The Code of Happiness Read Online Free PDF Page B

they're covered in viscous beige snot.
He's powerless as his hands rotate on their own, gravity taking
care of the gloop, peeling away, off his fingers, and dropping to
his feet. Thankfully the room changes. Surreal as it may have been,
the physical experience felt too exact. Now he's in a library
overflowing with books. One volume glows in rainforest green; The Caves of Liita. Inside the pages are blank. He wonders
if this is a story he must write, or obligated to find. The latter
makes sense. He needs to find, to discover. The dream moves quicker
now, less chance to dwell on thoughts. His eye catches a toy sports
car. As he reaches for it, his left arm grows, turning yellow and
sprouting hairs. He touches the new arm with his other hand. It's
kind of cool, like he's turning into Gustav, the yellow demon
monster. His attention is stolen back by the toy car. It vibrates
and in a fraction of a second expands into a bristling burnt orange
wet dream. He's inside it now, plucking at the strings of a fender
guitar, surprised he can play—and play well—with his arm returned
to normal. Vaguely conscious of a crowd outside the car, someone
tells him they're ready and he's bundled into blinding flashes of
paparazzi light bulbs. His smile is a give away. Jamie's liking
this. His escort pulls him through puddles and past people, and
through a door where screams of the adoring burst his eardrums.
He's numb and high, an arena rock god on stage blitzed by the
energy. He's unaware of his legs changing into yellow monster
calves before he launches into the mosh pit. The ecstasy ends when
he's pulled under by his fans and smacks a floor of sticky beer and
piss. Safety is a flashlight between the silhouettes of bodies. He
touches the dark ugly floor and crawls through legs both wiry and
thick while every now and then taking a kick from the oblivious
above. When he surfaces the crowd's roar lifts him like riding a
tsunami, and in seconds he’s back to the stage where he's set upon
and has the life snogged out of him by a woman. He loves her
aggressiveness, her wet fleshy tongue against his, the warmth of
her breath and sweaty face. He's groping her, pulling down her
pants, she pushes him back against a wall. They're in a ratty
bathroom stall. He hears Ray's voice, “Fantasy Po, you should be
pleased it's not you.” But who is it Jamie thinks, and stops for a
moment to see. The woman pulls back. He's struck with confusion.
“Grace?” She's looking up and down at his body and leaves with a
wicked smile. All his limbs have turned yellow monster, but the
pace of the dream is unrelenting, he has no time to reflect, a
Grammy is shoved into his hand, then an eighty million dollar
check. With each award a body part changes. There's an
Oscar—no—wait, there's three. Jamie's a complete ogre with a Super
Bowl ring looking at his new form dressed in elastic paper. The
uniform, the training gear, whatever it was, makes sense now. His
vision closes, the scope of his view reduced to the size of a
chickpea, awareness of time and space lost in the murky gray matter
of the ogre. Rage consumes, anger takes control. A yellow body of
fresh gooey hair trapped, crashing against walls, the only glimmer
of sight, white padding. Pain arcs through his spine as he beats
himself to the edge of unconscious—the only plausible, instinctive
way out. Then it all goes black. Not a whisper or a breath. He
remains in the still dark of space. Airy nothingness. Death, he
wonders. No bright lights or the touch of soft fleshy tissue, not
even floorboards to be sucked through. Then voices crackle, like
over an old mid-twentieth century wireless. Po's voice. He never
thought he'd feel relief at the sound of her presence. He feels
lighter, as if being lifted by angels, and the sensation of slime
slipping off his body rejuvenates. The blindness allows him to
appreciate the warmth and power of the shower as a gift. Hands
cleanse his torso and face. He's not sure if they're his,