Will

My fake grandmother died in my sleep last night. She was survived by a small glass-topped box, like a Cartier jewelry case, that contained her Will, a crumpled piece of yellow notebook paper populated by ink scribbles. I hadn't opened it, still can't. Also in the box: a mother of pearl comb, my great uncle's watch which survived on his wrist when he was shot down by the Japanese over Mono Island, and a few more trinkets (heirlooms?). She wasn't my RL grandmother, she was someone else posing in the coffin at the funeral.

I was charged with delivering the box, containing the only copy of the will, to my parents in Florida. I'm not from Florida.

In dreamtime, I live in a luxury dormitory, a kind of home for college students with amenities worthy of the Taj. A tall cylindrical spire in the midst of a bustling northern metropolis (some concatenation of Boston and New York?) that bulges in the center like a snake with a donut caught in its throat. Rings of Saturn?

The first night with the will in my dresser, safe under the socks and underwear, I had fears of it being stolen, fears that manifested themselves in acute cramps of the muscles between my shoulder blades. The second night, fearless I slept, and the Will was gone when I awakened.

In its place were little post it notes in the shapes of the objects taken, with sharpie descriptions of what used to be there. Poor replicants.

At dinner that evening, amidst many white tables of the sort that are put up for special occasions (weddings, proms, and office holiday parties), I learned the culprit's ident. "Very attractive, but Not so gorgeous as to be truly Turkish", another friend once described. He confessed, but mostly because the Will + friends had been stolen from him too. He had to quit his day job as a result.

My tall, lanky, lugubrious blondeheadedfriend had taken it from him, he offered hoping to be let off. On a white tabletop, I nearly strangled her after she admitted to selling off the hand me downs (heirlooms?) on ebay so she could pay rent and losing the Will to a trash can after using it to wipe clean her chicken fingered hands.

The school held a mass for me and the lost Will. Now that it was gone, no one stood to gain, my grandmother's intentions and inheritances would disappear into the ether, not even a bank would see a profit. Here's hoping someone finds it in a landfill, intact, as We Were Always Told to Do The Right Thing and return property found in paper bags on the street.

"Why did you choose to do this now, to take this Will from me, which no one else could use, or at least not to great profit. Why this, why not my expensive equipment, my camera or tv, or the money in my desk? And why not earlier this year, earlier in my life?" My appeal to the mass.

Shrewdish and spectacled a girl stood quickly, saying, "Because of your accent?" (I have none-truly). Laughs.

I followed a therapist to my home. My friend was there, asked "This is the most dramatic affair on campus in weeks, better tell me now what your plans are for proceeding, otherwise I'm going to have to go digging and deep." Fuck off. I left the therapist and friend for the hallway.

A teacher, who had followed me home, and had remained always outside of my peripheral vision, now, behind me, whispered, "You're ready to work for me" and took me to her school, not mine. She left me at the door, "Trust me, this place Will teach you."

In the entryway were piles of papers on fire, tumbling down the hall, burning the feet of the lockers. A goth girl walks toward me, her face melting pineapple yogurt, she pukes in the bathroom, bulemic and showing. A muslim girl comes out on her way in, sobbing all over her headcloth. It sticks.

I enter the cafeteria, and begin with the chef. He speaks Creole and fries a mean corn cake, telling me to pitch in I cut up some peppers. I start to saute and the aroma brings a Fin, 14 at my estimation, speaks Chef too. Introduces himself, glad to meet me. And the corn tastes so good, but the peppers have a long way to go, he says. Turns out the parents don't even care about the Will and a Turkish guy makes his way over to the steaming pot of chicken soup on the backburner.

End