The City of Dreams -- Part 17

[Only 1016 words to this section, but I thought it was better to post than not. Or Not. Either way, there's no guarantee you'll get any more out of me today, so I thought I should put this up to let you all know I haven't died.

[I feel a bit like Lydia Bennet. "There were several worse words I could have used, so I thought I might as well write it as not. I'll pull it all to pieces when I get home and make it up nicer." Something like that.]


Aparently Not has a better sense of direction than I do, because it wasn't long before I could see Big Ben's clock rising over the shorter buildings ahead of us.
"Does the City stay the same every night?" I asked.
"It does," said Not. "Not."
"I should have seen that coming," I said.
"It stays the same and it doesn't," explained the dream.
"That makes things much clearer," I said.
"I'm glad I could help."
We walked around the last corner and into the Market. One man sat in his booth, his feet up, snoring--how does a person sleep when he's already asleep?--but other than that, the massive square was empty of people. Big Ben looked down at me, immense and peaceful, and his clock face blinked at me. Or winked at me.  If you only have one eye, is blinking the same as winking? Either way, it seemed like he knew something I didn't know.
"I'm going to ask him a question," I said.
"Ask who?"
"Big Ben."
"Does he talk?" asked Not. "I don't think he talks."
"Have you ever tried talking to him?"
"No."
"Then how would you know?"
"I think SOMEONE would have tried to talk to him. And then he would have answered, or he wouldn't, and we'd hear about it."
"Have you ever asked anyone about it?"
"Why would I?" asked Not. "He doesn't talk."
I smiled. "I think I've managed to confuse YOU. This is a first, Not."
"I'm not confused," he said. "But I don't think he talks."
I nodded and kept walking through the booths, weaving my way towards the immense clock.
"How good do you think his hearing is?" I asked. "Should I get closer, or do you think this is good?"
"I'm not sure he can hear," said Not.
I ignored him. "If I get any closer then I'll get a crick in my neck trying to look up at him. I think I'll stop here and shout."
"This is crazy," said the dream. "It's like asking a question to a statue of the Buddha, and expecting him to answer."
"How do you know about Buddha?" I asked.
"I have no idea," said Not. "I'm nervous. And excited."
I wasn't entirely sure why, but so was I. I could only imagine what Big Ben had seen. The wisdom pouring off of him was so thick I felt like I could reach out and touch it. Crazy, I know, to think of a clock as wise, but it did make sense in a strange, metaphorical way. Clocks always look to the future, always move ahead, never let the past slow them down. Assuming they have good batteries, or have been wound properly. But that's not the point. The point was that I was going to ask Big Ben a question.
I just had to figure out which question.
"What do I ask?" I said.
"You were the one with the idea," said Not.
"Help me out here. I'm stuck."
Next to me, Not took a deep breath. Don't ask me how, because I'm not sure how, but he did, and then he shouted, "Am I Perry's dream?"
The minute hand on Big Ben's face shifted one notch with a clank of gears that sounded clearly through the quiet marketplace. Not and I looked at each other.
"Was that a yes or a no?" I asked.
"Either way, it looks like you can ask him a question once every minute. That's great!"
"Let's go find Mr. Punctilious," I said.
"Sounds good.  The Four-Season Tree is that way."
Walking through the empty market was calming. Of course, walking near Big Ben was probably always calming, but there was something satisfying about being alone in a place that normally held so many people. It could have been lonely, I suppose, but knowing that the market would be full soon, I felt like I was doing something special. Like walking in an empty stadium, or standing on stage in front of an empty theater. I was part of a performance waiting to happen.
"I like this place," I said.
"They have good food here," said Not.
"Do you eat?" I asked.
"No."
"Huh. But I don't like this place because of the food."
"Why do you like it, then?"
"It's full of possibilities."
"Life is full of possibilities," said Not.
"It doesn't always feel like it," I said. "Not when I'm awake."
"How sad," said Not.
I shrugged. "Forget it. I'm here right now, and here is good."
The doors to the barn were open, the sign for MR. PUNCTILIOUS' FABULOUS AND OFTEN EXCITING TRAVELING TROUPE AND GARAGE SALE looking down at me--not literally. It's not like there were big eyes on the sign, watching us. That would have been creepy. I jumped up the stairs and peered into the dim interior.
"Sunglasses," said Not.
"Right," I said, taking them off and hanging them from the neck of my shirt. "That's better."
The garage sale portion of the barn was as filled as ever, but the chaos I remembered from the night time was still except for the occasional rustle. The chairs in front of the stage were empty and Mr. Punctilious sat on the stage, his back to us, looking at a blank, white cloth that hung from the rafters of the stage, or whatever it's all called.
"He's always asleep?" I asked Not, quietly.
"Always. I think he's the only person who's here all the time."
"Does he ever see you?"
"He hasn't yet. Maybe he's too busy looking at his own dreams."
"Is that what he's doing now?" I asked.
"No," said Not, slowly. "He's looking at a white cloth."
"Of course," I said.
I walked further into the room but stopped at the outermost row of seats. Something in the way Mr. Punctilious sat seemed to speak privacy. After a while he shook his head, sighed, and turned around.
He caught sight of me. "Perry!" he called, genuinely happy. "You're here early, aren't you? Come in! You can help me paint my scenery.”