Dr. King's Refrigerator: And Other Bedtime Stories
3.5/5
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About this ebook
In “Sweet Dreams,” a Kafkaesque tale is set in a world where dreams are taxed—a reality that leads to a man and his dreamlife being audited. In “Cultural Relativity,” a young woman falls in love with the son of the president of an African nation—but is forbidden to ever kiss him. A deeply humane story, “Dr. King's Refrigerator” offers a remarkable glimpse into Martin Luther King Jr.'s life and his refrigerator. “Kwoon” is a graceful and illuminating story about a martial arts teacher on Chicago's South Side.
Compassionate and amusing, thought-provoking and richly imagined, Dr. King's Refrigerator and Other Bedtime Stories is a wonderful and compelling collection from one of America's most beloved authors.
Charles Johnson
Charles Johnson is a novelist, essayist, literary scholar, philosopher, cartoonist, screenwriter, and professor emeritus at the University of Washington in Seattle. A MacArthur fellow, his fiction includes Night Hawks, Dr. King’s Refrigerator, Dreamer, Faith and the Good Thing, and Middle Passage, for which he won the National Book Award. In 2002 he received the Arts and Letters Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He lives in Seattle.
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Reviews for Dr. King's Refrigerator
10 ratings1 review
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Johnson is an accomplished short story writer. This collection is gentle, sly and entertaining. I used it as bedtime reading. It was a great way to transition into the comfortable night.
Book preview
Dr. King's Refrigerator - Charles Johnson
Sweet Dreams
"PLEASE, COME IN. Sit down, he says.
I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting."
You cautiously enter the Auditor’s tiny office, holding in your right hand the certified letter you received yesterday, the one that says Department of Dream Revenue
in the upper-left-hand corner and, below that, the alarming words Official Business.
The letter had knocked you to your knees. It has been burning in your hand and giving you a headache and upsetting your stomach all day long. So it’s almost a relief to finally be here, on the twentieth floor of a gray government building on First Avenue—almost as if you have been a fugitive from the law, running and hiding, and looking nervously over your shoulder. In fact, the letter said you would face prosecution if you didn’t travel to downtown Seattle and take care of this business immediately. But now the anxiety is over.
You are there to pay your dream tax.
As administrative offices go, this one is hardly more than a cubicle. The furniture is identical to every other bureaucratic compartment in the building so that no government worker feels that he or she has been issued more or less than his or her coworkers. There is a cluttered desk, a wastebasket on top of which sits a cross-cut paper shredder, a small table containing a Muratec fax machine and a Xerox copier. At the rear of the room, a four-drawer filing cabinet is pushed against the wall. Resting on this is a small Dream Meter just like the one the government attached to your bed and everyone’s bed many years ago—a little black box roughly the size of a cell phone, with an LCD that digitally reads out the number of dreams you have on any given night, their duration, category, and the fee assigned for each one. Not being a very technical person, you’re not sure exactly how the Dream Meter works, but you do know there is a hefty fine for tampering with it—greater than for tampering with a smoke detector in an airplane’s toilet—and somehow the Dream Meter works in conjunction with the microscopic implant your doctor inserted in your neck through a hypodermic needle, using the same process by which stray dogs are given their own bar code for identification at the city’s animal shelter. To the left of the cabinet, on which sits the Dream Meter, is a calendar turned to today’s October twenty-first-century date.
Can I get you anything?
the Auditor asks. Coffee? Tea?
When you tell him that no, you’re fine, he sits back in his chair, which creaks a little. He is a pale young man; his color is that of plaster, perhaps because he sits all day in this windowless cubicle. You place his age at thirty. Thirty-five. He has blond hair, perfect teeth, and wears a pinstriped shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. All in all, he seems anonymous, like the five hundred other bureaucrats in cubicles just like this one—like functionaries in Terry Gilliam’s movie Brazil—but your Auditor has tried his best to personalize and give a bit of panache to both his office and himself. He wears a brightly colored Jerry Garcia tie. On his desk where your dream file wings open, he has a banker’s lamp with a green glass shade on a solid brass base. And he wears a ring watch on his right index finger. A bit of ostentatious style, you think. Something that speaks to his having a smidgen of imagination, maybe even an adventurous, eccentric spirit beneath the way the State has swallowed his individuality. Right then you decide your Auditor is someone like you, a person who is just trying to do his job and, who knows, maybe he really understands your problem and wants to help you.
Is this your first audit?
he asks.
You tell him that yes, it is.
Well, don’t worry,
he says. I’ll try to make this as painless as possible for you. Have you been read your rights as a taxpayer?
You nod your head, yes. His assistant in the outer office did that.
And,
he asks, did she inform you that if you fail to make a full payment today—or make arrangements to pay in installments—that we can take your paycheck, your bank account, your car, or your house? Did she explain that?
For a moment your heart tightens in your chest. You feel the sudden desire to stand and run screaming out of this airless room, but instead you bite down on your lower lip and bob your head up and down.
The Auditor says, Good. Don’t be nervous. You’re doing fine. And I assure you, everything we say here is confidential.
He peers down at the paperwork on his desk. Slowly, his smile begins to fade. Our records show a discrepancy in the amount of dream tax that you paid last year. You declared on form ten-sixty that you enjoyed the experience of three hundred and sixty-five dreams during the previous tax period. But your Dream Meter recorded five hundred and seventy-five dreams during that time. Dreams, I regret to say, for which you did not pay. Do you have an explanation?
Now the room has begun to blur and shimmer like something seen through a haze of heat. You feel perspiration starting at your temples, and you tug on your shirt collar, knowing the Auditor is right. You tell him you love to dream. One of your greatest pleasures is the faint afterglow of a good dream once it’s over, the lingering, mysterious images as wispy and ethereal as smoke, which you try to hang on to for the rest of the day, tasting them like the memory of a delicious meal, or a secret you can’t share with anyone else. You tell him you enjoy taking a nap in the late afternoon, a siesta like they do in Spain, and that’s why your Dream Meter reading is so high. You thought only dreams at bedtime counted. You didn’t know naps in the daytime counted too.
They do—and so do daydreams,
he says. "You neglected to declare one hundred and eighty dreams experienced during naps. This is a serious offense. Ignorance is no excuse for breaking the law. By my computation, you owe the Department of Dream Revenue ninety-one thousand, six hundred and forty-five dollars and fourteen cents."
That much? you say.
Yes, I’m afraid so,
he says. The amount of your dreams places you in a thirty-three percent tax bracket.
From his desk he lifts a sheet of paper that details your dream underpayments and a long column of dates. Do you see this?
he says. "Your actual underpayment comes to fifty thousand dollars. But we charged you a penalty because, according to our records, you did not estimate the dreams you intended to have and pay the correct amount of tax due. You did not file for an extension. Furthermore, that payment is now two years late. So we had to charge you interest. I must say that a few of your dreams were very lavish and long running. They were in Technicolor. Some of them were better than the movies at Blockbuster. You do have a vivid imagination. And you should be thankful for that. Did you know that in a few Native American cultures, dreams are seen as an extension of waking consciousness, that a dreamer considers his visions when he’s sleeping to be