2
When
darkness lured me up the staircase to his bedroom later, it was like crossing
the threshold into another man’s home.
His bed was an unruly mess; the blankets and sheets were strewn
everywhere, pieces of clothing were dropped like Hansel’s bread in a line
leading to the bathroom. A large framed
print of a graphic black and white typescript hung over the bed. It read, “You must learn to Be Bad before you
can Be Good.” I tiptoed out of there as
if I were exiting a crime scene, leaving none of my own traces behind. I guess I won’t be sleeping in this bed
tonight. It is probably too hard anyway.
As I
proceeded down the hall, I came upon the guest bedroom. The bed there was exceedingly better—carefully
made and tended, sheets tucked in, corners neatly folded. There was a note on
the bedside table. It read: Samantha-I hope you can be comfortable here. Enjoy your stay.-J. I think I can take this note as a
confirmation that this room is where I should be sleeping. The room was lovely with its own private
bathroom, complete with claw foot tub and lavender oil resting on the window
ledge. I brought my bag in the room and
proceeded to fill the empty drawers with my things. Everything thing fit just perfectly-almost
too perfectly, and I pulled out my nightgown to change. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted,
through the closet door slightly ajar, a long black string; kind of out of
character for the neatness and primness of the room. I walked over to the door and peered
inside. The string was apparently coming
from the literally packed in clothing on a much-too-small garment rack. I pulled the string, and something fell from
off the top of the rack. This strange
string led me to a very small lovingly hand-knit sweater that was quickly
unraveling, and if I had pulled harder, would have quickly disappeared. Now, I’ve seen everything. I simply cannot figure this guy out. What in the world, in his unpredictable
world, could he possibly use this for? I
stood there simply stunned as I felt something brush across my leg and
froze. Something black and furry---a
cat? Joe, Joe, Joe, you could have told
me you had a cat. But then, I’d have to
charge you more. I caress the cat for awhile, until he lies back down on top of his little plaid cushion in the corner of the closet. I lie on my own new-found bed, and
close my eyes at last, remaining lucid for at least a short while.
Don’t get sucked in, I repeat to
myself. That’s what the guy outside,
Roc, told me. It’s funny. Now I am starting to wonder about my new
client. I have never seen him (I only
know him from his home and his dog), but somehow he is intriguing me. So many contradictions all around, the dog
for one (such a cutie) certainly doesn’t fit.
I would picture, from what I know of this man, him having a Doberman
pincher, ready and on guard to attack and consume any intruders. This man, a
fancy architect with presumably money to spare, is living so simply in a
bungalow with a non-pedigreed dog.
Something is, to put it simply, just not quite right here.
I drift off to sleep and immediately,
so it seems, begin a vivid, very intense dream.
I dream, from what I can remember, of meeting a man in a strange place
that I have never been to or recalled.
Almost like a warehouse/artist’s loft, I encounter someone in a dark,
empty hallway waiting for a large delivery elevator. I remember asking, “Is this the only way
down?” and he responds, “No, but it is the largest.” We both enter the
elevator. Next thing I remember, we are
driving in his car, at least I think it’s his car, in a strange, almost
desolate part of a city. He has one hand
on the wheel, the other on my leg. I can
almost feel the warmth from his hand. He
turns carefully into a narrow driveway, and a man opens the door for me. The original man escorts me into an obscure
doorway underground (we descended three steps down), his arm grasping mine
thoughtfully, almost caringly. We enter
a place filled with people, but it is not a bar or a club. It is more like a large, sophisticated party with
people who I have never seen before, but I seem to know them all. They do seem very familiar to me, and I
remember having a feeling of affection and being part of this group of
beautiful, lustrous people. Lustrous is
a good word for them. They have an
almost iridescent quality in the light of this underground space. I do not remember much about the man next to
me, only this: his eyes were intensely
dark blue, not navy but more like the color of the sky the moment before it
gets dark, and loving. Somehow I knew
that he loved me and knew me quite well.
A loud scratching sound wakes me from this dream, and I quickly realize
that I should have kept my door open for Harvey. I open the door to let him in, notice the
clock says 2:37 and immediately wish
to go right back to sleep where I had left off.
I can honestly say that it was the most fascinating, warm, heavenly
dream I have ever experienced. I wish it
had been my waking life, but no, I cannot say I have ever felt so loved, free,
so accepted.
Those eyes, though. They are what haunt me now after that
dream. There was something about his
eyes that remind me of someone I used to know, briefly. He had told me once. He said it only once,
but I will always remember that one moment. He had loved me and told me, and I
knew that he spoke the truth when he said it.
I remember that moment, especially his eyes, as he spoke those words: his eyes shed innocence and need, fighting
back, through his composure, passion and desperation. I was privileged with the knowledge to grasp
that those eyes had only known loneliness, and he wished me to be his cure, his
future, his last attempt at happiness.
To me, his eyes were a symbol of the momentary, the feeling that change and
renewal is possible and can happen at any time.
Just one look into such sincerity would give one the feeling that, if
just one person could be true to themselves, then others will follow. He was the universal hero, the lost idealist
without a quest.
This is where this most curious
dream had taken me, far away from that strange but quietly accepting, party. Somewhere, deep within some hidden plan of
our world, there is a system, and this system is disorderly, chaotic, and
forcibly intentional. Is there room for
my old hero within this plan? There
seems only to be room for difference and puzzles without solutions. Therefore, he and my dream will remain lost
and irretrievable. This person from my
past will remain nameless now (it is much too painful to remember fully those
days), the missing piece of this unsolvable puzzle. I reflect on how interesting it is that my current
job presents itself as a tiny glimpse into just how cryptic and totally unsatisfying
life can really be.
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