Falling in Love is Easy, Being in Love is Hard, Chapter III | Alexander T. Damle

Third Chapter - A Supranational World

            As Emily drives across New Mexico, the speed limit plus five (she thinks subconscious even as she sees the scenery rush by a little too fast), the sky seems a perfect blue, not even the faintest wither of a cloud, and then she sees her car’s thermometer clamber past 100 and she brushes a bit of sweat from her brow. Down to Roswell to meet a guy just so she can bring him home to her parents. Sure, she has business there too, but isn’t that what Skype is for? The movements of the road begin to become subconscious, as the asphalt stretches out straight and infinite, and all the other traffic seems to vanish. She keeps catching the speedometer drifting upwards, turns up the music, Cecil Taylor’s “Unit Structures,” an album she has compared on numerous occasions to falling in love - she wants to understand it, but can’t, and knows she should like it, but just can’t force her brain around its most basic processes.

            Her Land Rover fits this earth, a symbol of absolute colonial control over the patches of ground that can only ever truly belong to shifting sands and pure blue sky, and yet the great colonialists claim still to own here above all else. A car built to make its driver feel as though, out here, even out here, especially out here, nothing can touch them.

            Between Lincoln County and Roswell there is not but earth and monuments to what came before, entire towns demarcated on GPS now nothing more than an abandoned building or two lay next to a half-fallen post box, Kochia growing up and swallowing last symbols of civilization back unto the earth. A few semis use the empty roads as easy shipping routes, but most of the time even they keep a distance away from this land of decay, and all is silent but for the cry of crickets, Desert Sage rustling in the breeze.

            Then a great rumbling screams across this barren earth, starting low, the level of a nightclub base line, a sound you feel while still you know not if it’s real, before, with the grace of the doppler effect, it rises upwards to a screeching treble, and when again it’s gone there the asphalt already near-boiled under New Mexico sun lays now even hotter.

            He went with the car instead of the bike - he wanted to make a good impression, afterall. In some prior life the thing had been a 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T, but it is useless to focus on one so long dead, a name attributed to an idea, a time in automotive design that, while Emile held it in certain respect, so too did he find it outdated. Power steering and power braking, a brand new acceleration system, roll cage (just in case), new engine, blower, he even lost the ridiculous radio antenna off the front, replaced instead with satellite. Inwards so too modernized, a full GPS system, side and rear facing cameras connected to a full HD monitor. He was, he figured, ready for the end of days.

We all think we’re ready right up until days end and we realize just how dependent we were on the basic cycles, even out here where day and night are dictated by sun and moon rather than the gravitational overpower of 9-5.

           

            Emile arrives in the parking lot of the cheap burger joint Emily suggested meeting at a full fifteen minutes early, and, rather than going inside, he sets in his car (the old bench seats long replaced with buckets), questioning whether he still has time to give this up, just go back to his fortress in the desert, and never speak to his family again, for he knows at heart that if he goes home alone once more, a part of his mother may just die, and a part of his father might never again grant him the faintest modicum of respect.

            The car’s clock (one of the few parts still analoge against a digital age) ticks away the seconds, and yet he doesn’t move

            Emily, on the other hand, pulls up exactly on time, immediately leaves her vehicle, locking it behind her, then stands stock still, facing the restaurant, a dull breeze blowing behind her, the lone tumbleweed amongst garbage a casual fuck-you. She considers why she’s here, maybe at this diner, maybe in this state, in this life, on this earth, existing still at all, what’s the point? Creating an empire then using it simply to satisfy her parents, when does it end? So she turns on the heel of one of her bespoke cowboy boots, flight in mind, when fate makes its last little push to shove its separated soul back together, and Emile, courage finally in hand, moves towards the door as Emily moves away, and the two almost collide, before, fate, again weighing in, seeming this time to making an honest effort to avoid a true romantic comedy deus-ex, stops Emile dead in his tracks, leaving the two an inch to spare of humiliation, and both thinking about some moment in a high school hallway, rushing to class, books flung every which way and muttered apologies and protracted attempts to avoid the slightest eye contact.

            “Holy shit.” Emily reacts first.

            “Sorry.”

            “Hey, no worries, you didn’t actually walk into me.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Uh... are you?”
            “Emily?”

            “Emile?”

            “Shit.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Uh...” Emile glances about, rubs his arm nervously. “Should we, maybe, go inside?”

            “Sure, yeah.”

            Up to the counter they step, slightly out of sync with each other, maybe intentionally, or maybe subconscious. Then, once more, at the counter, fate takes hold and, the restaurant empty, all hands on deck, their orders are taken simultaneously, and, just out of ear contact with each other, they accidentally order the same dish, an observation that, when it emerges casually from the mouth of one of the counter staff, is a point of mutual contrition and, it is agreed upon quickly, equal embarrassment. The order is not unusual, in fact, if the question was posed to the staff, they might suggest that a green chilli cheeseburger is their most popular item. Paired with diet Coke, even, is quite common. Where the situation became unusual was in the specificity of the differences, Emile’s insistence on extra pickles, Emily’s insistence on none, Emile’s choice of mustard, Emily’s of ketchup. These choices, slight in the Grand Scheme of Things, act as a quiet symbol of connectivity on some level of genetic sandwich design (if your dad likes onions on his burgers, will you?), and, maybe, just maybe, the soul (if the you of a past life liked onions on their burgers, will you?).

            But sandwiches and the soul are two very different things.

            “So.” Emile starts then stops again.

            “I don’t really know what we’re supposed to talk about here.”

            “The site had a primer...”

            “I know. I, well, I was supposed to... my secretary... uh... do you know who I am?”

            “You own a company. A big one.”

            “Yeah. A big one. Uh... Apostates.com is one of our... products.”

            “Oh.”

            “It was one of my personal projects, actually. My parents...” She makes a noise half laugh and half cough.

            “I get you.”

            “Yeah, I suppose you would.”

            “So what, you drove all the way down to Roswell to meet a match? The site seems to be doing well, I would have thought you could have done fine up in Albuquerque.”

            “Eh, you’d think so.

            “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, well, hell, I wrote the fucking algorithm. You’d think I’d be doing great. But truth be told, you’re the first real match the system has made for me.”

            “Probably says more about our folks than it does about us.”

            “Yeah.” They pause, bite into their burgers, and, it is noticed by the janitor mopping silently in the corner, that the motions of their jaws match each other perfectly. Emile breaks the silence.

            “Maybe we should talk about our parents?”
            “Yeah, that would be a good starting point.”

            “So, I mean, I’ve got to say, I’m a little confused... you’ve got to be worth a hell of a lot of money, you’re really successful, but you still need some website to get your parents to leave you alone?”

            “Yeah, well, I never quite was what they wanted.”

            “What did they want?”

            “An artistic type. One who actually made a little money, sure, but, well, my mom is a successful painter, my dad writes movies. Coming from that, I think you can kind of figure I’m a failure in their eyes. I’m single, with no sign of that changing. I don’t really give a shit about much beyond my company.”

            “And why is that?”
            “Heh, it’s not easy to explain. I just, I’ve always had this desire to build something, something great that will stand the test of time. And more than just another web whatever point O company, instead, something to challenge the way we live and think. A company more powerful than a nation, with the right... the right ideology.”

            “I looked you up. You own mines, pharmaceuticals, arms manufacturers, hell, even a PMC or two.”

            “Necessary evils, in my mind, at least. Especially if they are held in the right hands. Turn on the news, see what governments have managed to do, a world where we always work ourselves to death for money that’s meaningless. So I thought, maybe we rebuild ground up, create a supranational world, where we all are given the opportunity to live the lives we want.” He casts her a rather questioning glance. “Oh Jesus Christ, now I sound like a fucking James Bond villain.” She stares out the window listlessly, but he smiles at her.

            “C’mon now. I live in the middle of the desert alone in a house I designed myself driving home made cars and motorbikes, drinking and writing, hanging out with alcoholics and schizophrenics, wishing death on the world. I’m half Cormac McCarthy sub-plot, half late-period Fitzgerald. We all have our cliches.”

            “Ha, well, I think most people would rank Bond Villain a little lower on the social ladder than modern hermit.”

            “Most people don’t know shit. Bond’s a sociopathic womanizer. The villains always aspire to something more than violence. Except, you know, the shitty Pierce Brosnan era ones.”

            “You strike me as a Roger Moore fan.”

            “Oh yeah, got me there.” Each of the words he lets drip with sarcasm.

They both start laughing, and the staff, they all glance at the two, confused, slightly, the man looking climbed just now from under a rock, living amongst the rattlesnakes and the Desert Mallow and the Sand Verbena and the coyotes and carrion, and she climbed out of the back of a world that doesn’t seem to exist down in Roswell any more, just aliens, wealthy farmers, and a whole collection of American refuse.

            “So what about you, Emile... what’re your parent's’ problem with you?”

            “They wanted someone who’d get a good job, probably a great job, make a ton of money, settle down somewhere hospitable and connected, be the sort that they could tell the three friends they have left between the two of them what a fucking success I am. They wanted me to get a nice wife who works another sensible, well paying job, have a couple of kids to fucking hate. But, really, the wife and kids were always secondary to the money.”

            “Sounds like we’d do well to switch parents.”

            “If only, right?”

            “If only if only.”

            “What do you hope to get out of this then, Emily? Someone to post pictures with on Facebook so your parents leave you the fuck alone? Like, what’s the next step, I mean.”

            “Honestly? I need someone to bring to Christmas next year. Every year it’s the same fucking conversation. ‘Emily honey, you’re getting older, you need to meet someone while you’re still young and pretty.’ Fuck that shit.” In this moment, Emily looks about as pretty as the tailless old tom cat that sometimes follows Diablo in his dealings, her fists bunched in quiet anger, the muscles of her face pinched, and yet her eyes, they betray tragedy, death more closely pursuing every second of every day, just need to keep the right edge the curve...

            “Yeah, don’t disagree with you on that. We love our families because we’re told to love our families, and because they paid for us to live whatever shitty lives we lead now, but does that justify years of emotional manipulation and abuse? I mean... shit... I don’t want to write my own tragedies onto you, but...”

            “No, you’re right. And yet still we seek their approval.”

            “Meeting strangers in wind blown cafes in the middle of Nowhere New Mexico in the name of finally making them happy.” He pauses. “So I have to kind of ask... I don’t know. I don’t know if this is something I’m supposed to ask on this fucking thing, but whatever, flying blind here... Why did you give up on actually finding someone?”

            “It’s not worth it. It’s not worth the constant fight that, in the end, I’m always going to lose. I have what I want, what I need. My company, my empire. My Great Creation. I built it all from nothing, and it’s going to change the world. And it won’t get angry at me when I work late. It doesn’t need me to ditch out on an important meeting to pick it up from school. It won’t just fucking leave me. It doesn’t care that what makes me happy is what I’m expected to just care about as long as it keeps it going. I’m in love, sure, but it’s something deeper... Jesus... now I sound like the Fitzgerald character.”

            “We all have our moments.”

            “So what about you, why’d you give up?”

            “Anxiety. Depression, paranoia, a whole laundry list.”

            “You seem alright to me.”

            “Sure. We can talk, talk forever, but that doesn’t mean I could ever love you like I’m supposed to. It would kill me. I fall for my waitress every time I go into town for a slice of pie, and that’s enough to start me downing bottles of whiskey, putting my fist through walls, screaming at nothing. I can’t fucking do it. I tried so hard for so long, and it was killing me. I did finally actually fall in love, eventually, but it didn’t make me happy, the opposite, actually. The closer we got, the more I felt the need to just run, run forever until I fell off the edge of the earth. I, uh, well this girl and me, we finally had sex. I don’t know if I should get into this, but, well, I had a panic attack. For a week afterwards, I didn’t leave my room, just sat in the dark. It took months before I could even talk to other people again. Over the course of the whole episode, I managed to lose thirty pounds, drop out of college, and almost kill myself. And then I thought back to what my life was like before me and this girl ever got together, and I realized, well, it wasn’t Disney Channel happy, but it would do. I was content as long as I was on my own, living the life I wanted, writing the things I found beautiful. So that was that.”

            “And then you moved to the middle of nowhere in Lincoln County.”

            “Yeah. Being around people too much makes me lonely, reminds me of what I’ll never have. Jealous. Out in the desert, all you have to be jealous of are the fucking Jackals, for their lives of perfect nothing.”

            “But that still leaves your parents.”

            “Yup.”

            “I get it. So you’re a writer then, that pays the bills?”

            “Hah, well that’s the funny thing. I am a writer, and a damn good one at that. Thing is though, damn good writers don’t make enough to buy and fix up a 70’ Challenger R/T. I write erotica on the side. I’m one of the most successful writers of male-perspective erotica in the world. Different name, of course. I wonder what my readers would think if they knew I’ve only had sex once.”

            “I guess you must study the subject pretty hard then.”

            “Pornography is one of my favorite hobbies.”

            “I have no idea how you’re still single.”

            “Fucking hilarious.”

            “So what do you think?”

            “About?”

            “Is this going to work?”

            “Depends.”

            “On what?”

            “Whether, in my parents’ company, you can pretend to be the person everyone on earth seems to think you are, as opposed to the one sitting across from me now.” She greets him with a smile wry and tired and a little bit broken.

            “Make comments as elegantly writerly as that and my parents will dig you. Just keep your mouth shut about the erotica.”

            “Isn’t it funny?”

            “What?”

            “I feel in a way like we’re somehow different parts of the same complete person, what should’ve been one become instead as two. Born complete, we could have done something great. As is, however, we can barely function, reliant instead upon the will of machines to bring us unto the image our parents wish to bestow upon us.”

            “Jesus.”

            “What?”

            “You talk like you write.” He smiles briefly.

            “Once in awhile. Mostly I just alienate people. Or piss em’ off.”

            “Yeah, I can see that.”

            “Where do do we go from here then? Do I just show up at one of your family dinners?”

            “You could, but I run a social media empire. It might raise some eyebrows. We need a picture from one of our “dates” to overshare with the universe.”

            “Sure.”

            The two lean in close together, and Emily puts her arm around Emile’s shoulder, and at this he startles slightly, and she thinks to say something to this, but finds her mind run suddenly blank of words. In this first settling of connection as flesh touches most briefly flesh, if this tale were as many (most) that beset themselves upon us, the two might now feel the first lingerings of love, some suggestions at stirrings in the nether regions, fluttering of the heart, a slight sweat on the brow.

            But this is not one of those tales. There is a feeling at this touch, beyond the discomfort, but it is not love, rather something else, that perhaps of two twins separated by an eternity found each other for a first time and hopefully for an only time (never need again separate), and this touch symbolizing a settling of electrons back into their natural state, a formation of a perfect covalent bond, from where once was only the mighty flashing fluttering of oblivion and chaos.

            As the shutter on the phone camera slams down, and light is dispensed invisibly inwards onto the lens, and the image that once was now is, this time replicated in pixel form for all time, behind the two, on the busy street, a homeless man wanders into traffic, and cars swerve to avoid him, drivers lean on horns, but hear he does not, and above him he waves a sign proclaiming that the end, it’s really fucking nigh, and he may be right in this (is right in this), and as the traffic surges around him, as water rushing up about a rock in a river, somewhere in southern India, a child coughs heavily, and, when she takes her hand away, sights blood, and she begins to cry and her father cries too, and they know that what comes now knocking at the door is the Angel of Death but what they don’t yet know is that those who ride with him are the other three horsemen, dragging the apocalypse behind them, and, meanwhile, in a small bar in Athens, a handsome young man sips languorously of Ouzo and speaks of organizing together and doing something about the fucking filth coming to infect Old Europe, and in a few years the same man will be giving the same lecture, now to hundreds of thousands as, all around him and his listeners, the economy of Old Europe runs its course down  the bowl, past the closet bend, through the city sewer system, into a filtration plant, then, finally, is dumped summarily into the sea, and by this point, not even the Great American Leviathan will be able to shelter itself from the horsemen, now legion, and two people, that initial moment guaranteed eternal by the shutter, will live together in a house on the edge of a desert, watching the last lights of civilization flicker out, as yet the stars persevere above, and remaining from that moment in the little diner in Roswell, they have still the one last Thing left to any of the last remnants of humanity, and the covalent bond of their touch still remains, even as the young man who once liked to drink Ouzo rots in the streets of Athens from a bullet issued forth from his own gun, blood of his countrymen spilled around him, despite all his hatred to the contrary, and as the moon rises over the desert in ten thousand years, a ray of silver light will cast out, through the long shattered windows of the home, over a concrete countertop, past a long rusted faucet, before running headlong into a faded, tattered photograph stuck to a decayed refrigerator, and from that photograph onto the moon will gaze Emily and Emile, friendship struck in the moment in the diner now eternal, against all time.

Flatscreen Television | Theland E. Thomas

After work. Sleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned. The sun beats down, and the air is stagnant. My car has leather seats that burn the skin. I roll all the windows down before closing the door, and I turn the AC on full blast. It’s after 4, and I have to pick my sister up from work at 5:30. I could go home, but I don’t want to because once I do I’ll be there all night. There is nothing to do in this town and no one to do it with. I should get something to eat, as I’ve barely had any food today, but even though my stomach is growling, every fast food option seems disgusting.

This week I told my coworker I wanted to buy a flatscreen TV. I still have the old boxy cathode ray TV I’ve had for thirteen years, and I’ve wanted something with better picture quality for a while now, but every time I consider it, I conclude that I don’t need one. She said, “So? I have lots of things I don’t need.” So do I. I have a computer, a tablet, and a phone. I bought a bamboo plant this week. I have a lamp with a blue lightbulb in it. Hundreds of books. Sunglasses. Netflix. Yesterday, I bought two blueberry-pineapple drinks - one for myself, one for my mom.

In that case, I consider buying a flatscreen TV. Because I want one. But they’re expensive, and I can’t justify spending $200 on something I absolutely don’t need. There is no practical use in replacing my old TV with a new one. I bet I can find a cheap one at a garage sale or something.

I turn the key in the ignition and venture onto the road. Windows down, music blaring out from my phone hooked up to the stereo. If it doesn’t shake the rearview mirrors, it’s not loud enough. Today I want it louder. Hardcore and metal blasts in my face, blasts down the street, windows down until the AC gets cool enough. A black guy in a shirt and tie blasting metal down the street, headbanging, and singing along. Amused, I often wonder if that looks funny to passersby. People never peg me as the kind of guy who listens to heavy music. Jazz, classical, or hip-hop maybe.

Windows up now, and I’m cruising down the parkway, looking for a garage sale sign at the corner. Instead, I see a sign that says FREE LARGE TV. Well, isn’t that something. I turn into the street. Look left, and I see corridor lush with trees and identical suburban houses. Keep going, up the street. Another sign: FREE LARGE TV, with an arrow indicating for me to turn. I turn down another street with identical track houses, every third house is the same with a different HOA-approved paint job. And then there’s me blasting metal through the quiet neighborhood. On the right, a huge set sits before the curb, black plastic and wood eating up the sun. The TV is mounted on a speaker, and the whole thing is much too big for my room. I’ve got a little media stand, which I’m just now remembering that I forgot to measure. And I’m just now remembering I have no cash. How would it look to try to buy something at a garage sale and ask if they take credit or debit? I could stop by an ATM. Yeah, if I see something I like, I’ll just run to an ATM. My bank is down the road, plus they have ATMs at every local grocery.

I’m on the parkway again. No more signs. Go up past the library, past the fast food shops, past the apartments and townhomes, to the boulevard. There’s a garage sale sign on the right. I turn in, and a few turns later I’m there, but they’re packing up, and there’s nothing there I want anyway. I’m only looking for a very specific item in the most inefficient manner possible. I turn back onto the boulevard, and see what looks like a garage sale sign on the left. When I’m in the turn lane, I see that it’s actually an open house. Crap. Illegally, I cross the white line and drive down the boulevard.

Now I’m well on my way to completing the big circle around my little suburb. I’m really hungry, and there are some shops in here. A Taco Bell, a grocery store. I could really use some chocolate right now. Or anything really. They say to never go grocery shopping when you’re hungry because you’ll end up picking up a ton of junk you don’t need. My good friend says an old friend works at that grocery store now. I briefly consider stopping in to see her, but then again things didn’t end too well between us, and I don’t think it would be good for me. Might end up having to go in there if I need an ATM though.

There’s another garage sale sign on the left. As I turn in, I recall long, hot Saturday mornings “garage sailing” with my mom, buying useless junk and trinkets that would eventually just end up in our own garage sale. I never thought I’d end up doing the same thing. A green garage sale sign on beckons for me to turn right. There’s an address written on it that I don’t catch. Another sign, another turn. It should be coming up any minute now. Nope, no more signs. I’ve driven through the entire neighborhood, but they must have packed up without the decency to take down their signs so that people don’t drive around thinking they’re being led even though their path is aimless.

I’m back on another main road, and here the speed limit is 45 miles per hour. I like to speed, so I usually go 49 miles per hour. No one really cares about that. 23 months ago, I got a speeding ticket, and the judge said that if I didn’t get another one for two years, it would drop from my record. But today, I’m going 54 miles per hour, and I don’t care. I see more signs on the right. This road has a lot of blind curves, and I speed past them. The pull on the car as I turn the wheel provides a slight bit of pleasure. My ears hurt from the blaring music, and I should turn it down, but instead I turn it up even louder. Can’t hear my growling stomach either way. After a few turns, I realize that this too is an destinationless journey. I see it’s almost 5 and remember that garage sales are generally a morning activity. I pull onto another boulevard. Whatever. I still have half an hour to kill.

There are surprisingly few cars on the road. Then again, I’m never usually out this late on a Saturday evening. There’s a garage sale sign on the right, and I turn in, acknowledging that this is probably another dead end, or rather the entrance to an endless maze of identical houses stretching forever and ever in infinite circles. A suburbanite sprawl. A suburban wasteland.

There’s a song called “Your Little Suburbia is in Ruins” that I want to listen to. I never paid attention to the lyrics, but I like the title, and in the music video they destroy a pretty nice dollhouse or something. I think it’s fitting to blast this as I pass by the nice, comfortable houses looking for a deal that doesn’t exist in a garage sale that doesn’t exist. A blonde woman scowls her blonde scowl at me as I pass. I smile at her, a small, devious, bowed-head smile. Your little suburbia is in ruins now.

Now, there’s a golf course ahead of me, and I turn past it. Someone kill me if I ever take up golf.

I’m in the suburb next to my suburb now, and there’s a mall down this street, and that mall has a Best Buy, so I figure I’ll just stop in there to check out the deals. In the parking lot, a man stops in the road for seemingly no reason and blocks my path. I almost get mad and honk him out of instinct, but then I remember I have nowhere in particular to be at the moment.

In the Best Buy are bigger and bigger TVs, stronger and faster computers, and newer and sleeker video game consoles. There is a little display about electronic mood lighting for the house or something like that, and I think no one really needs any of this crap. I walk to the back, and there are hundreds of TVs on the walls and on displays, each bombarding me with commercials detailing why that particular TV is the best one. One has the words PURE HAPPINESS in bold, white letters, but the high definition slow motion video is of a little boy, head back, laughing, swinging on a tire swing in the backyard, experiencing life in the twilight of a summer evening, far away from any possible TV. Is this the pure happiness that a new TV brings, or is the pure happiness actually watching someone else experience pure happiness on a new TV? If you buy this TV, you will experience pure happiness vicariously through this ecstatic child. This child has offered up his life force in service of your entertainment. Accept this humble offering and patronize it with your cash. The cheapest 32 inch TV I see here is $159. I can’t make a decision now though because I don’t know if a 32 inch will fit in my TV stand, plus I haven’t explored all my options.

I leave and go down the street to Wal-Mart. I hate Wal-Mart. Scratch that I have a some love, mostly hate relationship with Wal-Mart. It’s the only store I’ve ever had nightmares about. Whenever I feel trapped in a situation, I have a dream that I’m trapped in a Wal-Mart, and I’m trying to find someone to help me, but because it’s Wal-Mart, there’s no one in sight. Their TVs are worse quality for the same price, and I think maybe I don’t want a new TV after all. Anyway, I can’t spend a long time in here because I have to pick up my sister. On the way out of the store, I see Fourth of July sales material. Napkins, plates, gross looking red, white, and blue cookies, pastries, and muffins. Poisonous. Wal-Mart flavored. America flavored.

Back in my car. It’s 5:23. If I leave now, I’ll be right on time to pick up my sister. Now I remember that I have a car-warmed apple in my lunch bag. I take a bite of the juicy apple and think that maybe this is what I needed to eat all along.

No Escape From Reality | Theland E. Thomas

My bed is black, my room is black, the space behind my eyelids is black, but there are shades of light floating, spinning, changing, barely visible in the black. Heavy eyelids are not the cause as much as another state of mind. I feel my mentality shift from processing alertness to the calmness of flowing waves, and in this state, I lose sense of my heavy body and begin to drift out to sea to a new world not quite bound to the one I’m tethered to in wakefulness. I’m traveling on the black sea of my mind, the faint buzzing of electricity crashing about me, moving me deeper into tranquil numbness, silence, sleep.

I travel on the waves with the content knowledge of past experience. I know where I’m going, but I don’t know what I’ll find there. Soon, I arrive on the shores of a new reality. I know when I arrive, I won’t be fully aware I’m dreaming. That it will be just like wakefulness, but with a different set of rules that make complete sense in context. I hear the tick of the clock on my wall distort until each tick is a piercing, metallic ring, like the pounding of steel beams against each other. The black quickly deteriorates from the middle, another scene bleeding through.

It’s a bookstore. I’ve just entered, and I walk past the popular fiction display at the front, the smell of coffee wafting from the shop on my left. I love bookstores. They’re almost too much - a place stacked with shelves and shelves of thousands upon thousands of books with pages upon pages of alternate realities, differing perspectives of life, love, sorrow, and happiness. It’s a place of infinite possibilities. I remember days of youth spent in libraries and bookstores, reading books without buying them, the new book smell, fast food, essays and quietly waving goodbye, the second-to-last person to leave.

I take a step toward the fiction section but for some reason am compelled to look to my left. There, I see a girl I know but am afraid to recognize. I can see emotions battling on her face, eyebrows knitting as she starts to smile, then her face softening with worried, hopeful eyes. She lifts a hand. “Hi.”

This inevitable meeting is something I’ve consistently prevented myself from thinking of, and now, confronted with it, I don’t know what to do. She might disappear if I turn away, so I do that. Everything behind me fades into a blur of grey as I walk around the display Now, before me is a man in a trenchcoat with a hat pulled low over his face. He seems to be smoking, but I can’t smell anything but the delicious new book smell blending with the coffee. The man reaches into his coat and pulls out a container. “Hey, man, you want some hummus?”

“Actually, I do.” I take the container from him, and he gives me a spoon.

“This is going to be the best damn hummus you’ve ever tasted.”

I pry the lid open and eat a spoonful, realizing that this is, in fact, the best hummus I’ve ever tasted. I remark, “You’re right, this is the best hummus I’ve ever tasted.”

“Told you,” he said. “That’ll be just ten dollars.”

I nearly choked on my second scoop. “What? I’m not paying ten dollars for -”

“Look, you took the hummus. It’s ten dollars.”

“I don’t want it.”

I try to give him back the container, but he refuses to take it. “Hey, I offer you some hummus, and you take it, and then you don’t want to pay me. What kind of a person are you?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have ten dollars.” I wag the container in my hand, but when he doesn’t take it, I drop it, turn around, and walk away.

The girl is gone. I escape into rows of bookshelves, keeping my head bent, scanning the spines. What I’m looking for, I don’t know, but I’ll recognize it when I find it. I search thoroughly, scanning each individual title, author. I search row by row, up, down, and across, but I still can’t find it. I move to the next row and stop, startled by who’s standing there.

My heart plummets and races at the same time. It’s my dad. He’s spent eight years avoiding me, and I’ve spent eight avoiding him, and here he is, casually browsing through a bookstore as if he has a life outside of my supposed construction of him. He sees me, and his face lights up. He says my name, and I frown in disgust. He takes a step forward, and I take a step back. I don’t want to deal with this right now, so I turn my back and walk away, hiding a frenetic impulse to run with a collected demeanor.

I turn between the bookcases until I feel I’ve lost him. I slow, along with the thumping in my chest, and turn one more time. There she is again. Ana. I nearly jump when I see her. This time, the hope in her face has been eclipsed with sadness. She utters a dejected, “Hey.”

“Hey.” I stand fair distance from her, an asinine precaution considering that she can hurt me from any distance. The mature thing to do would be to stay and talk things out, but a little, red alarm is screaming in the back of my mind.

“So,” she starts, “how are you doing?”

Ana stands immediately before me, and there are books on either side, but beyond that is a blur of grey. She’s looking at me, awaiting my reply, and I can feel the tension of an unstable reality pulling me at the seams. I need to escape somehow. I need to change the course. Time seems to stand still, and I have the odd sense of the gears in another part of my head turning. I’m thinking, but I can’t access what I’m thinking about. And that’s when I realize that this is a dream.

I turn away from Ana and walk deeper into the store. I don’t want run from her just to bump into my dad again. At the same time, I’m pushing to find a way out. I’m straining to get back to that state of blackness, back to the sea through which I can bubble to wakefulness. But, it’s no use - I’m stuck here. In the middle of the store is the man in the trenchcoat standing behind a small stand that holds canisters of coffee.

Coffee! That’s what I need! Coffee can wake me up! I approach the stand and ask, “Can I have some coffee?”

“Yeah,” the man says from below the brim of his hat, “for twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars! You know there’s a cheaper coffee shop right over there, right!”

“But that coffee won’t keep you awake. This one will.”

“Fine.” I pull a twenty from my pocket and lay it on the table. What flavors do you have?”

“Got regular, decaf, and hot water.”

I take the regular and sip it vigorously as I make my way back toward the door, bracing against the searing heat that burns my mouth and raises the bumps on my tongue. The shop grows fuzzy in my peripheral as I approach the exit. Black spots swim in my vision, and, though I’m standing, I feel as though I’m not upright. My eyelids are heavy as I feel myself drifting from the dream and repopulating my body. Finally, I push on the door…

And it’s locked. I snap back to the bookstore with a sense of dread. The door shifts and buckles against my futile pushes. Dread crashes over me, an uneasy swimming feeling. I’m trapped. I turn from the door and scan the building. Leaking coffee slides down my fingers, drips from the cup, and disappears into the stylish, spotted carpet.

I don’t see my dad, Ana, or the trenchcoat guy, so I pick a armchair in the corner and pretend to read a titleless book from the shelf. I hold it in front of my face so I can peer over it, but then I hear a voice to my left. Of course, it’s Ana. I gulp, my throat suddenly dry.

“Oh, hi,” I say, “what a coincidence running into you here.” I look at the book, realizing that no one could have gotten three-fourths of the way through in such a short amount of time. Nervously, I stand, placing the book upside-down on the chair’s arm. I grip the coffee, using it as a barrier between myself and her.

“Hey,” she says. She’s nervous too. She’s wringing her hands and biting her lip. Despite the cold front I put on, something inside of me goes soft. I want to embrace her, to be close to her again. To tell her everything’s okay. To forgive her.

She continues. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but…” she looks down at her feet. I’m not ready for this. I know what she’s about to say, but I’m not ready to forgive and forget or to let go of the acidic pain I’ve been clutching. “...I’m really really sorry for what happened. How I treated you… it wasn’t right, and I’m so sorry.”

The tears welling up in her eyes trigger my own, and I don’t try to wipe them back as they fall. I try to say something, but the words won’t come. I desperately need to get out of here. I take swig of coffee.

Suddenly, a shadow overtakes Ana. It’s my dad, I recognize more through implication than through form. He’s eschewed his human form for that of a shadow that towers tall and spreads wide and bleeds in disappearing currents. Fear strikes to the core of my being, and I turn to run, but the shadow expands, enveloping Ana and everything around me until I’m floating in a completely black space. Before me, I see remnants of my dad’s distorted face hanging in the air, his eyes, nose, and mouth disassociated from any physical body, his features one with the darkness.

“Son,” he says, his voice muted by surrounding black, “We should make some time to talk.”

I cross my arms, and I know if I turn my back or close my eyes, his face will still be right there in front of me. “I don’t want to talk to you,” I say.

“Son, you have to understand. I am a sinner. Will you please hear me out?”

Anger and pain rushes to the forefront, and I hate that it manifests as hot, seething tears. “Why should I?” My sobbing voice can’t convey the hatred and bitterness I feel, though I try to squeeze it into every word.

“Because I’m your father,” he pleads.

“No,” I shout, the anger bursting forth. “You were my father before you left, but you threw that all away. I’ll never forgive you!”

With that, my dad’s face dissolves, and the black seems to swirl to a central point, releasing me into the bookstore. The light blares into my squinting eyes, and I hear a horrible sound - a collective wail, sorrowful, heartfelt weeping from an entire crowd. What’s going on? My eyes adjust, and I see the man in the trenchcoat looking down on me from under his hat, shaking his head. Behind him, is the weeping crowd - my family and friends - my mother, brothers and sisters, my best friend, my grandparents, Ana, and my dad - all crying uncontrollably, all covering their faces. My mother holds my grandma as she sobs, staring at me with the black make-up smearing down her face. My best friend covers his mouth and shakes his head at me. Ana hugs herself and rocks back and forth, unable to meet my gaze, and my dad sits cradling his face, his tears soaking his shirt.

The weeping is horrible and overwhelming. It rattles me to the core until I’m weeping too, crumbling to my knees, and I lose grip of the coffee and shut my eyes as the tears stream and flow like water from a creek flowing naturally between rocks at night, traveling in aimlessly in a direct route going further and further and deeper and deeper and closer and closer until I open my eyes in my dark room with a heavy heart and a gasp.

I roll onto my side and find my phone, prompting its cold light that cuts the night. New message from Ana: “Hey”.

I open it up and type a cautious reply. Then I delete what I was writing. Then I delete her message. Then I delete her contact information. Then I roll over and go back to sleep.