The City of Dreams -- Part 8

[Once again, how I feel about my writing and the quality of my writing seem to be entirely independent functions.  If what I'm posting today is good, it does not reflect how I felt while I was writing.  If it isn't good, then tell me gently.  Also, I'm not fishing for compliments.  I'm asking for them outright.]


"Where do you keep coming from?" I asked.
"I'm around," said Not.  "And I'm Not."
"These puns are going to get old some time," I said.
"What puns?"
Father Thomas was smiling.  "Why don't you both come back to my office," he said.  "I think it's time for something to drink.  You like orange juice?"
"I love it," said Not.  "But I don't drink."
"I'd love some," I said, and we all made our way to a side door that led out into a more modern looking addition, something that from the inside seemed very much like a house built onto the side of the older gray stone and carvings of the church.  A short hallway and we were in a well-lit little room with overstuffed chairs, magazines on a table, and pictures on the wall of Father Thomas and other people I didn't know.  In some of the pictures the priest looked younger, and in some he looked older.
"Sit down," said Father Thomas.  "I'll be back in a minute."
"Do you care which chair you get?" I asked Not.
"Of course," he said.  "Not."
I blinked at him and sat down in the one closest to me.  He hovered somewhere in the area of another.  A few magazines hopped upright on the table and fluttered their pages to get my attention, but I politely said no thank you and they settled back down.
"Why do you keep following me?" I asked.
"I'm--"
"I know," I interrupted.  "You're Not."
"I wasn't going to say that."
"What were you going to say?"
"I'm attracted to you," said Not, hard to look at as always.
"I'm not sure how to take that," I said.
"It's not romantic," said the maybe-man.  "Though, based on the reaction of the girl who was spending time with you yester-night, you aren't an unattractive person.  Have you ever thought of using that to get free food?"
"What?"
"From what I understand, girls will sometimes bake or share food with a boy that they're attracted to.  I admit, my real world experience is limited, but I've seen it happen in the City with some consistency."
"Are you crazy?" I asked.
"I'm not sure," said Not.
"Here we are, then," said Father Thomas.  "Three glasses of orange juice.  I brought you one, Not, even though you don't drink."
"That's very thoughtful," said Not.
"And this is for you, Perry.  It's not exactly like orange juice I've had when awake, at least not in recent years.  It's much more like the orange juice I had as a child, so I hope you don't mind pulp in it."
"Pulp is fine," I said.  I didn't really like pulp in my orange juice, but it wasn't as bad as when I was younger.  Since junior high I could get pulpy orange juice down without gagging, and one sip told me the flavor on this juice was good.  Very good.  I said as much.
"I'm glad," said Father Thomas.  "I've tried to find it's match in the waking world, but I live too far from any orange trees.  I think fresh picked and fresh squeezed is my only chance, but I've been assigned to cold places recently."
"You're a priest in real life?" I asked.
"This is real life," said Father Thomas, smiling, "but I know what you mean.  Yes, I'm a priest awake as well as asleep.  It's become a part of me, and I'm glad.  There was a while when I would come to the City as a professional ping-pong player."
"Is there such a thing?" I asked.
"I don't know, but that didn't stop me from dreaming it."
"How come I haven't come to the city as something different?"
"Haven't you?"
I thought about it.  "I guess I have.  Kind of.  I'm happier here."
"Happy is not a bad thing to be," said Father Thomas.
"No, it's not," said Not.
"Yes," said the priest.  "Let’s not forget Not.  It seems you've attracted an abandoned dream, young man."
"Is that what he is?"
"I told you that's what I am," said Not.
"What are abandoned dreams?"
Father Thomas's smile went sad.  "Are you up for a bit of guesswork from an old man?"
"Sure."
The priest took a drink from his juice and settled back into his chair, crossing his legs.  "This place is called the City of Dreams.  I don't know who gave it that name, but it seems a good enough description.  We only come here when we sleep, and anyone who looks around can see that the normal rules of our waking world don't apply here.  No, thank you," he said to the small table that had wandered over to him, "I wouldn't care for a magazine right now."
He took another drink.  "So in a world made of dreams, there must be all types of dreams here.  Good dreams, nightmares, an amalgam of mankind's desires, swirling together into a surprising place where we meet.  Here.  The City.  Some dreams that make their way here are dreams people believe in passionately.  I've seen great kindness in the City, and great selfishness.  I've seen violence and gentleness.  All these things wash their way to the shore of a church at some time, and we do our best here to help with them."
"What does this have to do with me?" asked Not.
"You, my dear Not, are an abandoned dream.  Someone wanted you very badly, or still wants you.  You are a fragment of a person's aspiration--we might even call you a piece of his soul.  You are desired and forgotten, all at the same time."
"That sounds very said," said Not.
"I think it is," said Father Thomas.
"So why is he attracted to me?" I asked.
"I have no idea," said the priest, "though perhaps you can tell me.  Do you have any idea?  Take a close look at him and tell me what you can see."
I turned to face Not again.  I blinked.  I squinted.  I couldn't.
"He's too slippery," I said.  "My eyes keep darting off to the side.  It's not comfortable."  I don't like it, I thought.  Trying to look at Not makes me feel sad.
I turned back to Father Thomas, and his eyes were on mine.  He looked at me for a moment more, his face serious, and then he smiled.
"That's all right," he said.  "We don't always have to understand everything.  Does having Not around bother you?"
I thought about it.  "Not really, I guess.  He does pop up at odd times."
"Dreams usually do that," said Father Thomas.  "Would you like more juice?"
"Yes, please."
Father Thomas walked out of the room and called back to me.
"Tell me about yourself, Perry. What do you like to do in the waking world?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"What are your hobbies?"
"I'm in choir at school."
"Do you like choir?" asked Not.
"I think so. I mean, my friends are in choir."
"But it's not your passion," said Father Thomas, coming back into the room with my refilled glass."
"I hadn't ever thought about it," I said.
"Well then, what else do you do?"
"I read a lot."
"About what?"
"Fiction mostly. Stories. Sci-fi and stuff. Fantasy."
"Watch much TV?"
"Depends on the day."
"What's your favorite show?"
I thought about it. "I don't really have one, I guess."
"I'm having a hard time getting a picture of your life, Perry. You've told me a few things that you do, but I suppose I wanted to know what you were interested in. What makes you tick?"
I don't know how I knew, but Not was looking at me. I looked back at him. It made me feel sad, but for that moment I didn't mind it so much. There was something about being in the City that freed up the the muscles in my jaw, made it easier to talk, to say things that I never knew how to say when I was awake. It made it okay to be a little bit sad.
"I don't like much of anything when I'm awake," I said. "I don't know when it happened, but I stopped enjoying things."
"How do you mean?" asked Father Thomas.
"I used to feel excited about pretty much anything. My sisters called me hyper, and I guess I was. I really loved the stories I read, loved TV shows. I could have told you every major location in Middle Earth, what happened there, and even a lot of the dates. I new the first three books of Isaac Asimov's FOUNDATION at least as well as Asimov did, because I figure he forgot a lot of it after he wrote it, but I read it so often I didn't forget anything."
"I hate to interrupt, but what's 'Middle Earth?'" asked Father Thomas.
"It's a made up world in 'The Lord of the Rings.' By J.R.R. Tolkien."
"I've heard of him," said the priest, nodding. "Go on. Do you not like things that way anymore?"
I shook my head. "I don't know what happened. You know those fancy crackers you get that have seeds and specks in them? Life used to feel like that. Now life is all saltines."
"Saltines aren't necessarily bad," said Father Thomas.
"No, they're not. But I like the kind with seeds better."
"Hmm," said Father Thomas. "And you don't know when this happened?"
I shrugged. "It just crept up on me."
"Like a rug," said Not. "They sneak into all kinds of places. Hard to keep them out."
Father Thomas smiled at Not, then looked back at me. "You, young man, are depressed."
"What?"
"You are suffering from, what sounds to me, like chronic and severe depression."
I shook my head. "I'm not depressed."
Father Thomas shrugged a little and took another drink. "It's something to think about, but everything you're telling me filters through my nearly fifty years of trying to help people, and if I had to make a snap diagnosis, I would say that you are depressed."
"But I'm not suicidal or anything."
"I'm very glad to hear it, but not very many people who suffer from depression are. It's more like a cloud over everything they do. It's like a world that used to be in color has suddenly become black and white."
I stared at him. "That's exactly how it is," I said.
"Do you feel that way here?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Interesting," said the priest.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"I have no idea," he said. "Perhaps we can find out some other time. You'll come visit me again?"
"Why can't we figure it out now?" I asked. I wanted to. Suddenly my problem had a name: depression. I wasn't sure if I was glad about that or not, but I felt something in my stomach. A little fire there. A name meant that people knew about this. If people knew about it, they might know how to change it. Fix it. Fix me.
"I'm afraid we can't figure it out now," said Father Thomas, "because I'm about to wake up. It comes with being old. I haven't managed to sleep through the night in thirty years."
"What wakes you up?" asked Not.
"The Call of Nature."
"What does it sound like?" asked Not.
Father Thomas suppressed a smile. "Like a flushing toilet."
"What an odd sound," said Not. "I understand some things very, very well, but other things are strange to me."
"Dreams are never complete," said the priest. "At least not in the City. Goodbye, Perry. Do come again."
"Of course," I said. "If I can find this place."
"You will," said Father Thomas, and he was gone.
Not and I were suddenly standing on the street. At least, I was standing. Not was sort of hovering.
"I don't think we should stay here," said the abandoned dream.
"What makes you say that?"
"There's a gang of street lights over there. They can get territorial."
I looked around and noticed that all the cars and the few people that had been on the street before were nowhere to be seen. Down the road a little was a cluster of six or seven street lights, much taller than me, and much more made of metal. Also, the light from their bulbs was a very angry red.
"How do we do this?" I asked.
"I suggest you move slowly. I'm not positive, but I think they can sense fear."
"That's a problem," I said.
"Why's that?" asked Not.
"I'm pretty sure I'm afraid.”