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Visions of Paradise
by John J. McNally
Samuel Traumen was
a man in turmoil. Every morning he woke from the same maddening dream,
not a nightmare, but a dream of bliss and perfection. It was Sam's life
that was the nightmare, somewhere along the yellow brick road he had made
a wrong turn, his once happy life had become dismal.
The dream, the damned
dream was haunting! Every night he was with Joanie, his wife, they were
in a different place, a house! The place was clean, no beer bottles, no
roaches, and no trash lying around. Joanie looked ten years younger then
she does right now. There was no sign of the depression that haunted her
or the alcoholism that accompanied it. The feeling of happiness was the
worst part, he woke up every morning with that feeling still strong in
his chest, only to come back to the crashing reality of his waking life,
talk about contrast!
Up until three months
ago, Sam and Joanie had a fairytale romance. Both were reality creators,
believing in their ability to manifest anything simply by maintaining
their focus on it. Both of them had been incredibly successful at their
creations, except in one area: love.
Sam had spent years
in search of the perfect partner. He always knew she existed, and had
defined clearly in his own mind exactly what traits he wanted in that
partner. Well meaning friends had tried to detract him, telling him that
what he sought didn't really exist and that he was using this quest of
his as an excuse for not getting involved in a relationship.
For a short time,
Sam considered this point of view. After all, he was in his thirties and
didn't have a real, serious relationship under his belt. Some of his friends
were already on their second wives or husbands, he compromised with himself
and allowed his friends to set him up with a few people.
The results of this
process were an unmitigated disaster. Apparently the only criteria Sam's
friends had for pairing two people up was that they were both single,
and for the most part living. One of Sam's dates tried to move in with
him the first night they met, then tried to steal his car a week after
he broke up with her. The others were less dramatic, but no more a match.
Sam came to the conclusion that he was better off by himself, and decided
to stop waiting for someone and just do everything he wanted to by himself.
He went almost a
year this way, learning to enjoy his own company more and more. He traveled
to Europe for several weeks, hopping around from hostel to hostel with
only a backpack. He didn't deny that he was hoping to meet someone along
the way, but he didn't sweat about it either. After he returned home,
he took flying lessons and began going to concerts by himself, he felt
silly for not having done this sooner, the imagined judgement he used
to feel for not having a date on his arm just melted away like last years
snow.
It was on the subway
of all places where he met Joanie. He had just come from a concert at
Lincoln Center and noticed Joanie's violin case on her lap. "Were
you at the concert?" he asked her, admiring her blue eyes and perfect
skin. Her face had a pretty, intelligent look that was only highlighted
by her close cropped blonde hair.
"Yes, I was
fourth chair." she replied.
"It was an excellent
performance tonight, I think Roth is a fantastic conductor."
"Yes, he is."
She replied. "He takes a very holistic view of a piece, envisioning
it perfectly, and then follows his intuition on how to bring that into
being. He says it's a lot like channeling."
The subject of channeling
led to talk of metaphysics, and comparisons of very similar belief systems.
Both of them were uncompromising in their views on reality creation. Both
of them believed that each person created their own reality, every space
and nuance of it. They had taken different but similar paths to arrive
at this point. Joanie had read Seth, Elias and everything she could find
on quantum theory. Sam had started with the Conversations With God books,
but felt unfulfilled, he then began getting answers through his dreams
from a being named Darius.
"Like the guy
in the TV show 'Highlander?'" Joanie asked.
"Yeah, I think
he fit my ideal of what a Speaker would look like in society. It's kind
of embarrassing, I keep thinking of Homer Simpson's guide appearing as
Colonel Klink."
She laughed, "I
love that episode! I've got most of them on tape."
The conversation
continued, until they reached her stop and Sam had to confess that he
should have gotten off three stops back. They exchanged numbers and continued
talking. They met once for dinner and knew for sure that they had chosen
to be with each other.
They hit their first
bump in the road when they decided to move in together. Sam had a condo
on E 82nd st, but Joanie had a cat and the building was no pets. Joanie
hated her current apartment, it was a basement along W 8th St., which
had a hole in the bathroom ceiling from a leaky pipe above, and a landlord
who ignored complaints. She had only taken it because housing was so hard
to find in the city, especially with a pet. She pretended to slap Sam
when he chided her about that being "just a belief."
"Together, we
can create paradise!" Sam promised, "a castle of our very own
right in the middle of Manhattan."
"With modern
plumbing and heating of course." added Joanie.
"But of course,
the idea here is to move forward, not back."
Joanie eased back
into the old recliner she had picked up in a garage sale. Stormy, her
cat leaped into her lap, reminding Sam of the bad guy from those James
Bond films.
"I see two places,"
she said. Her eyes fluttered backward as she went into a light trance.
The first looks like an apartment, another rental. It feels temporary…"
"I get the image
of a lauching pad," Sam added. "I feel like we'll be there for
a little while and then just rocket off to somewhere better."
Stormy began purring
extremely heavily, as had become the routine when Sam and Joanie visualized.
They took it as a sign of their own vibrations raising.
"The second
is, something big," Joanie continued, "a house maybe. Oh, eww,
that was weird!"
"What happened?"
"I felt blocked
for a second, like there was actually another presence interfering with
me."
"Huh, I don't
feel anything around us."
"No, it wasn't
like that, more like a past self or a counterpart or something. It felt
like a woman who was calling out to me, but not in a good way though.
It was eerie."
"Weird. Maybe
we could try a hypnotic regression to find out the source."
Joanie waved her
hand in dismissal. "Been there, tried that. I just can't do it, I'm
not good at letting myself get hypnotized. There's something in me that
just won't surrender my control."
They gave up for
the night, Sam gave Joanie a light massage before falling into a deep
sleep.
Weeks passed, and
they continued to remain positive even when no prospective apartments
emerged. They laughed at their beliefs about finding an apartment in Manhattan,
while seriously wondering if it was really only their beliefs which prevented
them, or was their some rockbed reality of physical limitations that they
were forced to adhere to.
"Nahhhh, "
said Sam one night when things seemed hopeless. "If we open the door
for physical limitations on apartment space, then we have to assign similar
limitations to everything. That means no more magic parking spaces, only
statistical probablilities…" he faked a deep shudder, "
and no magical perfect relationships. Only two strangers meeting at random
who have enough things in common to keep from killing each other. You
can have your random universe if you want it, but keep me out!"
"Oh, you are
soooo naïve!" Joanie was imitating the rhetoric that friends,
colleagues and particularly other people in the New Age community often
said to them. "You think you can just live your perfect life with
these airy fairy notions of magical reality creations without ever dealing
with physical reality? Well, I've got news for you Bucko! Wake up and
smell the coffee, because there's only one physical world and it's overpopulated
and we're all dying so get your head out of the sand and stop using your
God given gifts for some selfish yuppie gains like the perfect apartment,
and start living your life in service to others!"
"That was beautiful,"
said Sam. "But you left out vegetarianism."
"What! You eat
meat too!" She flung her hands up in mock hopelessness. "I'm
sorry, you've just got too much karma to deal with, maybe I can help you
in your next life."
Sam was thoroughly
enjoying her theatrics, it was true that he and Joanie had both embraced
a very literal form of reality creation. Neither of them accepted the
idea of a co-created world in which you created part of the physical reality,
and others created part for you. Such a view didn't add up with all the
channelings they had read, nor did it feel right. Reality itself, was
not the comfortable physical marvel that it appeared to be, but instead
a lovely ballet of energy forming into a cohesive illusion of physicality
held together only by the fabric of each person's beliefs and telepathic
agreements.
To Sam, the theory
was beautiful in it's simplicity. "You get what you focus on"
was the primary rule. It was only with frustrating situations like their
apartment hunting that sometimes made him shake his head and wonder.
"I know,"
said Joanie. "I'm going to open up these classifieds, close my eyes,
and be guided to the perfect place for us."
"Cool."
Sam knew she was semi-kidding, but these methods often worked for them.
Joanie spread out
the newspaper so that several pages were visible in front of her. Her
fingers glided lightly over the pages like a planchette on a ouija board.
Finally, her finger came to rest on one spot.
"Here!"
she exclaimed, only to discover that she had put her finger on an ad for
a restaurant.
"Well, at least
we'll eat well." said Sam.
"But wait, this
restaurant is in Queens, maybe that's what it meant."
"Leave Manhattan?
Surely you jest woman!"
"I know, it's
icky. It's so, un-Seinfeldish. But maybe we're being too restrictive."
"Queens?"
said Sam, feeling a sense of certainty inside him.
"Queens."
said Joanie. "But only until we build our castle."
* * *
Within a week they
found an apartment in Astoria, Queens. The apartment had almost as much
space as Sam's condo, didn't mind cats, and cost less then half of what
either of them had been paying before. The real estate agent told them
that the residents were mainly professional people, and as long as Joanie
practiced her violin during the day, there would be no problems.
The apartment had
a few glitches which the landlord promised to fix. Joanie's lease was
running out though in her Village apartment, so they moved in anyway.
Some how the place felt right, but still like a comprimise. Neither one
of them was particularly happy with the choice, but they were happy to
be officially together.
The problems began
almost immediately: Joanie learned quickly that whenever she tried to
practice her violin, she was subject to constant phone calls, floor banging,
ceiling banging, and pounding on the door. They began searching for a
new place, visualizing what they wanted, laughing about what beliefs had
brought them here, and fully expecting their combined powers to manifest
a mansion in the heart of Manhattan. Instead, Joanie's cat had been playing
with a hole in the window screen trying to swat at one of the many pigeons
flying from ledge to ledge. Joanie wasn't sure what had happened, the
screen didn't look ripped enough for the cat to actually fit through,
but some how he had fallen to his death on the sidewalk below.
Joan blamed herself
for what happened. For days she would repeat "what the hell good
was reality creation if this was the price she had to pay!" Stormy
had been her buddy and her defender. Her Village apartment was prone to
rats, and Stormy had proven an excellent rat hunter. He also screened
all of Joanie's potential suitors, only Sam had passed under Stormy's
scrutiny.
Sam did his best
to console her, and give her time to work out her grief. Joan grew only
darker though, she spitefully told Sam that they could get his precious
uptown apartment back now. Sam assured her that he would rather have Stormy's
company (which was true, he really liked that cat) then his old apartment.
Besides, there was no going back; his apartment was gone.
Time passed, and Sam tried to remain focused on their new place alone.
He also tried giving Joan healing energy while she slept, she didn't want
anything while she was awake. Finally, she decided to go to a doctor,
a psychiatrist who diagnosed her with depression.
Sam was stunned to
learn that psychiatrists rarely practice any sort of therapy anymore.
They primarily see a patient, write out a prescription and move on, only
psychologists and therapists actually work with people's problems anymore.
Joan didn't care, she created just what she wanted, an easy out.
The pills did nothing
for her spirits, although she was more active. She wrote for hours every
day. Watched TV, and listened to AM radio talk shows. She frequently called
them to harass some host whose views she disagreed with. At night, the
anti-depressants made her restless, so she took to drinking beer in order
to calm herself down.
Sam rolled himself
out of their bed, Joan hadn't actually made it to bed last night. She
was passed out in the recliner with her head lolling back like a stroke
victim's. Sam could only hope that she was getting some help in the dream
state.
A quick search of
the refrigerator showed that no new food had manifested itself overnight.
Sam sighed as he put on his leather jacket and headed for the door. Better
off eating in McDonalds anyway, the condition of this place revolted him.
He headed out the door and hopped on the F train to Manhattan, his studio
was only a couple of blocks north of Lafayette street.
Even after moving
to Queens, Sam had kept his studio space intact: An old storefront genuinely
located in SOHO. He had found it at the time when he still believed that
such things mattered to being an artist. It was a great place though and
suited his needs perfectly. The windowless bathroom had easily been converted
into a darkroom, there was space for him to work, ample lighting, and
decent power for his computer. He had furnished the place with two draft
tables, a number of chairs, a computer desk, a futon/couch and a mini
refrigerator and microwave. It had crossed his mind more than once in
the last few weeks that he could live here if necessary.
Sam's studio had
become his safe haven, his preferred home. He deliberately kept his phone's
ringer off and let the machine handle all calls. This space was for him
to work and he hated to be interrupted.
Sam considered himself
a photo-artist: He took photographs of whatever caught his fancy, a person,
a car, a reflection, then he enhanced and transformed it into something
unique on his computer. There were a number of people doing this these
days, but most didn't take or develop their own photographs. Being one
with the whole process gave the photographs more meaning for him. They
were taken by his inspiration, and brought through the entire process
by his own loving attention. He was often impressed with his own work,
his style varied from the subtle to the surreal, but there was always
a theme to his work, one that he hoped an observant mind could easily
grasp.
Sam looked through
several works in progress, not feeling particularly attracted to any of
them. He decided instead to load up his camera and search the warm September
afternoon for some sort of inspiration.
He wandered aimlessly,
allowing his vision to become as encompassing as possible. He sensed the
occasional annoyance of a hurried passer-by as he dallied in front of
an interesting window, or the reflection off a car window. He snapped
a few shots, though none were particularly grabbing to him. It wasn't
until he reached Astor Place that he was stopped cold.
Fluttering across
Broadway was a bright streak of blue. A blue jay! In Manhattan? And in
September? Magic, thought Sam to himself as his camera tried to catch
the fleeting form. There's something magical in this for me. As the bird
disappeared toward Washington Square Park, Sam noticed the bright blue
of a police truck moving slowly toward the park as well. He didn't know
if he could coordinate the two somehow, but he snapped the pictures anyway.
Sam walked into the
park, hoping to spot the jay again. He hoped it was nesting here, so that
hanging around would reveal it. As he looked around he kept noticing little
bits of bright blue. One man's tie, the wheels on a baby stroller, more
cop cars, and finally the jay. It flew into the middle of some pigeons
that were feeding on some invisible treat. The jay fought his way in and
flew off quickly while delivering some harsh reprimands. Sam got some
great shots, and was inspired for a new project. A collage of scenes from
the park with everything blue accentuated to surreal dimensions. As if
on cue, a man removed his jacket revealing a royal blue polo shirt. There
was also the blue and yellow umbrella of the hotdog stand. Before Sam
realized it, he had gone through 3 rolls of film.
"Hey. What's
all the pictures for?" The kid looked about fifteen, his hair was
long and thin, it looked unwashed. His clothes were faded and frayed,
his green army jacket had tears in the sleeve.
"I'm a photographer."
said Sam in a non-committal voice. "I'm working on a project."
This was Sam's way of politely dismissing people. His tone wasn't conversational
so most people took the hint. Of course these days, most people took showers
too.
"Looks kinda
boring. You should get pictures of crimes and suicides and stuff."
The kid's eyes were glassy, one of the last druggies of a now yuppie controlled
park. Those eyes were also, Sam realized, bright blue.
"Not my style."
Sam said a little more amicably. " I'm an artist; today I'm tying
together everything in the park that's blue. You could be part of the
project if you want, I'd like to get a close up of one of your eyes."
"Uh, sure."
Becoming the center of attention, the kid suddenly felt nervous. (Another
great trick for blowing off people, but Sam really did want this shot.
"Great! Just
stand right there and give me a second…" Sam fished through
his bag for the right lens, checked the lighting and snapped away.
"Am I going
to be in a magazine or something?" The kid was starting to look a
little less disgusting to Sam.
"Maybe. My work
has been featured a couple of times. If you give me your address and telephone
number I'll send you a free copy of my finished work."
"Cool!"
He quickly scribbled down an uptown Bronx address. "This is my parents
house. I'm not there too much but they'll keep my mail for me." With
that he gave Sam the slip of paper and moved off quickly to some friends
that were waiting for him. Sam glanced at the name, James Havelar, there
might be a connection here, he thought to himself. But as the kid disappeared
the thought did as well.
*
* *
The apartment reeked
of vomit as he came in. A pang of fear shot through him, what if she had
overdone it and killed herself? His gut told him "no" that she
was fine. Tentatively he called out her name: "Joanie?"
"In the kitchen
hon," her voice was hoarse. "I'm making some tea to settle my
stomach."
Sam walked into the
bathroom and saw the remains of vomit on the floor by the toilet bowl.
Dutifully, he grabbed the paper towels from under the sink and cleaned
up the mess.
"I would have
taken care of it." Joan said, walking in. Her hair was matted and
greasy from not having been washed, she wore an old robe over a stained
nightshirt that made her look like an escaped mental patient.
"It's not important."
said Sam, "What is important is that you need some kind of help."
"Oh, not this
again honey." she said "Look, I know things are kind of fucked
up right now, but they'll get better; I promise. It's just I can't get
past what happened to Stormy. Either I feel like I did it by what we were
doing, or it was an accident and all this reality creation stuff is a
load of shit."
"I think you've
got to deal with your drug problem first." Sam looked at her, mentally
grimacing. "You're hooked on these pills, and the beer too. You need
to get yourself some help."
"Oh god! Talk
about not seeing the forest for the trees! I do not have a problem with
drugs, or alcohol. I have a problem dealing with the death of my cat!
I don't expect you to understand that but I would hope that you could
at least give me some time to work it out! I'm not hooked on the drugs,
but they do help me from getting lost in the pain, without them….
I think I might get suicidal."
"I'm sorry honey.
But I don't want to continue like this. Something has to change, you have
to change! I can't do it for you and we'll never realize our dreams while
you are like this."
"Our dreams!
Did you forget that Stormy was part of that dream! Or part of mine anyway!
I know your not the animal lover, your not the cat person, you can just
brush it off. Oh, he's dead and we killed him, big deal! At least now
we can get any apartment we want! Right? Isn't that it?! I may be going
through a difficult time with this, but at least I'm in touch with my
feelings. At least I'm not a discompassionate cold hearted bastard like
YOU!!!
On that she stormed
into the bedroom and slammed the door. Sam settled into the couch and
wondered what to do next. Perhaps Darius could help him. Darius was the
name of his oversoul. He often appeared to Sam in dreams especially when
Sam was in need. Lately though, when Sam had put out a mental call for
Darius, his dreams were disjointed and incomplete. He just wasn't getting
whatever message Darius was sending. Still, it was his best chance to
make some sort of sense out of the situation.
"Darius, Darius,
Darius…." he repeated the name over and over as he let himself
relax. This had always been his favorite method for contact although most
authors he read didn't endorse it.
Sam found himself
in a dojo. To be more exact it was the dojo from the movie "The Matrix"
only Darius was facing him instead of Morphius. Darius was also dressed
in armor, and had a sword and shield in his hands. Behind him was a large
trophy, or perhaps the Holy Grail. It was a large golden cup, which glowed
with energy.
Darius' dark eyes
met Sam's earnestly. "Your goal is to get the cup, begin."
Sam noticed that
there was a sword lying on the bench to his right. On it's blade was inscribed
the word "Truth" in red. Sam lifted the blade and moved towards
Darius. "Armed with truth, how can I fail?" he joked.
Darius met every
one of Sam's attacks with ease though, constantly pushing him back off
the mat and landing him hard on his ass. After the ninth or tenth time
Sam grew frustrated and threw himself at Darius, only to find himself
thrown back even harder with Darius smiling gleefully all the while.
"Had enough
yet?" Darius asked while offering his hand to Sam. Sam pondered trying
to flip Darius but remembered telepathy and decided against it.
"Yeah, I guess
so." he said taking Darius' hand.
"So what am
I doing wrong?"
"Wrong? What
do you mean, I think you fought beautifully."
"But I didn't
win. I never reached the goal."
"What was your
goal?"
Frustrated Sam exclaimed:
"To get the bloody golden cup of course!"
"Oh, in that
case the answer is, because you never tried."
"What!"
Grinning, he continued,
"You never once actually tried to pick up the cup did you? You never
tried stepping around me or even teleporting the cup to you. Instead you
allowed yourself to be distracted from your goal by the prospect of a
fight."
"Okay, I can
accept that, but how do I apply that to my situation with Joan. I mean
how can I live that dream I see every night, if she's not in it with me."
"I won't solve
everything for you," said Darius "you know that already. But,
I will ask you this: Do you believe that Joan is going to change?"
The question was
simple, and I knew exactly where it was going, the answer welled up in
me catching in my throat. "No, I don't."
"Then how can
she? If you don't allow for the possibility of her changing, then you
won't choose the probable future where she does. It would be far better
for you to release her then and pursue a new relationship, rather than
hang on to this little merry go round you've created. "
The dream changed,
and suddenly Sam found himself standing exactly where he was when he came
in.
"I want you
to do this right this time, you need the practice."
Sam felt silly at
first, but he walked across the room toward the golden cup. As he passed
Darius he was wary of that sword, it's sharp edge still pointed toward
him, as he reached the cup, he felt as if Darius might dive on him at
any moment driving the sword deep into his exposed back.
"You do not
trust yourself." said Darius calmly. "It's easy for you to let
fear call the shots and pull you off course. Now drink from the cup."
Sam lifted the cup,
and sipped the clear liquid. It tasted rich and sweet and his heart felt
a thousand times lighter for drinking it. The feeling was so strong that
it pulled him out of his sleep, and he found himself stretched out on
the couch.
*
* *
Sam spent the night
on the couch, again. He laid awake for a good portion of it, thinking
about the lesson he had gotten from Darius. How could he not fight? He
wondered; it seemed impossible to achieve anything without fighting or
struggle here, unless he pulled back his energy completely.
YES! That was it.
Sam almost jumped off the couch in realization. He thought for a minute
that his movement would scare Stormy, but then remembered that Stormy
wasn't there anymore. Back to the point: He had to withdraw his energy
from the situation in order not to fight. He had done this before in other
types of situations and with great success. He spent the rest of the night
deliberately drawing in his energy, letting go of his attachments to the
drama of the last few months until he finally fell into a deep sleep.
He woke in the morning
to hear Joan moving around. She was cleaning the kitchen, and by the sound
of it she wasn't exactly enjoying the task. Dishes were being banged rather
harshly into the dishwasher. Sam started to get angry, but then remembered
to pull back his energy. Dishes weren't important, moving beyond this
situation was.
Sam rolled off the
couch and went into the bathroom first. He had to laugh at his reflection
in the mirror, his hair was pushed to the left side of his head like some
weird cartoon character. He laughed and wet it down, trying to give it
a sane appearance.
He walked into the
kitchen, said good morning to Joan, and fished around for something to
eat. He pulled a package of Pop Tarts out of the cupboard and popped them
into the toaster.
"The least you
could do is help me clean up first!" She snapped.
Sam felt the familiar
patterns of anger well up inside him, but mentally stepped back. "I
don't want to. " he answered calmly. "I'm going to eat breakfast
and go to my studio. I'm working on a new project."
"Fine! Fuck
it then, the place can stay dirty." She glared at Sam, and for a
second he could swear that someone else was looking back through Joanie's
eyes. There was a look of insanity there, for just a second Sam had a
mental flash of a twisted, hate-filled old crone. Joan slammed the dishwasher
closed and stalked out of the room. She entered the bathroom and slammed
the door. Sam breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the shower running.
He enjoyed a blissful
breakfast while Joan showered. He looked around the apartment, discouraged
at the mess and at the roaches. When he lived alone he had always been
fairly neat, but that was mainly because he rarely cooked for himself.
No cooking meant no dishes and no mess, however he did like it that Joan
had enjoyed cooking. And he did like eating with her, at least in the
past, now he was happier when he was alone.
Joan finished her
shower as Sam was gathering his stuff to leave. She came out wearing only
a towel, and Sam's heart jumped back to better times for a moment. She
was so beautiful, both inside and out. It killed him to see what she was
becoming.
"You know,"
he said, feeling inspired to speak plainly. "You need to come to
terms with the fact that you did not kill Stormy."
"Oh I know that."
She answered coldly. "I didn't kill him, you did. I asked you to
get the Super to fix that screen weeks before he fell. I can forgive me,
I just can't forgive you."
This was a new twist,
but Sam realized he wasn't interested in fighting anymore.
"I'm sorry you
feel that way. I'm going to stay at the studio for a few days, I need
some time to think."
"That's probably
better. Make sure you take anything you consider valuable, I can't guarantee
it will be here when you come back."
Sam bristled momentarily,
but realized it was just another tactic to get a fight going. Without
saying a word he grabbed his camera bag and headed off to the city.
Once on the train
he felt the emotions sink in. He felt horrible, he didn't want to cry
in public but it was almost impossible not to. Pulling back his energy,
letting go of everything, meant letting go of the chance the two of them
had for a great future together. He bit his lip to fight the tears, and
sent a mental call out to Darius.
"Follow your
joy." was the only answer he got. Simple enough, but where was his
joy in this situation? It was not, he surmised, in the apartment with
Joan. At least once he was in the studio he could think clearly for himself.
He was definitely happier pulling away from the situation then he was
staying in it. Happy to be sad he mused with a smirk and felt better for
the rest of the train ride.
Once in his studio
he began developing the pictures he had taken the day before. Bringing
out the blue was an easy enough task, but the picture he was holding in
his mind would not be. It took two hours to develop everything and begin
reviewing what he wanted to keep.
There was an excellent
shot of the blue jay as it was rising up from the flock of pigeons. This
shot framed with in the circle of that kid's eye would create the center
of the picture. He would need more images though.
He liked what he
had so far, the cops and the people would parallel the pigeons nicely.
Sam wanted something more though, something to parallel the bird's soaring.
Something that could be placed at the top of the picture, some sort of
goal or destination. He flipped through old photographs he had taken hoping
for some inspiration.
Sam came across some
photos he had taken of him and Joanie, just a few months ago. He promised
himself he wouldn't distract himself by looking, but he did anyway. He
flipped through them, crying at how happy and loving they were. There
was one photo in particular. The three of them together, Joanie holding
Stormy, while Sam had his arm around her. The picture was so touching,
and to top it off, they were both wearing blue shirts.
"Damn."
he said. It wouldn't have commercial value, but it did fit where his heart
was right now. He left the picture out and flopped on the futon. Perhaps
some new inspiration would come to him.
The studio had neither
radio nor TV since Sam didn't like to distract himself while he was working.
He did have Internet access though, and while he rarely used it, he needed
something to pass the time since he wasn't going home tonight.
He thought about
scanning for new apartments, but he wasn't ready for that step yet. He
paused to order some Chinese food, and was surprised to find that it was
only 3pm. He thought it was much later and dreaded the long night ahead
of him.
*
* *
Joan breathed a long
sigh of relief after Sam had left the apartment. Life had gotten so impossible
with him. Either he was trying to be this slobbering do-gooder trying
to make everything better, or he was ragging on her for something. It
wasn't that she knew he was right about some of it, it just wasn't helpful
to hear him constantly bitching about it.
She didn't dare tell
him that the reason she was in such a foul mood this morning was because
she was determined to not take the anti-depressants for a few days. Their
was a surge of emotions building up in her, anger, despair, it was like
a tidal wave and the last thing she wanted was Sam fawning over her telling
her that things were going to be all right.
She continued doing
the dishes just to have some focus. Her hands were trembling, so she stayed
away from the knives and the glasses. She slammed a roach that was boogying
around the counter top, and felt a little surge of joy as she heard its
body crack.
She turned off the
sink and decided to go hunting. She grabbed an old newspaper only to discover
they had infested it. Leaping back, she grabbed the whole stack (thankfully
she was still wearing dish gloves) and shoved them into the garbage can.
Then she tied it off while hundreds of them were scrambling around the
paper in a panic.
Next, looking quite
insane she began stomping on the dozens that had spilled onto the floor.
It was disgusting and exciting at the same time. She hunted them as they
disappeared into the corners and under furniture. She banged one of the
kitchen chairs that caused several more to appear scurrying.
Wait a second? She
stopped herself and looked around. Was this some form of the DT's? There
were roach bodies everywhere, and some real monsters walking on the walls
as well. "Well there goes that theory," she smirked, surprised
at the sound of her own voice. Tentatively she banged the chair again,
sure enough more roaches fell out, including a few babies, were they breeding
in the chairs?
She flipped the chair over, and sure enough, the pressboard that served
as the bottom to the cushion seemed to be rotted and became home to god
knows how many families of roaches! Fortunately, Joanie and Sam had an
old box of giant garbage bags from when they had donated a bunch of old
clothes to good will.
The bags just covered
the chair and Joanie needed masking tape in order to close it, but it
was sufficient to trap the roaches.
Joanie tested the
next chair with the same results. She wrapped all four in the same manner,
and took some paper and marker with her as she carried them one by one
to the elevator. She stacked them by the outgoing garbage and then labeled
each one "ROACHES! DO NOT OPEN!" So that one of her neighbors
wouldn't bring them back up into the apartments.
On her way back up
to the apartment, Joan realized for the first time that she felt great!
She was excited, at least until entering the apartment and realizing what
a dump they had been living in. Under the influence of the pills she had
been sort of lethargic. Housework didn't matter, nothing seemed to matter
at all. There were no real highs or lows, just an apathetic numbness that
made everything feel like a waste of time.
She filled garbage
bag after garbage bag of trash. Old mail, cat food cans, beer cans, and
more beer cans. Jeez, no wonder Sam thought I was an alcoholic! Some of
this garbage was supposed to be recycled, which is how it had built up
in the first place. Considering the roach situation though, recycling
wasn't even a consideration. The garbage was going, and that was that.
She would rather pay the damn fine then spend hours sorting through all
this shit.
It took about an
hour to get all the garbage gathered and down to the basement. The apartment
looked better already, despite its noticeable lack of kitchen chairs.
Next, she would have to go out to the store. This scared her and she didn't
know why. She hadn't said anything to Sam, but over the last couple of
months going out in the public had gotten more and more difficult.
The fear in the pit
of her stomach made her need the bathroom. Her cleaning frenzy had the
roaches on the run, and they were on the walls in there just as everywhere
else. Bombs were what she needed. Four of them at least. There was a brand
she had used for fleas years ago that worked well, and she remembered
it had listed roaches on the label as well.
There was a pet store
just a few blocks away. It felt good to be outside again, but creepy every
time someone passed near her, especially men. The sun felt overly bright,
and Joanie felt a great sense of relief when she opened the door to the
pet shop.
A salesman asked
if he could help her, but she brushed him off quickly. She couldn't handle
anymore people right now. There was a headache building in her temples
and she just wanted to get this over with. She found the flea and tick
section easily enough (it had everything but a neon sign) and spotted
the bright blue cans that she had used so many years ago.
She opted for six
of them instead of four, wanting lots of overkill- pun completely intended.
She brought them up to the counter where the same salesman rang them up.
"Remember to
remove all your animals from the house." he said, "Plants too.
If they're in the couch, turn up the cushions."
Joanie smiled, "Actually
I'm using them to kill roaches, my apartments infested."
"Oh. Well, same
rules apply I guess, the more surface areas you get, the more bugs you'll
kill."
"Thanks."
Joanie paid him and headed back home. She had to admit she was feeling
a lot better. Something about this chance conversation had done wonders
for her ego.
Upon entering the
apartment, she thought that things didn't look all that different. The
roaches had found new hiding spots. Things looked a little cleaner, which
was a nice change, but she wouldn't be satisfied until she could eat off
the floor.
Joanie sat down in
the recliner for a second and felt all the energy rush out of her with
a whoosh! She felt suddenly weak and shaky again, but determined to finish
her task. She picked up the phone and got the number for the Sheraton
in Manhattan. If she was going to spend a night outside of this place,
she was going to do it in style.
Next she called a
car service and asked them to meet her outside the building in a half-hour.
Finally, she called Sam's studio and left a message for him about the
bug bombs and told him she would call him soon. She didn't want to mention
where she was going, time alone was a lot better.
She grabbed some
clothes and headed for the lobby. She wondered if the car driver was going
to be another friendly person helping to pull her out of this funk. He
turned out to be a Middle Eastern man who spoke almost no English; as
Joan settled into her seat she realized that was exactly what she really
wanted.
The ride was blissfully quiet, only the buzz of the dispatch radio made
any noise. As they entered the midtown tunnel, even that faded away. The
darkness of the tunnel was blissful and Joanie felt the muscles around
her eyes and scalp relax. When they emerged however, the contrast gave
her a searing headache.
Joan automatically
reached for the pills, only to find them not in her purse. DAMN! She had
left them on the table, in an apartment that was now clouding up with
toxic fumes. She laughed to herself, she knew damn well why she created
this: This little trip was going to free her from her dependency on the
pills so she could start living again.
Despite the pain
in her head she was feeling rather light hearted. The concierge at the
hotel took her bag and helped her from the car. She was led through the
immense lobby with its beautiful glass fountains up to her suite on the
12th floor. Once in her room, Joanie tried to decide between taking a
nap or a nice hot bath, the nap won out as she lay on the bed and promptly
passed out.
* * *
Sam found himself
falling asleep around 7pm. He was more bored then tired, trying not to
focus on the negative aspects of the current moment, while wondering what
the future was going to bring.
He found himself
awake, naked with Joanie wrapped in a sheet next to him.
There was rain beating
on the windowpane and a cozy sense to the scene. Sam got up and walked
to the bathroom, the thick shag carpet was warm against his feet. The
bathroom looked new, and exquisitely designed. He took note of all the
little details in the room as if it was the first time he had seen them.
Returning to the
bedroom, Joanie stirred, her hair was cropped close to her head just as
when they had met. "Everything okay." she asked.
"I'm not sure."
Sam replied, "I feel out of it, like I'm only partly here."
"You've had
this experience before," she said. "You left yourself a message
in the computer, it's in an email marked "To my sleeping self."
"Why didn't
I just tell you the message?"
"I don't know,
you said it was better this way."
Sam shrugged and
walked down the hallway to his computer in the study. T
urning
on the lights he looked at some of his prints on the wall. He still admired
his "Visions of Blue," there was so much magic weaved into it.
He turned on the computer wondering why he didn't remember writing this
email before. He grinned as he realized that Joanie was having fun with
him. How long had she been planning this little stunt?
He found the message
quickly enough and opened it: "Open the back door" was all it
said. Okay, I'll bite he thought walking downstairs. He noticed the large
Bay window in the front of the house as if it were the first time he had
seen it. There was a light paneling on the lower part of the wall that
fascinated him for a moment. He felt as if his consciousness was being
pulled into the wood grain.
Sam found himself
standing in their apartment in Queens. Something was wrong, there was
something missing but he couldn't place what. In the center of the room
was some sort of energy vortex. A white funnel cloud of energy that seemed
to be tearing apart the fabric of the room itself.
Sam sat up in bed
gasping! What the hell was going on! He had dreamt of the house almost
every night for two months, but never about their apartment. He began
scribbling down the details of the dream. A white tornado, he mused, just
like the commercial when he was a kid.
He wondered if Joan
was cleaning him out? If so, he realized, then she was no longer the person
he knew. Sam could let go of her if this was the case, but his intuition
told him that this was not so.
Looking at the clock,
it was only 10:30, Sam went outside to get something for dinner. Perhaps
he'd work a bit more on the project tonight.
*
* *
Joanie slipped into
a deep sleep almost instantly, and found herself standing on a city block
in front of a row of semi-attached houses. She felt drawn toward one,
it seemed familiar somehow although she didn't know why. There was a noise
from the backyard so she headed that way.
There was a boy,
about ten years old on his knees in the grass. He was making an odd noise
with his mouth, calling to something. Joanie watched the scene calmly,
as the boy continued to call patiently. Finally, a small gray tabby kitten
peeked out from under a large snowball bush. It stared at the boy with
wide, untrusting eyes.
"It's okay."
he said softly, his voice was barely a whisper. "His gaze focused
just below the kitten's eyes and he continued to make the soft calling
sound. Joanie maneuvered around him, worried that she might disturb the
scene. Neither one of them seemed to know that she was there. As she got
closer to the boy she could see he had a bowl with scraps of meat in it.
She worked her way around him so that she could get a better look at his
face.
Joanie froze stunned.
It was Sam, she was certain of it. His features were so much younger,
but it was definitely he. She watched as the little tabby kitten finally
crept up to him, taking a little scrap of chicken or turkey from his fingers,
and then ever so carefully coming to eat from the bowl.
What was stranger
still she realized was that between her and the kitten ran an almost invisible
filament. The more she focused on it, the clearer it became. Joanie felt
her consciousness being pulled into it, suddenly it was huge, like a gray
tunnel, and there at the end was the boy Sam's face staring at her!
Joanie awoke in a
cold sweat. What a dream! It was so real, I'm sure it was real! Her revelation
was cut short by her sudden need to vomit. She ran, toward the window
at first, feeling disoriented from being in the hotel room. Realizing
where she was she bolted into the bathroom, as the taste of vomit filled
her mouth.
What the hell was wrong? She thought as she continued to retch. Her head
was screaming, and her body was now flushed and hot. She finally stumbled
out of the bathroom like a zombie, heading back to the bed.
As the surge of body
heat passed, she started to feel cold again. Even piled under all the
blankets with her clothes still on she was shivering. She wondered if
she should call an ambulance, but her gut feeling screamed NO!
Her system was purging
itself, she realized. Joanie had never been one for drugs, not even aspirin
unless it was dire necessity. Stormy's death had come as such a shock
that she was thrown way off base. There was a part of her that screamed
in protest every time she had taken one of those damned pills, but for
a while at least, they had kept her from dealing with the pain.
She felt incredibly
weak. If the pills were in the room with her, she'd have taken them by
now. She grinned at the masterful way she had cut herself off from them.
By the time tomorrow came, she would be stronger and ready to deal with
them.
The night passed
slowly, with bouts of running back and forth to the bathroom and huddling
under the covers. Sleep finally came out of exhaustion, it wasn't until
the phone ringing the next day that she woke up.
"Sam?"
she said picking up the receiver.
"No ma'am, this
is the main desk. It's almost check out time and we wanted to know if
you planned to stay for another day.
"Uh, yeah sure.
That would be great."
"Can we send
you any breakfast?"
"Uh, no thanks,
I'm fine."
Joanie hung up the
phone and looked out the window. Sunlight seemed to scald her vision.
She stumbled from the bed and pulled closed the curtains, she wanted as
much dark as possible. Despite being completely empty, she had no appetite
at all. As she pulled the curtains she realized that her hands were shaking.
I'm fine! She asserted. I'm getting better.
She drew a hot bath
and hoped that it would help restore some of her fading strength. She
felt as if she were dying, and realized that perhaps part of her was.
She was letting go of the drug dependent Joan, the Joan who couldn't deal
with her problems, she sent that part of herself a mental hug and shivered
in response.
She felt antsy and
nervous in the bath, she tried to relax and enjoy it, but there seemed
to be no way in which she could get comfortable. She got out and got herself
a drink of water. It didn't help at all, she found herself pacing between
the tub and the sink as if trying to decide what to do.
You could go home,
she thought, take one of those damned pills and get some relief. Nobody
ever said you had to quit cold turkey. "Cold Turkey," she laughed.
What a perfect term, she felt very much like a frozen turkey forgotten
on the shelf of a supermarket freezer.
She dried off and
wrapped herself in the thick hotel bathrobe. She put on the TV, hoping
the distraction would help. It did a little bit, having something to focus
on took the edge off of the hell she was going through.
*
* *
This
story is presented in three parts - click on 'Section 2' below to continue.
Section
1 - Section 2 - Section
3
© 2000,
John J. McNally. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or distribute without
the author's permission.
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