The City of Dreams -- Part 5

["Write or Die" has the potential to revolutionize my productivity.  Today's section of over 2000 words was written in not much more than an hour total.  That's an average of thirty-three words-per-minute, which isn't a bad typing speed, not counting the fact that we're making this up as we go.

[If I can maintain this kind of pace...the world will probably explode.]


She took my hand and pulled me through the crowd.  Most people were headed back towards the door and whatever else we had passed on our way into the barn.  We made our way past the chairs, straight up onto the stage, and back to either stage left or stage right, not that I had any clue which was which.  I didn't worry about it too much.  I decided to worry a little bit more about the immensely muscled gentleman in black clothing that was herding various props into a storage room.
"Heya, Pork Chop," said Brie.
He nodded at her and smacked a set of bureau drawers on the side, sending it scuttling into a corner where it settled down with a huff.
"That's Pork Chop?" I asked quietly.
"Absolutely."
"His muscles have muscles."
"I think he used to be a gymnast."
"What does he do now?"
"IT, I think.  Technical support for some company."
I blinked.  "I'm trying to remember some phrase about 'books' and 'covers,' but I'm not quite getting it."
"Don't worry," said Brie.  "Just don't bring up which kind of computers are the best.  That can get him agitated."
"You here to see Mr. Punctilious?" asked Pork Chop, walking over towards us and taking off his work gloves.
"Does he have time?" asked Brie.
"Sure.  He's just outside grabbing a bite to eat."  He waved his hand toward a small door in the barn's wall and walked off, yelling good naturedly at the scampering foot stool.
Brie led the way to the door and opened it.  She climbed down a short ladder and while I waited I leaned out and took a look around.  We were right under the four-season tree, and it was just as amazing up close as it had been from far away.  Mr. Punctilious was under the 'fall' section of the tree, chewing on what looked like an apple.
Brie hopped down the last few rungs to the ground and I climbed after.
"Brie!" called out Mr. Punctilious, his grin as broad as ever.  "I'm so glad you could make it to the show.  What did you think?"
"It was wonderful, sir.  Very funny, though your opening jokes still need work."
"Of course they do!  I like my plays to be the highlight of the evening.  If all people could think about was my warm up act, they would have no attention for the drama, comedy, and sheer brilliance of my script-dreaming.  No, the good jokes all go into the plays.  The rejects are the ones that come before.  Now tell me who this is?"
"This is Perry.  He's a friend from school."
I thought that comment could use some clarification--we weren't friends at school, at least not yet--but instead of quibbling I took Mr. Punctilious' outstretched hand and shook firmly.
"Perry Crows, sir."
"Crows?  That's a curious name."
"Yes, sir.  Probably Polish once."
"And how did you like the play?"
"It was captivating right from the start, sir."
His smile didn't change, but his eyes narrowed and he glanced from me to Brie and back.  "Should I ask you your favorite part then, Perry?"
"I'm not sure I could choose a favorite," I said.
One of his eyes twitched--a wink?--and he let go of my hand.  "Then I won't pressure you, but I hope you enjoyed it enough to come back, alone or together with our little girl here."
"I'd be glad to, sir," I said, breathing a quiet sigh of relief.
"So then," said Mr. Punctilious, turning back to Brie, "did you come out here just to tell me how wonderful my play was?"
"I wanted Perry to meet you," she said.  "This is only his second time in the City."
Mr. Punctilious arched an eyebrow at me, took one last bite of his apple, and threw it into a nearby flower planter.  The cluster of flowers that looked like glowing roses made short work of the core, devouring it like botanical piranhas.
"A new visitor, are you?  And do you know what you're looking for?" he asked.
"I didn't know I was looking for anything," I said.
"Not unusual.  Most people who come here don't realize what they're missing.  They find it a pleasant diversion, an intriguing way to spend the time between waking and waking--but they don't realize that they've come here for a reason.  In fact, even out of all those who do realize it, some of us never find what we're looking for.  But this is too serious a conversation to have standing up."  Mr. Punctilious wiped his hands on a handkerchief that he produced from a pocket and led the way back to the ladder.  "Come, children.  Let's find a comfortable place to sit inside.  We just had some lovely couches wander in from the West side of town, and they weren't sold before the show, so let's hope they're still there."
Mr. Punctilious hopped his way up the ladder with surprising quickness for a man of his roundness.  I tried to be courteous by letting Brie go first--which she did--then realized it might not have been as courteous as I'd thought.  I avoided watching her behind (which wasn't bad in those jeans) and kept my eyes on my hands.
A quick walk across the crowded backstage and we were out in the barn's main room again, but this time the lights were on.
"Wow," I said.
"Welcome to the 'garage sale' portion of my fabulous and often exciting traveling troupe," said Mr. Punctilious, waving his arms at the broad expanse of furniture, books, clothing racks, and everything else that filled nearly every square foot of floor beyond the seating for the stage.  "If we don't have it, don't worry.  It will wander in eventually."
"Is that cage actually filled with Frisbees?" I asked.
"Of course," said Mr. Punctilious.  "Can't have them flying free, can we?  Of course at this phase of the moon they're rather tame, and when there's a new moon we even let them out sometimes, but most of the time it's just better to leave them where they are."
Customers wandered through the rows and piles, moving around lamps and trying on hats and coats and slippers.  A small section of televisions tried to attract the attention of passers by, changing to a new station to get noticed, only to have all the TVs around it change to the exact same station.  A small collection of instruments was working out a rendition of When the Saints Go Marching In, but the snare drum kept rushing ahead.
"Here we are," said Mr. Punctilious.  "Deep brown leather, only a little scratched, and docile as a koala."
"It's because of their diet," I said.
"What is?" asked Mr. Punctilious.
"Koalas don't move much because they eat eucalyptus leaves, and they don't get all that much in the way of nutrients from each leaf, so they don't have much energy, so they're docile."
Mr. Punctilious blinked at me and sat on the smaller of the two couches.   "Interesting," he said.
Brie sat down on the other couch and, after looking around and finding no other furniture in a convenient distance, I sat down next to her.  It wasn't that big of a couch, and our legs bumped, so I crossed my left leg over my right to make some space between us.  Not that I exactly wanted space between us, but I wasn't sure how to handle the lack of it.
"So you're new to the city," said the round man, smiling at me.  "Do you like it?"
I found myself grinning.  "A lot," I said.  "I feel really good here."
"Met anyone interesting?"
"Everyone I've met," I said, and it was true.
"How's your daytime life?" he asked.
Brie leaned on the arm of the couch and looked over at me.  I didn't know what to say.  "Fine."
"Fine how?"
"Is this a therapy session?" I asked, shifting on the couch.
Mr. Punctilious smiled and shook his head.  "No, no therapy.  I just thought it would be easier to explain to you if I knew you better.  If, for example, your father had died when you were small, you might have come here because you missed a father in your life.  By the way, how is your father?"
"He bikes to work every day.  Also, he spends time with me regularly."
"Not looking for a father then.  Mother, brother, or sister?"
"I have more than enough sisters, and I've never really thought about wanting a brother.  I'm not much into manly things, though I did shoot a shotgun a few times.  That was moderately terrifying."
"I like shooting," said Brie.
"Really?"  I was surprised.
"My dad is a policeman.  He takes me to the range sometimes on weekends."
"Are you good?"
"Come sometime and you'll find out."
She was smiling at me and I smiled back.  I'd just been asked out on a date.  In my dreams.
"Clearly it's not the obvious things then," said Mr. Punctilious, calling us back to the garage sale.  "Do you have any deep regrets from your life?  Anything undone that you wish you had, or anything done you wish you hadn't?"
I stopped to think, but nothing jumped out at me.  I shook my head.
"Well, you're not making this easy on me," said Mr. Punctilious, "but I'll try to explain anyway.  We'll just have to use someone else as an example.  I hope you're a young man with some amount of empathy, or you'll have a hard time relating to what I'm about to share in abbreviated and, in most ways, summarized form."
Brie had her hand in the air.
"Yes, Brie?"
"You're talking in complicated sentences again, sir."
He glared at her, humor around his mouth.  "Fine.  I will explain in brief phrases, catering to the eighth grade reading level enjoyed by the majority of the country."
"I wouldn't have interrupted," said Brie, "but last time you mentioned that you wished more people cared about your theories, and I said that they might if they could understand them, and you said you should probably express yourself more clearly, and I said--"
"Yes, I remember, and I will be as plain as I can, and would you please quiet down?  There's no guarantee that any of us will stay asleep long enough for me to finish otherwise."
Brie just smiled at him.
"Where was I?" asked Mr. Punctilious.
"Empathy and abbreviations," I said.
"Ah, someone who is paying attention, finally," he said, then settled back even further into his couch.  "Let me begin by saying that I've been coming to the City of Dreams for years.  At first I was terrified, concerned that I was going insane.  Later the possibility of insanity became irrelevant for reasons we won't enter into at the moment, but I'm getting off topic.  Simply put, I've had a great deal of time to consider the nature of this place and why we come here, since clearly not everyone does.  After all, have you ever known another person from your daily life to come to this place?"
I pointed at Brie.  I looked down to see that Brie was pointing at me.  I smiled.
"You put your hand down," said Brie.  "You couldn't even remember me."
"That's not entirely true," I said.  "I couldn't remember your name, but I did remember where you sit in English.  Didn't I?"
"Fine," she said, poking the tip of my finger with the tip of hers.  "I'll let it pass this time, but you have to actually talk to me tomorrow, understand?"
"Just as long as you do that little wave," I said.
"Are you two quite finished?" asked Mr. Punctilious.
"Yes, sir," we said together.
"Good.  Moving on.  As I said, not everyone comes here, so I started interviewing people, trying to see if there were something common among us all.  I met doctors, drug addicts, painters, writers, chefs, janitors, mothers, children, fathers, airline pilots, soldiers, and scuba instructors.  I met people of every race I knew of and a few I hadn't known before--particularly those indigenous Canadian tribes.  I can never keep their names straight.
"But all that is beside the point.  There was no common physical, professional, or social attribute that bound us all together.  Except one."
Mr. Punctilious paused and looked me in the eye.
"This is where he tells you what it is," said Brie.
Mr. Punctilious blew out his breath, exasperated.  "Now you've ruined the mood, young woman."
"And you've probably already guessed what it is," said Brie.
"I'm going to throw you out on the street," he said.
"I do have a pretty good idea," I said.
"I'll throw you both out," said Mr. Punctilious.
"Should we let him tell us?" asked Brie.
"That would be polite," I said, and now Mr. Punctilious was laughing.
"Fine," he said, "I'll drop the dramatics.  The answer is 'dissatisfaction.'  Every person I've talked with here has something in his or her life that he is deeply dissatisfied with.  Not just a little, but a lot.  Quite a lot."
"Zoli," I said.
"Is Zoli back?" asked Mr. Punctilious.
"Yeah," said Brie.  "It stinks."
"I might choose a different adjective," said Mr. Punctilious, "but yes, it does.  Also, yes, Perry, Zoli is an excellent and rather unambiguous example.  He is looking for companionship.  I assume he was gone for this last while because he thought he'd found it?"
"She said she wanted to be friends," I said.
Mr. Punctilious winced.  "That's unfortunate.  Why does the fairer sex do that?"
"We're trying to be nice," said Brie.
Mr. Punctilious and I looked at each other.  No words were necessary.
"You've never told me what you're looking for, sir," said Brie.
Mr. Punctilious smiled.  "Knowing that is much less important than knowing what you are looking for, young woman.  Or you, young man.  What is the dissatisfaction that plagues your waking world so much that it drives you here at night?"
"An excellent question," said Not, hovering behind my right shoulder.  "Too bad you're about to wake up."