Hold Your Tongue.

I have fairly vivid dreams. Being very detail oriented in my waking life carries over into my dream world, often with comic and sometimes nauseating results. Case in point:

Last night I dreamt that I was in New York with my roommates, Ian and Christopher. We were walking up 8th Avenue, somewhere in Chelsea, looking in shop windows, slowly making our way north. Christopher was complaining that he was hungry.

"We just passed a whole line of restaurants," Ian pointed out. "Why didn't you just go in and get something?"

"I didn't want anything from those places," Christopher replied, stomping his foot in mock petulance.

I rolled my eyes. This is a fairly common mealtime exchange. It was at this point that the dream took a slightly more surreal turn. I realised that I had been carrying a small, stainless steel surgical tray the entire time. On that tray, for all the world to see, lay two tongues. Human tongues. Suddenly aware of the excess of space in my mouth, I deduced that one of them must be mine. Ew. No one else seemed to think much of this particularly grisly fact. Neither Ian nor Christopher made any mention of it. None of the strangers we had passed on the street had granted me even one horrified look of acknowledgment. Strange...


In a flash (the incongruent kind, so popular in dreamscapes), we were on 7th Avenue, closer to midtown, still heading north. We passed a small deli.

"I want something from here!" Christopher piped up.

"Fine," Ian said. He looked to me, I shrug-nodded in compliance.

We entered, and I was immediately struck by how small and dark it was - not typical of a New York deli. Where was the white linoleum? The brightly lit deli case? The chrome accented tables and vinyl booths and chairs? This place was gross (thought the woman carrying the tongues). Everything was dingy and brown. The swarthy man behind the counter would have looked more at home in a butcher's shop, with his bloody apron and slaughterhouse scowl. Christopher stepped forward, ordered his food and took it to one of the unappetising tables.

"Dude, we're not eating here," Ian told him. "We have to be someplace."

Christopher turned away slightly in his chair, and continued eating. Ian gave me a pleading "do something" look, which I answered with my best "he's your husband not mine" look. He sighed, turned back to the proprietor, and ordered his lunch. "Umm, Italian hoagie, please, with mayo...To GO!" he added pointedly, over his shoulder.

"What are you havin', lady?" the deli man asked me.

I shook my head, declining.

"Well, I have to weigh those to charge you for them," he indicated to the tray in my hands.

I withdrew the tray protectively, grunting my objection.

"Oh, n-n-no," Ian interjected. "She came in with those."

Deli man looked at us both skeptically. "Show him," Ian prodded.

Sighing in resignation, I let my mouth drop open, revealing the gaping hole where my tongue should have been. The man covered his mouth in revulsion. Finally!, someone who acknowledged the ick factor of the situation!

"You're gonna have to leave," he waved me toward the door.

I stared at him in disbelief, my jaw still dropped open. My gaze drifted from his slightly green face to the dimly lit deli case. Cow's tongue. Pig's feet. Brains?!? But of course, I was the gross one. Butthead. He shuffled me out the door. Ian exited shortly after, sandwich in hand. I motioned toward the door, questioning.

"Chris is staying here," he said flatly. "Let's go."

He walked to the curb. An old, beat up sedan was parked and waiting for us. He made his way around to the driver's side. I balanced the tray in my left hand, reaching down to open the passenger door. Just like waiting tables, I thought, well, without the whole "tongues and car door" thing, but hey-a tray's a tray. I gingerly snaked my way into the seat, finally resting the tray on my knees. The car was musty inside. Somehow, I recognised it as Ian's car. It bore no physical resemblance to his ACTUAL car, but hanging from the rear view mirror was the tell tale "Bumblebee" Transformers key chain. He unwrapped his sandwich and handed me the paper.

"D'ya mind?" he glanced at the tray in my lap.

I covered the tongues with the deli paper so he could eat in non-grossed-out peace. He drove up 7th Avenue, eating his sandwich. It struck me that 7th Avenue was one way, headed downtown, and in another dream flash, we were driving up 6th instead. Poor Christopher, he'll never find us now. I felt hungry. I thought longingly to myself that Koreatown's great veggie restaurants were just a few blocks to the south. Apparently, it's possible to daydream in your sleep. I snapped out of it in time to notice that we were about to miss our turn. I clapped, panicking, indicating with my hands that we had to turn right - NOW! One-handed, tires squealing, Ian executed what my mother used to refer to as a "bat turn", and we came to a stop in front of a tall granite building. Entering the building, we marched purposefully through the lobby and onto the elevator. I pushed "4" with my elbow, and we fell into elevator stance - eyes up, facing the doors, watching the numbers climb. We didn't speak. I obviously couldn't, but it struck me that people rarely do speak in elevators. I wonder why that is? Ding! The doors opened onto a nondescript hallway. Drab bluish carpet. Drab whitish walls. Drab brownish doors. There was a window in the wall, a short way down the hall, and to the left. We walked up to it. A round-faced nurse greeted us cheerily.

"Can I help you?" she chirped.

"Yeah, my friend has a little, um, problem," Ian answered. He stepped aside and presented me.

I had removed the paper before we left the car, and there they were. Two human tongues. It looked to me like rigor or atrophy was setting in. The tips had begun to turn under, giving them each a distinct "lobster tail" appearance. I opened my mouth. Say "aaah". I was so over this.

"Oh, dear," the nurse replied. "Come in and sit down. The doctor will see you shortly."

The door next to the window loudly buzzed its permission for us to enter. I started at the noise and the tongues lolled to one side. I tried to right them, but their increasing curvature sent them taste bud side down on the tray. Great, now they look like a pair of elf shoes. We entered what should have been the waiting room. Instead, it was a single, small room that served as the nurse's station, reception desk, and patient waiting area all at once. Oh, joy, I even multi-task in my sleep. I sat in one of the chairs along the back wall. Ian sat next to me.


It was the first time I was able to really examine the contents of the tray. One tongue was slightly larger than the other. They had lost a significant amount of their colour. They were more bluish-grey than pinkish-red. Lovely. I picked up the smaller of the two. I heard Ian make a disgusted noise next to me. I grunted, teasing him and laughing a throaty, tongueless laugh. He turned away. The tongue was firmer than I thought it would be. It must be dehydrated, I thought. I turned it over. I recognised the striping on the bottom,despite its change of colour. It was definitely my tongue. I turned the severed end toward me. The ends of blood vessels peeked out like small, empty straws. The exposed muscle was a pale, almost white yellow. I pinched the base of the tongue between my thumbs and forefingers. I felt two hard lumps beneath the dry flesh. Tumors? They were symmetrical in size and placement. Glands, maybe? I squeezed harder. Two streams of saliva shot from the underside of the tongue and hit the tray in my lap. Their tinny report garnered the attention of my bladder. Not now, I chided.

I had an idea. I took a deep breath through my nose, and braced myself for the gruesome task. Before I lost my nerve, I hurriedly fed the base of the tongue into my empty mouth. Do not throw up. Do. Not. Throw. Up. You're just putting it back where it belongs. I winced as the cold, dry thing slid past my lips. It lay dead in my mouth for a short time (although it seemed like an hour, at least), and then I felt something warm in the back of my throat. It was blood. I could feel the tissue knitting itself back together. I continued breathing through my nose, wondering if my internal gross-out meter would ever drop out of the red zone. My tongue felt swollen and foreign, but warmer. It twitched. I smiled, relieved.

"Ah tink ah fissed ih," I muttered.

Ian jerked his head toward me, glancing at the tray and then at my slightly embarrassed face. "Please tell me you didn't."

"Mmhm," I admitted, biting my lips and nodding.

"That has GOT to be the grossest thing I've ever..." He shuddered, unable to finish the thought.

"Wuh-ebuh. Ih wus mah tungk." The swollen feeling was subsiding. My tongue was still too dry. It kept sticking to the inside of my mouth. I could now taste remnants of mayonnaise and...Pastrami? I haven't eaten real meat in so long, I can't ever be sure of those flavours. Damned deli paper. What little blood I hadn't swallowed, I tried to swish in my mouth. It wasn't helping. "Wahduh."

The nurses and Ian all looked at me, confused. "Wahduhr!" I repeated a little more clearly, making a drinking motion with my hand.

"Oh, water!" one of the nurses translated.

Ian reached into his backpack (where the hell did that come from?) and grabbed a small bottle of water, tossing it to me.

"Fanks," I offered, a little blood trickling out of my mouth. He turned away again. "Shicken." I drew half of the contents of the bottle into my mouth. My tongue felt like one of those "just add water" sponges. I felt it slowly coming back to life. I swallowed the blood-tinged water, cringing at the slightly metallic taste. I moved my tongue up and down, back and forth. "Wah cuhluh?" I inquired, pushing the still numb tip out through my lips. One of the nurses came over to examine it.

"Ooo, it's still a little purple, but it looks nice and alive now," she encouraged.

I swigged the rest of the water, but didn't swallow it. I sat there for a bit, cheeks ballooned out, waiting. I began testing the normal acrobatics of my tongue, rolling it and flip-flopping it inside my tightly closed, full mouth. It seemed to have reattached completely. I swallowed. "I think it's okay now," I announced, my speech clearer, but still slightly thick. I slapped Ian on the shoulder to get his attention. He hesitated. I threatened him. "If you don't look, I'll bite into a Popsicle the first chance I get." Having extremely sensitive teeth, even the thought of that sends shivers down his spine. He finally looked at me, judging it to be the lesser of two evils.

"Clam tongue?" I asked, opening my mouth and executing one of my more impressive lingual tricks, mimicking the rippled edge of a clam shell.

"Yes, but that's still gross," he conceded, shaking his head. "I think I liked you better with your tongue on the tray."

"Bitch."

It was the last word I spoke before I woke up this morning. I sat up in bed, my fingers automatically in my mouth. Still there. I reached over to grab the water bottle from my night stand, draining it. I sat with my mouth full of water, just like in the dream. I wondered a number of things: What the hell did I eat before bed last night? How did I lose my tongue in the first place? Why were there TWO tongues? What ever happened to Chris? Why was Ian driving a junker? As the fog of sleep lifted from my mind, it all took on the appropriate veneer of nonsense.


Hopefully, my brain will decode these images in time. The symbolism of losing one's tongue might have to do with keeping secrets. Aside from having quite a few secrets of my own, I have enough dirt on other people to start my own cemetery. People tell me things. Secrets happen. It could also be my subconscious mind reacting to the new "open book" policy I've instituted, particularly here, on this blog. If that is the case, it's too bad. I'm on a roll, now. I have no desire to stop, nor do I intend to.


Frankly, I'd rather cut out my tongue.