Beautiful Dreamer

You stand starry-eyed; dazed. Posted up against the stainless steel refrigerator your gaze stretches out to the miniature bay window which crowns the kitchen sink like a gilded monocle. Watching. Pins of light furtively peek through the shrouded skyline, daring to challenge their inferiority complex brought by exhaust and sporadic winds. The few that manage to glint have their best efforts parodied by Steel Reserve and Old English shrapnel sprinkled across the sidewalks below. Broken glass and celestial gas play a Pentecostal game of call and response as you idly trace your fingers through the fray. The only thing neutral between heaven and earth are the brownstones of East Greenwich Village.

Your game of asphalt astronomy is interrupted by a sanguine rush. Agnes has risen and passed. Even in silhouettes her scarlet hair screams bravado. The window fails to replicate the facial expression that would betray her normally brash disposition.

She chews her bottom lip as she stalks over to the fireplace where a medley of glass and plastic bottles are engaging in melee. The first casualty to be subjected to her vice grip is a mason jar. Precariously poured, the slow stream of tonic water ceases before it fills a third of the jar. With heavier hands, gin causes the contents of the jar to rise to the brim. The symbiotic solution reminds her of her first lava lamp from a decade ago, when she was fourteen and arguably, just as fiery. A drop of ice, then a slow sizzling.

A snowflake dissolves into the window before you can focus on the intricacies of its lattices. It's been six weeks since your last dose of Adderall. You're slowly regaining your inability to stick to contexts. Why be confined to a vacuum when there are so many dots to be connected? Consciousness, which is to say, Life, was meant to be experienced, not controlled. You allow your eyes to traipse you into another plane.

A house party, apartment, rather. In the living room Agnes sits with legs crossed in an authentic mod love seat. Its flat quadrilateral shape is a sharp contrast to her slender organic figure. The red upholstery would have starkly matched Agnes' mop, however vintage weathering left it's luster back in 1970. What she lacks in height allows her to fit comfortably into what seems to be a smaller than average chair. Periodically she swirls her index finger around the edge of a mason jar, all the while making similar motions with a lock of her hair. If she was waiting for something, it was not apparent in her serrated stare, cutting from hipster, to Twiggy pin up, to her drink. When the mason jar is removed from her mouth it leaves her bottom lip slack; poised in a permanent pout. There is a twinkling in her eye.

You make your way across the room, sidestepping two dreadlocked hookah smoking middle aged women sitting on a rainbow hued shag rug. One of them could have been your mother. Someone asks you where the bathroom is but you shake them off with a shrug. A menagerie of red energy tears at the corner of your eyes. You see Agnes, the girl you met outside your apartment six weeks earlier, sitting alone with a drink. The dramatic shadows clothe her rubicund frame, causing her and her sitting fixture to look like one giant overripe cherry. You sit in the wooden chair opposite her, coffee table and blood alcohol level the only difference between the two of you.
“The first thing I noticed about you was your slouch.” she says while fishing through the tight front pocket of her black jeans. A haggard and half empty pack of cigarettes are finally produced. It isn't until after she removes a book of matches and a half smoked cigarette from the carton until she speaks again.

“It was otherworldly.” Her eyes avoid your general direction until she exhales from her first drag. She is lit, and you can't help but feel a tug when her dark brown eyes finally connect with your own.

You become more aware of your body. Unconsciously you begin to roll your shoulders back and puff out your chest. Agnes was adept at ruffling your plumage. No matter how long you prepared yourself for her before encounters, she still managed to tax your breathe. From time to time you try to match her low earnest tone, sultry and confident, with hints of condescension. However your dialect is never quite as rich as hers, only taciturn.

“I've been working on my posture.”
Her purse-lipped grin silently laughs at you as she rolls her eyes. “I didn't mean it was a bad thing. I thought it was interesting. It gives you character.” It was a common reaction she would give you, some form of passive aggressive defensiveness. You always wondered where she learned to communicate like that, cadenced and with heavy implications. Your limited understanding of socialization groups always concluded that it was because she was an Aries, and to you that meant she was a hot head. You wonder where she learned to smoke like that, as curly tendrils of smoke slowly creep out of her nostrils.

“Did you get my letter?”

“What letter?” she responds automatically, before the memory flickers behind her eyes. Her facial features suddenly relinquish control of the conversation. She rubs her nose and leans toward you, humbling her voice as she speaks.

“You mean the one about the world ending at the end of this year?”

You squirm in anticipation of her usual sarcastic responses to your most heartfelt confessions. You've only known her for six weeks and she knows more about your inner galaxies than anyone else on the planet. Being an orphan who emigrated from Montreal six years ago has left you with little actual human contact outside of the handful of classmates you took writing workshops with at Eugene Lang. Agnes has read most of your published material and works in progress without offering much to say besides a curt nod, or asking for the definition of particular word. It was rare that you actually engaged in conversation about the ideas you were trying to convey.

“It's really queer. I've been getting the same feeling lately.” She exhales and places the butt in her empty mason jar. Through a half chewed bottom lip she whispers to you. “I can't quite place my finger on it, but I've been struggling with this feeling of despair and exuberance.” Surprised by her sincerity, you nod enthusiastically as she unravels.

“ For the past couple of weeks I've been reflecting on my life... and I don't know what to make of it. I wake up each morning thinking this may be my last, but by nightfall I feel like it doesn't even matter anyway. I'm the same person today as I was five years ago.... just reacting to different scenarios. I don't think yesterday or tomorrow are any different.”

You start to tell her how you've never been the same since the day you met her. You are eager and ready to shear what has been pulling at your heartstrings. You are erupting; interrupted.

“It's about to start! It's happening!” voices call out everywhere.

It's a New Year's Eve party in Greenwich Village. Antiquated hippies, angsty hipsters, bobos, hobos, European Rastafarians, and new age artsy farts gather around a wall projector image of Times Square. The ball is about to drop and although the room is scarcely furnished, a pair of oversize pillows, thrift store chairs, and hand me down yoga mats; it is overflowing with the excitement of its inebriated occupants. The television starts the count.


“10...9...8...7...6...” they all chant together.
“5...4...3...” You grab Agnes' hand.
“2..” She squeezes.
“1..”


Before anyone could scream “Happy New Years” or spill celebratory toasts over each other the projector sputters to a stop. The lights of Midtown Manhattan flicker. The planets and Pluto wink in and out of existence. The Milky Way is frozen in place. Blue Screen of Death, and then a quick reboot. The universe returns, starting with a blank starless stare. Space.

*

Leon's eyes slowly unsheathe themselves from another night of vivid dreaming. He lays prone on his mattress looking at the blank space of his ceiling, focusing on the images of his last dream. Light and shadows from the paper blinded windows create a reel of film on the walls of his studio apartment. Without much effort he utilizes the length of his lanky brown arm and slender fingers to reach for a little black notebook and pen next to his mattress on the floor. Thumbing to a clean page he scribbles into his journal:

11/19/07
A blink so loud
Richter scales could measure.

Although he is morbidly skinny, the weight of his height causes the hardwood floor to warp under each step. In the crevice of a more dilapidated plank he places a stick of Jasmine incense then lights it. His morning stretches are followed by shoulder rolls in the bathroom mirror. His eyes flicker from poor posture to the empty Adderall bottle on the cabinet shelf. After brief consideration he slowly turns the bottle until the prescribed dosage and prescription instructions are no longer visible. He draws sink water then washes his face and hair. When he shakes his head from side to side the droplets of water that leave his curly black locks collect on the mirror. There they join fluoride residue from the day before. Leon stops to trace constellations with his fingers between the dots. Nearly a decade ago he was known as Spaceboy by the other riffraff youth in Quebec.

Now twenty three and a hardly a responsible American citizen, Leon stalks the street of Manhattan in a cotton t shirt and corduroy flares waiting for something to happen. It usually doesn't take very long, but his job at the public library tides him over when things get slow. He hadn't expected to fall flat on his ass when the crimson helmed Valkyrie of his dream stormed past him on his way to Washington Square Park this morning.

“Oh Shit! Are you Ok?” She asked through a half grin and lit cigarette. She offered him a hand.
Leon accepted, and she squeezed as he helped himself up.