The Dreamer (4000 Words)

Gary spied her, from across the crowded food court, the bastion of activity built to keep the plebs fat and sassy. She was standing by the coin-operated rocking horse looking bored with just about everything, a mask upon her face that said, “I’ve sat through the history of silt, and that still takes the cake to this.”

Her boredom was charming, but that was not what drew him to her. Moreover, it was her outfit, which – just as the food court – was wholly unremarkable to the unassuming eye. She wore a white button up shirt and a grey skirt, her hair tied back, and a red ascot around her neck that put her leagues above the people that generally chose the food court as their main precedence for dining. Her hair was frumpish compared to the rest of her ensemble.

It was a combination of what she wore, and how she looked that made Gary put his tray down.

Gary, on his better days, was a writer. And what charmed him about the woman more than her plain outfit or frazzled hair or her boredom or her “above-it-all” posterity was that he knew her. He had never met the woman before in his life, but he knew her.

He recalled sitting at his desk one day, the small snake-like lamp poised over his typewriter, Gary poised equally snake-like above the machine. Without a second thought, he had begun to hit the keys, to spring to life a small story, less than a thousand words, about a small, bored, brown haired woman who wore a red scarf and a white button up shirt and a skirt that was just fed up with everything.

Gary, on his better days, was reclusive. Not to the point of eccentricity, but reclusive enough. He had the same cashier at the grocery store, a pleasant enough young so-and-so who seemed to be quite taken with him and his dirty shirts and old jacket, but Gary could never manage to say, “Hello,” or “Good day,” or any other kind of conversational what-have-you that so many people ease their way through on the way to great friendships. It is to say that even when faced with extreme familiarity, Gary was uncomfortable leaving his shell, his safety zone, his safe haven from rejection and the society that he, like Miss Brown-Hair-Bored, found droll and boring.

It took a great deal of energy for Gary to set his tray down, even more so for him to pick up his feet and move them toward the coin-operate rocking horses, the only real catalyst being that he knew her, and yet, did not know her. All Gary knew is that one day, the inspiration had struck, and he had from his own word and mind, designed her, pulling her from thin air and placing her on the paper in front of him.

With this strange coincidence, Gary approached Miss-Brown-Hair-Bored.

Naturally, Kathy saw him coming from across the food court. He had been staring a very long time at her, as if thinking up many great important things to say before realizing that the first step to saying so many great important things is to take a first step.

Kathy had been bored by the food court, and angry with herself for coming. Her mother had instilled in her that one of the best things to do when you don’t know what to do with yourself is find a place to watch people - people who will stand, sit, talk, muse, contort, laugh, smile – and she was supposed to find solace in the fact that she was not, no matter how much she wanted to be, alone. It had been a good long while since Kathy had sat, talked, mused, contorted – how she used to love to contort, the young ever graceful dancer that she had imbued in ten years past – laughed, or smiled, but she did feel very, very alone, the feeling of alienation not at all alien.

Now, the strange man with awkward posture was snaking his way through the food court like a man on a mission.

After all, Gary was on a mission – Mission talk to Miss-Brown-Hair-Bored.

Kathy became amused as patrons pushed their chairs out, shifted tables, and generally moved, unknowingly, to block him, but the man seemed so bound and determined that she stayed rooted in place. She could have turned and left, but then she would have deprived him of such important opening words, and who was she to deprive any person of anything?

When he finally did approach, he seemed to realize that it had been a rather bad idea. Because all the while that Gary sat, he had not been thinking of clever things to say, but rather, had been mustering up the internal fortitude to approach her. The words were secondary to the action, and so he stood in front of her, staring at her, without uttering so much as a single syllable or unintelligible grunt. He did, however, shove his hand anxiously in his pockets.

“Well, that’s it then?” Kathy said.

“Oh, come again?”

“You’ve been watching me for a little while, and you have nothing to say? I have to say, I’m a little off put by this.”

“I’m sorry, I’m – ah – not very good with words.”

“Well,” she said, touching her ascot, “Something made you want to talk to me. Something made you walk all the way over. What is it?”

“I thought I recognized you,” he said. “You’re Kathy, right?”

“Have we met?”

Gary smiled a small, boyish smile that past lovers had accused him of stealing from the schoolyard. “No. But you’re Kathy, right?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m Kathy. Who are you?”

“Gary Anderson.”

“So how do you know me, if we’ve never met before?”

Gary thought about this for a second. Explaining to her that he had written a short story about her – the contents of said story involving jumping from a cliff into a pool of water at the base of a waterfall – and then recognizing her, and then approaching her out of the blue seemed somewhat off kilter. Something, he rationalized, that he should probably keep to himself.

“You just ah – you look like, like this Kathy I know. But you’re probably not the Kathy I know, because the uh – ah – the Kathy I know would recognize me as the Gary that she knows.”

“You’re not the Gary-I-know,” she said. “I don’t even know a Gary.”

“Well...” he said, pulling his hand from his pocket and thrusting it towards her as if it was a lifeline, “Now you do. I’m the Gary you know, and you’re... Well, I suppose now you’re the other Kathy I know.”

She did not take his hand, rather, stared down at it somewhat amused, as if she were staring a broken pinwheel instead. “You’re a very strange person, Gary-I-know.”

“I’ve been told that before. And I’ll have you know, I don’t normally do things like this. I don’t talk to strangers. I had a good mother, told me never to do that, so – there’s that. You just look like – well, yes. That’s all, I suppose.”

“You’re a very strange person,” she repeated. “Sit down,” she motioned to the horse.

Gary obliged. Kathy sat on the horse opposite him, and they faced each other. The springs inside were meant for children, and they both rocked unsteadily as they stared.

“So, Gary-I-know, what is it that you do for a living?”

“Ah, well – professionally, I write instruction booklets for second tier video games.”

“And unprofessionally, what is it that you do?”

He smiled, proud. “I’m a writer.”

Kathy cocked her head to the side like a dog. “Have you written anything I would have read?”

“I’ve only been published once. But I’ve written more than one thing. I’m trying to hammer out a good ratio. It’s not working. So far... ninety five short stories, three plays, two novels... One story published. Three years ago. My turn,” he said.

“For what?”

“To ask you a question. What is it that you do for a living, other Kathy-I-know?”

She stared down. “Professionally, I used to be an accountant for Bank of America.”

“And unprofessionally?”

“I don’t do things unprofessionally. My second professional job is dying of a brain tumor.”

Gary sat, and stared at her, looking for any kind of tell, any kind of sign that she was kidding, an indicator that it was joke, a poor joke, but a joke none-the-less that was meant to be laughed at. Kathy was stone faced.

“Normally,” she said, “When people hear that, they apologize to me.”

“I’m sorry that I ah – I didn’t apologize. You’re a professional, you say?”

“I’m very good at it.”

“Well, if you have to do something, do it well, I suppose. Even if it is dying.”

Kathy cocked her head to the other side. “You’re a funny man, Gary-I-know.”

“Then you’re allowed to laugh at what I say,” he offered.

“You’re not that funny. People that overestimate my amusement towards them tend to irritate me.”

“I don’t know you well enough to overestimate you. I can only estimate you. Give me more ground, I’ll give you more estimation. Maybe one day, we’ll hit overestimation. But don’t overestimate how I estimate, please.”

With this, Kathy smiled. “Well, Gary-I-know, I have to leave now to get my head x-rayed so they can adjust the tick-down timer that is what is left of my life.”

“If you’re still alive next Tuesday, would you want to meet here again?”

Kathy paused. This was not intended – she did not mean for the conversation she had forced upon him to produce another meeting. Gary was equally taken aback by the words that had launched out his mouth like a can that says “Beer Nuts!” but is instead filled with spring-snakes.

“Well, yes,” she said, after a long pause. Kathy was unsure if she meant it.

“Then I’ll see you on next Tuesday.”

“If I’m still alive,” she said over her shoulder, as she exited into the throng of standing, sitting, talking, musing, contorting, laughing people. When she rounded the corner, she smiled to herself.

-

96

She was magical, sitting on the airplane, demanding not just one, not just two, but three packets of peanuts. The flight attendant didn’t quite know what to make of her, this small brown haired bombshell. Her constant nagging for the salty snack masked a deeper anxiety, a greater fear that if she could not get this one thing, then everything would slip through her grasp. She was already losing control of her life – all she looked for was a brief reassurance.

Affirmation of control is all she needed. And when the stewardess, the stocky, tiny, French woman handed over three packets, Kathy breathed a sigh of relief.

For now, she was in control.

-

Kathy, as luck would have it, was alive next Tuesday, as was Gary, who had been struck by their meeting with a lightning bolt of inspiration that cut through his house into his large forehead. He had sprung to work immediately turning out another very short, very friendly story about Kathy. After one read-through, he noticed that he had made no grammatical errors, which was a first for him.

Kathy had been struck by no such inspiration. The doctor had told her what he had been telling her the last few weeks – that by the end of the summer, she would cease to exist. She would have a new home below ground, the move relatively easy as she would not have to worry about packing or leases.

She lamented it being June already, but Gary could not see this on her face.

On this Tuesday, Gary and Kathy sat at a table that had one uneven leg. After a pause where neither of them spoke, Gary retrieved a few napkins and slid them under the leg. It rocked, but hardly as noticeably.

“Professionally,” he said, “I put napkins under table legs so they don’t shake as much. What did the doctor say?”

Kathy sighed. “He told me what I already knew.”

“I’m sorry,” Gary said, “that the visit was so boring, then. Getting news you already know is like reading a book twice in a row. In your case, it’s a horrible book.”

“Like ‘The Da Vinci Code’ on permanent repeat,” Kathy said. “And what about you? What have you done with your week since last Tuesday, the seven days leading up to this?”

“I wrote an instruction booklet and a short story.”

“What was the story about? This is number... ninety six, isn’t it?”

Gary shrugged. “Nothing, really. It’s too short to be any good.”

“What was the game about?”

“You’d think I would remember this, wouldn’t you? Once you’ve written one, you’ve written all of them. I think there were guns, maybe.”

Kathy leaned back, putting her hands on the table. “I did have a dream,” she said. “I don’t dream very often, but I had a dream this past week. The doctor said as the tumor gets bigger, more pressure on my brain, the stranger and more lucid the dreams will become. That’s the upshot. As a girl, I never dreamed, but now it’s like I’m making up for lost time.”

“What did you dream about?”

Kathy shrugged. “It was nothing really. I had a dream I was on an airplane, and there was a hideous stewardess. She refused – refused – to give me extra peanuts, and I felt like... Like I was trapped, I suppose, and that these peanuts, these trivial little items, would free me. I was charming, I was persistent, and I got the peanuts. I woke up relaxed.”

Gary didn’t speak for quite some time, reflecting back to story ninety six. “That sounds like a pleasant dream.”

“As far as dreams go. But in the end, it just made me think about the control I don’t have anymore.” Katy sighed. “I used to ride horse back. I used to ride. I hadn’t ridden for fifteen years and before I collapsed at work, I was thinking about taking it up again. Getting back on the saddle, so to speak – no, not so to speak, literally, getting back on the saddle. When I collapsed at work, they took me and took pictures of my brain, and I asked if I was allowed.”

“You’re not, are you?”

“No. It might jostle the tumor and expedite my death. I was given a list of things I wasn’t allowed to do. You think, when you find out you’re dying, that you’ll make a list of things to do before you finally go – the final hurrah. But I can’t do half the things I put down on my list.”

“That’s tragic,” Gary said.

Kathy looked unamused. She looked like she did the first day Gary approached her. “It is tragic. What am I supposed to do with my time?”

“Very good question. How are you supposed to live life like you’re going to die if you’re not allowed to because living that way will kill you? You could always play poker. You seem to have that same look plastered on your face no matter what I say.”

“I was never any good at gambling.”

“So what did you decide to do with your time?”

“I came to the food court to people watch last week. Low chance of exacerbating my tumor if I’m just watching people who will, no doubt, go on living without a care after I die.”

“I’ll care, not that it means a whole lot.”

“Of course, you say this now, but after I’m gone, you’ll forget about me,” she said.

“I think you might be overestimating – our favorite word – not only how often I meet new people but the kind of social skills I have.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t see each other anymore,” she said. “I never set out to make an impact on anyone.”

“I want to be impacted. I want to care. Going through life with fogged glasses – that’s not what it’s about. And you... You want someone to care, don’t you?”

“I never set out to make an impact on anyone,” she repeated softly to herself. After a few seconds, she pushed herself away from the table.

Gary sat and watched her walk away.

“Same time next Tuesday?” he called after her.

She turned, and without realizing it, flashed him a smile.

-

97

Her riding helmet cropped her hair close to her head, and her crop whipped gently against the side of the horse. After a few short seconds, she reached up, unclipping her helmet, letting it tumble to the ground, falling under the beating hooves of the beast. The wind took her hair, pulling it behind her in every direction, as if a thousand sprites were vying for a piece, taking them all to a thousand different celestial planes.

The wind stung her skin as she rode into the vast, level field. It seemed as if it would go on forever, stretching on into an eternity. She could feel every move the horse made, the rippling of the back muscles, the pounding of the legs against the fertile ground. She reached down and touched the long, fine mane, pulling the hair gently between her fingers.

As she leaned forward, pressing the horse on, faster, faster, a tear began to well in her eye.

This, this is what she had been missing.

-

It was the same table with the same folded up napkins under it. Gary was early, having purchased a soda, and on the same side of that coin, Kathy was late, having not actually expected Gary to show up for a second week in a row.

“I thought I had made myself clear,” she said.

“And yet,” he kicked her chair out from across the table and motioned for her to sit, “here we are. If you made yourself clear, why would you show up? Just to make sure I wasn’t here?”

She seated herself. Gary slid her a drink. “Bought this for you. I was in the store, and I thought, what is it that other Kathy-I-know does? And I figured, outside of dying, you eat, you sleep, you dream now, and you drink. So, here you go.”

She opened the can and took a sip. “I don’t drink soda,” she said.

After a few seconds, she pulled up a plastic bag, setting it on the table.

“What’s this?” Gary asked. “X-rays? More cynical observations?”

“I was in a store, and I thought to myself, what is it that Gary-I-know does? And I figured, outside of being timid and meek, you eat, sleep, drink, and write.”

From the bag, she removed a small leather bound journal and a long black fountain pen.

“Why? I just got you a drink, I don’t –“

“Oh, shut up and be grateful. I figure you don’t have a lot of friends so you perhaps missed out on some of the finer things friendships have to offer. Random gifts are one of them. At least, it always has been for me.”

“Very thoughtful, considering you didn’t think – and didn’t want me to show up... How much did this cost?” Gary asked, running his fingers over the cracked skin of the volume. He uncapped the pen and touched his finger against the sharp, metal font.

“Cost is irrelevant. You can’t take money with you when you die.”

He opened the first page. In sprawling, looping handwriting was a short message.

“Kathy was here.”

“I have a journal just like that at my house,” she said. Her eyes sparkled just a tiny bit before flaming out again. “I actually don’t write in it anymore. I used to, but now... I just stopped.”

“Why not?”

“Every entry is the same. ‘I woke up. It’s a good day.’”

“If you write in it, I’ll read it, you know. I will.”

“Maybe I’ll leave it to you after I die.”

“Why don’t you ever use euphemisms?”

“Because they’re coping mechanisms for people that are afraid to die.”

“You’re not afraid?”

Kathy stared down at the table. “No.”

“You’re not afraid?”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were wavering, the image of her pupils distorted by a few tears. She fought them back valiantly. “Maybe a little, yes.”

Gary reached across the table, putting a hand on hers.

“That is so clichéd,” Kathy said, pulling her hand away to wipe the wet from her face, smiling.

“I’ll try to avoid that,” Gary shrugged. “As a writer we try to avoid clichés. They make for horrible stories.”

Kathy touched the journal with her free hand, making no effort to withdraw her other from his grasp. “I got my journal from my dad on my sixteenth birthday. Three days before he left. He told me to write down everything, because one day, I’d be something, and it would all be there.”

Gary looked down at his watch and back up at Kathy. “Hey, I’m sorry about this, but I have to go.”

She blushed. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. I knew it.”

“Not in the least,” Gary offered a smile. “I just – ah – I told someone I’d meet them at the park later, and now is later, so now I have to go before later turns into a half-assed apology.”

“A friend, Gary-I-know? I’m shocked!”

“What can I say. I’m making progress.”

Gary stood, and grabbed the journal. “Same time next Tuesday?”

She nodded. “Don’t you want to hear about my dream, then?”

“Of course.”

“Horseback riding. I was there again.”

“How did that make you feel?”

She paused. “Alive.”

Gary smiled.

-

98

There were presents scattered all over the table. After all, she was quite the popular lass. However, there was only one that caught her eye, that pulled her in. The small box that sat near the end of the table, squarely in front of the man with the square jaw and shoulders. Her father, the lumbering man.

“I want that one,” her voice echoed off the canyons of wrapping paper and streamers.

He slid the box over, and without a seconds hesitation, she had torn the paper off like a slaughterhouse worker who was in love with their job.

Inside was a journal, slightly bruised, slightly broken, folded down the middle as if the man buying it were having a hard time coming to terms with everything.

“When you’re something,” her man, the father, said, “It’ll all be there.”

“And when I’m nothing?”

“Someone will read.”

-

Gary had begun to put weight onto his thin frame. He used to resemble a house built quickly by migrant workers, and now, he had more strength. He walked instead of wavered. He moved instead of fumbled.

Kathy, however, over the passing weeks, had become worse for the wear. She had lost a noticeable amount of weight, her frail skin beginning to sag from her bones. Despite this, she was smiling more. Her eyes would light up for minutes at a time. She had begun to laugh, to hum old songs while waiting for Gary to sit down.

They had continued to exchange gifts. To her, a riders crop. To him, a collection of short stories. To her, a bundle of instruction booklets that he had written. To him, old poetry.

After every meeting, Gary would go home, position himself in front of his typewriter, and begin to create a world where Kathy was happy, where she was not a fading light, but a beacon.

“I think I might love you,” she said one Tuesday. “How horrible is that? Two months, and I think I might love you.”

“It’s only horrible if you think I don’t love you back.”

“It’s worse if you do love me back.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m fading, Gary. There’s nothing worse than loving a dying star.”

“And what of it?”

“I don’t know how you can be so cavalier about it.”

Gary shrugged. “Tell me about you dancing. I like it when you talk about your dancing.”

She smiled. “I know you do. I don’t have anything else to say about it. You’ve heard everything.”

“Everything? Over two months?”

“I talk more than you.”

“Yes, but I like listening.”

Kathy pushed her hair behind her ear. It no longer bounced, but fell straight down.

“What do you think it’s like?”

“What?” Gary asked.

“Dying. What do you think it’s like?”

“I... ah – I don’t really know.”

“Me, I hope it’s just... I hope it’s nothing more than a long sleep. I hope I just lie down, my head hits the pillow, and I can go anywhere, to any dream I’ve had, to any dream I’ve yet to have.”

“I hope it’s like that, too. I really, truly do.”

“Two weeks.”

“Come again?”

“The doctor said, ‘Two weeks, and you’ll be lucky for that.’” With this, she broke down into heavy sobs, putting her head in her arms down on the table.

Gary moved over, and tried to hold her thin form as best as he could.

“One more Tuesday, then.”

-

125

She moved across the polished wood flooring, her leotard hugging her body like a hippy to a lovely old tree. She dipped, and curved, moved and contorted, all while watching herself in the mirror. Her hair was tied back with a pink ribbon that matched the purple of her cloth covering well. Her hand reached out for the steady bar. She almost fell, but someone caught her.

Every time, she thought to herself, every time, someone is right to there to catch me.

I’ll never fall.

-

There was one final gift exchange. Kathy brought him nothing.

Gary arrived with a briefcase full of short stories, all of them about Kathy. Kathy horseback riding, bungee jumping, dancing, her parties, her friends. He gave her the briefcase.

“Something for you ah – you know, to read. Just some stories I’ve been working on.”

Kathy was about to open the case when Gary stopped her. “Not right here. Not now.”

“Well, thank you,” she said, looking up at him. “I’ll try and get through these all before I leave.”

“This is the last one, then?”

She nodded. “I’ll be in the hospital until... you know, the end.”

“A euphemism? From you?”

She cracked a faded smile. “One time only.”

They stared at each other. “I don’t want to draw this out,” she said. “I don’t. I just want to go now.”

“Then go,” he offered, standing up from the table.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, staring at him.

“I think you’ll manage fine,” Gary said. He walked over to her and draped his arms around her.

“I’m sorry you had to meet me like this,” Kathy mumbled into his shoulder.

“Other Kathy-I-know, can you do me one favor?”

She pulled away and looked up at him.

“Have sweet dreams.”

They both smiled, turned, and left the food court.

-

It was a week and a half later when the FedEx driver wearing too-short shorts and a too-tiny shirt walked up and knocked up on the door of Gary’s apartment.

Gary opened the box, tipped it over. Out fell a small creased, folded, worn down leather journal. He opened to the first page, and a small white piece of paper fell out, a sprawling, looping script.

“Gary.

“I read them.

“Thank you.”

Gary smiled, and began to read.

After an hour, he reached the middle of the journal, smiling at the first entry that mentioned him. The day before, she had written a poem and a very brief, too-short to be any good story.

It read:

1

Gary spied her, from across the crowded food court, the bastion of activity built to keep the plebs fat and sassy. She was standing by the coin-operated rocking horse looking bored with just about everything, a mask upon her face that said, “I’ve sat through the history of silt, and that still takes the cake to this.”

Gary marked his page with the other object in the box, the small, red ascot she had been wearing the first day, and turned to the typewriter.

Just in case Kathy was correct, in case it was nothing but a long sleep, he would be ready to help, to mould her eternity for her.

The keyboard clicked, and they were away.

THE END.

you should be a book writer