I fall asleep in the yard and wake up with laser beams for eyes. I do not discover this until I tug on my earlobe (a nervous habit I developed in preschool) and the lasers involuntarily shoot out and vaporize a squirrel. Somewhat scared of my newfound powers I make my way into the house. A group of elderly triplets is busy rearranging everything. The house is unnaturally warm. So warm, in fact, that the triplets have all removed their shirts and wear only old-fashioned shorts and flip-flops. They seem, at first, startled to see me, and then continue with their vigorous rearranging. The couch is turned over on its side. The loveseat is half out the door. The television is smashed. The carpet is torn up. Plants are overturned. One of them is in the process of feeding my now-destroyed coffee table into the roaring fireplace. That is why it is so hot.
“Stop! Stop!” I shout.
They sweatily proceed going about their business, fiendishly, as if driven by something even greater than destruction. I look at the one in the middle, the one hanging from the ceiling fan, trying to loose it from its mooring. My thumb and index finger clasp my right earlobe and, unhesitatingly, I give it a tug. Twin laser beams shoot out and vaporize the man, leaving the fan at an odd angle.
The other two (twins now, I guess) finally stop their destruction and stare at the empty space where the third one was. The one on the right puts his left hand on his hip and gestures into the air with his right. He says something that sounds like, “Jub,” but maybe it’s just a foreign language.
The one on my left throws up his arms and says, “Jub!”
Maybe the missing triplet’s name was Jub? I don’t know. The twins proceed to get into an argument in that strange foreign language, anger flashing in their eyes.
The one on the right punches the other one in the ear. He holds his ear, wanders over to the couch, and sits on the section remaining in the house. He sticks out his lower lip, tears streaming down his face.
“You didn’t have to hit him,” I say to the one on the right. “Why are you here anyway?”
He looks at me and says, “I … I don’t understand.”
“Do you think you guys can put everything back?”
“I … I don’t understand.”
Jesus, I think. These people are thick.
Now he sticks his finger into his bellybutton and jiggles it around a bit, looking up at the ceiling as if thinking of something. Then he shakes his head as if whatever he was thinking is wrong. Suddenly, he lurches across the room, throwing himself onto his brother, savagely beating him around the shoulders. Grasping my earlobe, I fire off another laser and he disappears as well. The remaining triplet continues to blubber. I don’t like the sound. I realize I don’t have to put up with the sound and, besides, what is a lone triplet, anyway? I vaporize him. Then I make some coffee and spend the rest of the day putting the house back in order.
That night, I dream the triplets are in bed with me, all shirtless and slippery. They argue in their dumb language and proceed to take apart my dreams—shattering them, rearranging them, shoving them into a fire. When I wake up, I no longer have laser beams for eyes.
