his life," My tone was bitter and I again saw Ray falling, the ghost aiming a razor-sharp spear at his back. . .
"Spengs. . ." Peter began, but I was no longer listening. A flash of red in my peripheral vision caught my attention and my eyes were drawn to Janine's desk. She was standing behind it, scolding a morose-looking Slimer about hiding in the water cooler again, and upon her desk was one of the most intricate floral arrangements I'd ever seen.
Poppies, roses and a tube-shaped flower I could not readily recognize, laid artfully in a cut-glass vase shaped like a swan. The monstrosity took up half of her desk, and I my mouth twisted in annoyance as I made an educated guess as to who would have the money -- and the bad taste -- to send such a thing.
"How. . .interesting," I commented, leaving Peter, still talking, walking up to her desk and bending close to inspect the petals.
Janine, concluding her harangue of Slimer, turned toward me and smiled. "Aren't they beautiful?"
"Quite." I gently touched a velvety petal. "A gift from. . .Harvey?" As if I didn't know. He'd been sending flowers in one form or another ever since their first date. Luckily for him, I suppose, Janine was quite fond of flowers and plants, else such behavior could easily get tiresome.
"Yeah. I keep telling him he shouldn't," her brow puckered slightly, "but he insists. He says he wants to fill my apartment with flowers. He's doing a pretty good job of it so far."
"Ah. Yes, well. . .a noble endeavor." My head was pounding harder and my vision was becoming blurred as it always does when a particularly nasty migraine hits. I suppose some of the discomfort was showing in my countenance for Janine's expression changed to one of worry.
"Egon? Are you alright? You look like you're dying."
"I. . .I'm fine, Janine." It was a lie, of course. My head felt as if it were going to implode, the contents of my stomach had turned to water, I'd nearly gotten Ray killed, and an absolute moron was sending obscenely expensive flowers set in grotesque centerpieces to the firehouse. I was most decidedly -not- fine.
"Actually, I. . .er. . .have a bit of a headache. . ." I murmured, feeling another shot of pain. The Excedrin. . .I needed it badly. . .forget the Twinkies.
"Here," she pulled open her dresser drawer and took out a small green bottle. Excedrin! I fought hard to not clutch at the two pills she shook into my hand, and, swallowed them dry, neither able to wait for water to wash them down with nor desirable to drink the water in which Slimer apparently spent most of the day immersed.
"Thank you," I sighed, ignoring the medicinal aftertaste the uncoated pills left in my mouth. I knew that in a short time my head would begin to clear. The best thing I could do would be to lie down, relax, take a nap and let the pills do their work.
But I could not; the thought of sleep sent a cold shiver down my back. I had slept fitfully for nearly a week, catching no more than two, three hours at the most, of slumber -- most unhealthy -- and as a result, I was listless, unfocused, irritable and exhausted.
Even so, it seemed to me better than the alternative -- subject myself to sleep and the dreams. The disturbing, terrifying dreams. . .
A car horn honked, quite close by, and for a moment, I thought Ray or Peter had climbed into Ecto and was testing the horn for some reason. But as I turned, I saw the distinct outlines of a pink Porsche 911 Targa convertible, and my lips twisted into a smirk of disgust.
"You're going out with him tonight?" I looked at Janine, incredulous, though I kept my voice neutral. It would make the fourth time this week. She'd slipped on her jacket and taken her purse from underneath the desk.
"Yeah, we're going to some swanky racquetball club. He's been bragging about how good his game is. . .hah! We'll see how he stacks up compared to the master," she smiled down at the swan, and then up at me.
"Feel better, Egon. See you tomorrow. Good night, guys," she called, sailing past Peter and Ray, who'd emerged from the basement and was talking animatedly to Peter about something.
I sighed as I watched her climb into Harvey's tribute to testosterone and drive away. My headache was beginning to respond to the medication, but I still had no interest in resting, or eating anything more substantial than a Twinkie.
"Spengs, your head feeling better?" Ray's solid footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs, and Peter, addressing me, was on the landing, gazing down.
"Er, yes. . .I'm going to run a few tests on the containment unit. The grid is experiencing some power surges that may be nothing, but are worth checking out just the same." I started toward the basement stairs.
"Egon, don't you think you should -eat- something? Or, better yet, hit the sack? It's been a rough day. Ray can check the containment unit."
I looked up at him, my mouth set hard, "Peter, trust me. . .sleep is the very -last- thing I need right now." As I spoke, my eyes fell on the glass swan and my mind went to Janine climbing into Harvey Gorman's ridiculous car. She'd been smiling such a dazzling smile. She looked happy. She'd looked happy every night Harvey Gorman had come to take her out. . .
I sighed and headed for the basement, a PKE meter in hand. I needed a Twinkie desperately.
***********************
"Remind me never again to volunteer to come with you to find spore families," Janine, in a long cotton dress, sighs as she picks up a withered vine -- I do not know what type -- off the jungle floor and studies it a moment before absently tossing it away.
It is hot, as such regions usually are. Neither of us sweat, however, though we are both dressed quite inappropriately -- Janine in her attractive, but very flimsy, dress and I in a pair of polyester dress slacks, a pink shirt and suspenders.
But if our attire is odd, our location and current activity are even more so: We are in what appears to be a rainforest -- where we are exactly and how we came to be there is not known -- and we are searching for a rare type of woodland spore. Yet we are in a jungle. No woodland spore bodies of any type should exist in this location or climate. Yet, the special plastic containers I brought for the purpose of the harvest are full and there are still more scattered around under jungle flora and fauna.
"We're almost done," I say, bending down and carefully picking up a small, delicate pink lotus flower. Lotus? There should be no lotuses in the jungle. Yet, here one is. I give the flower to her and she smiles, admiring it, and decides to place it in her hair. She looks exquisite: Her hair loose and flowing, the fluidity of her garment, her cheeks slightly flushed from the hot sun.
We stop in a comparably shady area and sit on a tangle of vines.
"I'm very glad you came with me," I say, brushing an errant strand of hair from her face. She smiles at me and brushes a leaf off my shoulder.
"I didn't really mean what I said earlier," she says softly. "I'd go anywhere to harvest mold with you."
My heart starts pounding so hard my teeth begin to chatter. "D-Do you really mean that, Janine?"
She looks down a moment, then up at the sky, then at me, her eyes serious. "Of course I mean it, Egon. I'll always mean it."
We look at each other a moment, and in that period of time, all movement in the forest ceases. Even the sun's rays seem to cease their relentless assault. It is as if, in that moment, nothing around us exists. . .except for the two of us.
The moment passes, and we both look away; she in some amusement, and I in red-faced embarrassment. A second passes, and I feel I should say something, anything at all that will possibly bring that moment back. I clear my throat. "Janine, I. . ."
"Oh my god!" She jumps up, cutting me off, staring at something behind me. "Is that real or is the heat making me hallucinate?" She removes her glasses and squints, then puts them on again.
I turn around, adjusting my glasses as I do so, and my breath leaves me as I see what she has noticed. It is a tree. One that was -not- there when we'd passed the spot only moments before. It is quite large, old and extremely out of place in a jungle setting.
But that is by no means the most extraordinary part. There is a -door- carved into the tree. It is red, with a brass doorknob and knocker. It even has a mail slot.
"What do you think it is?" she whispers.
I shake my head, wishing I had a PKE meter handy. "I do not know. That was not here earlier."
And then, a slow creaking sound assaults our ears as the door, unbidden, begins to open; a crack at first, then wider, wider, and wider still until it stands ajar and we are able to see into the, uh, tree. Beyond the passageway is a dimly lit area, and what appears to be stairs. I can see no more: The passageway is too poorly lit, and the sun's rays are not shining upon it.
"Where do you think it goes?" she asks, advancing a step or two toward it.
"I do not know," I have a vague feeling of horror as I look inside the doorway. It is familiar. . .dimly so. I do not want to go near it.
"Well, let's go see!" she exults, starting past me. I grab her elbow urgently.
"No. It could be dangerous. Let's keep walking this way," I indicate the opposite direction.
She looks at me reproachfully. "Egon, c'mon. Aren't you the least bit curious to see where it leads?"
"Well, I--I--I suppose," I stammer. "But, we have no idea. . ."
"It's an adventure," she says expansively, "We'll just go a little way. See what happens."
The feeling of dread grows. "No."
Her face falls. "Please? Just a little way?"
The passage is too unclear. Danger could lurk just beyond those stairs.
"No," I repeat, my voice shaky. "Let's get away from it."
"Oh Egon," she says, in a sad voice I swear I've heard before. "We could be passing up the opportunity of a lifetime."
"Perhaps," my mouth is dry. "But I will not risk our safety. Come, Janine. Please."
I pull gently on her arm, the feeling of horror so heavy that I have trouble breathing. She looks longingly at the door a moment, and then back at me.
"All right. Let's go." I wince at the sadness in her voice, but I'm convinced I'm doing the right thing as we turn away from the mystical tree and toward the path we'd been following.
She casts one last, despairing look and gasps, "Egon! Look!"
I turn in time to see the door slowly close and shut tight with a bang before shimmering and disappearing. And then the entire tree likewise shimmers and disappears.
"How very odd," I begin, when a sudden breeze cuts across the landscape, ruffling my shirt and setting Janine's hair askew. I see something blow by me. The lotus.
"My flower!" she cries, rushing by me, giving chase to the blossom. She stoops to the ground, presumably seeing her chance to collect it. I feel an icy shiver down my spine. She is quite close to where the tree appeared. . .and disappeared.
"Janine," I call, fear creeping into my voice, "We should be going now. . ."
She stands up and turns toward me, forlornly, her hands empty. "It's gone." She sighs.
"It's all right," the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "I'll get you another. Please, let's go."
She nods, and takes a step toward me. Or tries to, at any rate. Her left leg appears to be stuck.
"Janine? Is there a problem?"
"I--I don't know. I can't move my legs. I. . .oh!" Her feet appear to be sinking into the ground. Rapidly. Before I can say another word she is knee-deep in something. Mud? A sinkhole?
I gasp, my eyes widening with horror. Quicksand. My god. It's quicksand.
"Egon! Something's pulling me down! I can't get out of it." she screams.
"Janine!" I yell, " Don't move! Don't struggle! I'll be right there." My mind whirls. . .must be careful. . .it could be anywhere. A stick, a vine, something. I need something I can get her to grab on to. . .
She's standing still, her eyes wide with fright, yet she's sinking deeper into the morass. Janine, hold on. Please. I intone silently, grabbing hold of something? A vine, a rope, it doesn't matter, and set my sights to rush to her full speed.
But, my legs. They won't move. They don't move. They can't move. I look down terrified, no. . .I am not sinking. I simply cannot move. It is as if a force greater than the strength in my body, greater the strength of my will, is holding me back. My hands are pinned to my sides, my legs are like cement blocks. I struggle against bonds I cannot see, struggle until the world turns almost black. Janine. I have to get to her.
"Let me go!" I roar to my invisible captive. "Whatever you are, -Damn- you, let go of me!"
"Egon! Please! Please help me!"
I look. She's up to her shoulders, her eyes appealing to me, begging, pleading, and not understanding why I am not rushing to help her. Wondering why I am just standing there, watching her go under.
"Janine! Hang on! There is something hindering my movement!" I struggle mightily, gnashing my teeth, straining against my invisible bonds until I am sure every muscle stands taut. Still, I cannot move. I simply cannot move. Try as I might, struggle as I might, curse as I might. Scream as I might.
I cannot move. And she's sinking faster, and faster. . .
"Egon. . ." Her voice floats to me, I can't bear to look, but I must. I must.
Her chin. She is up to her chin. I have taxed my strength and can only moan weakly as her chin, then her lips, then her nose.
Oh. . .god no. . . Her eyes. Like emeralds. Her glasses don't diminish or hide their beauty