Who Is Brian Quinn?

Vice or Versa? - Genevieve - Crushed Skulls and Bomber Jackets

So I've known Karl a while I think. He's a friend, we've had a few adventures together over the years, he's acted as my ad hock literary agent on occasion and I feel comfortable in general spilling the proverbial beans to him and I feel safe drinking with him, not gonna wake up naked covered in permanent marker. We were drinking talking drinking talking. Or actually he was drinking, I was talking. Had been for some time.

"It's not that I'm tired of dreaming," I said. "Dreaming is fine, everybody does it. You can't help it. I'm just tired of this whole hackneyed idea that the difference between dreaming and not dreaming is so problematic. It's everywhere these days, movies, books, commercials. Who cares, you know? I mean, it's like everybody is so preoccupied with this idea that reality might all be a dream or something like a dream and maybe someday we'll all wake up and the real stuff will happen. But then maybe that will be a dream too. It's endless, circular like everything else these days I guess."

Karl seemed about to interject into my little tirade but he just bit his lip and blinked.

"You know what I mean?" I asked.

"Not completely," said Karl.

"It's just that whole idea of being asleep and dreaming and thinking you're awake. Or vice versa."

He paused and licked his lips. "What does that mean?" said Karl. "Vice versa. Is it like French or Latin or something?" He coughed uncomfortably and continued. "Because I thought vice meant a habit like smoking or porn," he jiggled his glass making the ice cubes tinkle against the sides. "Versa on the other hand doesn't mean anything, right? I mean, by itself. Put it with vice and it means something, I guess. But by itself nothing. No one ever just says versa. You have to say vice versa. Or is it vice a versa? I don't know."

I bit my lip and blinked.

Initially, I had been trying to explain to Karl my earlier dream, the one with the Interrogating Cop talking about Brian Quinn and Nina calling on the pay phone but the conversation slowly degenerated into pitiful non-sequiturs. And what the hell does that mean, non-sequiturs?

Karl hadn't bothered to shave or put on clothes. He sat there on the sofa in boxers and slippers. On his head a faded hunting cap with furry ear flaps he had down over his ears.

"Vice versa," I said. "I don't know Karl. You got a dictionary? We could look it up."

"Naw," he stood. "Hate 'em."

"Dictionaries?"

"Yeah, hate the things. Damn nuisance. Why should there be a list, a huge list I might add, of words I'm allowed to say, telling me how to say them and how to use them? Think about it, every definition in a dictionary is just a bunch of other words. Ridiculous. It's like your little dream thing you were saying. It's endless. You look up one word and then you have to look up more words so you can figure out what the first word was about." He drained his glass quickly and crossed the room to the bar. "Once you're in there's no escape. Like a maze. A damned maze."

I hadn't touched my drink. Beverages annoy me. If I'm not thirsty why should I drink something?

"Anyway," he continued. "They'll be here shortly."

"Who?" I asked.

"My guests."

"Your guests?"

"That's right. And when they get here don't get all grim and stuffy. Be pleasant. I don't want you voicing the obvious or saying anything too clever. It might get them riled. You don't want to see them when they're riled."