The City of Dreams -- Part 30

[Really in the home stretch now, though the home stretch is lasting much longer than I ever thought it would. Let me know if it seems like it's taking too long. We can always fast-forward.]

            When I woke up in the City that night, I had a pile of papers in my hand.

            This was exciting.

            "What's that?" asked Not.

            "I think it's my play," I said, quickly flipping the title page to look at the--no, it wasn't my play. "Dang it."

            "Dang what?"

            "This isn't what I wrote today."

            "What is it, then?"

            "Shhhh," I said. "I'm concentrating."

            It wasn't my play...but it WAS my play. It was something I could have written. I could feel it. The words were mine, the same way I could recognize paintings I'd done in grade school, even though I couldn't remember doing them. This play, though, was much better than my paintings from grade school.

            It wasn't spectacular. It was pretty good. It was okay. It was better than I had hoped.

            "Let's go," I said. "We need to talk to Mrs. Humphrey."

            "This is more than adequate, Mr. Crows," said Mrs. Humphrey. We sat in the same chairs, surrounded by piles of paper. "Not what we worked on last night, but better. When did you find the time to do this?"

            "I worked on it while I was awake."

            She peered at me through the oversized lenses of her glasses.

            "Well, not THIS play, exactly. I was writing something else, but when I woke up here, this is what I had."

            "Excellent," she said.

            "The play? You think it's that good?"

            "The play is a beginning," she answered. "What is excellent is that you worked during the day. How did it feel?"

            I stared at her. "I...don't really remember."

            "Marvelous," she said. Her lips almost smiled. "Perhaps we'll make a writer out of you yet."

            "But why does it matter how I felt when I was writing? I was too busy trying to figure out the story. I didn't have time to think about how I was feeling."

            "Exactly, Mr. Crows. How do you usually feel during your waking hours?"

            "Miserable." That was an easy question to answer.

            "To step off into a brief tangent," said Mrs. Humphrey, "may I ask if you talk to yourself? Not out loud, though that's perfectly acceptable as well. I mean those conversations we all have with ourselves in our heads, though we may not admit it to others."

            I shrugged. "Sure. I even tell myself jokes, though they're not usually as funny when I say them out loud."

            "So many jokes wither when we drag them out into the light of day, Mr. Crows.            This is why comedians perform in dark rooms. Now, back from our tangents. On the days that you feel miserable, do you discuss that with yourself?"

            I thought, then nodded slowly. "I think so."

            "And while you were writing your play, did you have time for those conversations?"

            "Oh," I said.

            "Exactly, Mr. Crows. Excellent. Now, let us look at your new play. At first glance, I see you are still prone to too much description in your stage directions."

            "I know," I said, wrinkling my nose. "But how do I let anyone know what the characters are doing or feeling?"

            Mrs. Humphrey's eyes wrinkled at the corners in the brightest version of her non-smile that I'd seen yet. "It's all in what they say. We see their hearts in the words they share and the silences they keep. The actions will come, but every action grows from a thought, and every thought comes first in the words we choose. That is the wonder of a play." She took a deep breath and looked down at the pages of my manuscript. "I'm proud of you, Perry."

            "Thanks," I said. And, for the next six hours, with two brief breaks for toast and peppermint tea, I didn't have any time to think about how much fun I was having.

           

            There was a crash from upstairs. I jumped, but Mrs. Humphrey hardly seemed to notice.

            “What was that?” I asked.

            “I’m sure it was the furniture. I have one particularly recalcitrant end table.”

            “Right.”

            There was more crashing.

            “That’s a loud end table,” I said.

            Mrs. Humphrey sighed and looked up from the page. “I’ve tried to send him away, but he keeps coming back. Loyal as dogs, these end tables. He can’t abide the papers piled on him, though, so he sheds them nightly. Unfortunately, as he sleeps during the day, more of the plays I might have written pile themselves on his head. On occasion, he loses his composure and vents his rage violently until--" there was a muffled thump from the ceiling, “the couch helps him calm down. Which,” she added, “shows the importance of not letting things pile up. Back to work, Mr. Crows.”

            I got back to work.

            “The basic structure is sound,” said Mrs. Humphrey. “Simple, but simple is good in this instance. We don’t have time for more.”

            “It’s not too simplistic, is it?” I asked.

            “In your situation, Mr. Crows, complications will kill the play as surely as a pencil, number two, driven through its heart. We are perhaps one third done with our first draft, and have yet to find you a cast. I am hoping you have someone in mind for these parts?”

            “Yeah,” I said. Mrs. Humphrey raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” I corrected myself.

            “‘Good,” she said. “‘Yes’ is a stronger word. Whom do you have in mind?”

            “Some people I’ve met, mostly from the market. I’ll talk to them tomorrow night.”

            “Excellent.” She held out her hand. “Good work tonight, Mr. Crows.”

            I took her hand and shook it. “Good work tonight, Mrs. Humphrey.”

            “Now,” she said, “go wake up.”

            I worked on my play all through school. I didn't know exactly which play to work on, but I was afraid that if I tried to write the night time play during the day, I'd end up with more of the daytime play written down at night, so I kept working on the daytime play during the day, even though I couldn't quit thinking about the nighttime play. Yeah, it was confusing. Also, my calculus teacher had to call my name three times before Mike elbowed my desk. Fortunately for me, I can do integrals in my sleep. Unfortunately, I wasn't sleeping.

            "So do I get to see what you're working on?" asked Mike on the way to English.

            "Absolutely," I said. "In your dreams."

            Mike rolled his eyes.

            I kept writing during English. I glanced back once at Brie. She was watching me, so I smiled. She shrugged her shoulders and looked back at the teacher. I figured that watching me might count as progress. Maybe I had her curious with what I was working on. I hoped I had her curious. I wondered if I should go and ask her if she were curious. The smarter part of my brain told me to wait. I needed to have more to show her.

            The dumber part of my brain had a seriously hard time with that decision and got its revenge by making me fidget. Mike asked me if I had to go to the bathroom. I stopped fidgeting.

            Brie left before us when the bell rang.

            "You still working on your project today?" asked Mike.

            I nodded. "Probably all week. You mind?"

            "No problem. Just so you know, we miss you at lunch."

            I blinked at him. "Thanks," I said.

            Mike waved his hand at me and walked off to find Sook. I wandered my way to the same corner of the lunch room I'd used yesterday. Also, curiously, my shoulders felt less heavy than usual. It was good to have friends.

            Dad knocked on my door.

            "No caped crusader today?"

            I shook my head, still leaning over my desk. Actually, I was slouched at a steep angle, my face smashing into the palm of my hand, my elbow on my desk. I was stuck, the way Napoleon got stuck in Russia. Hopefully not the way that Alexander the Great got stuck in Persia, because if I remembered right, that's where he died. I didn't particularly want to die.

            "Homework?" asked Dad, sitting on my bed.

            "Nah," I said. "I did all that at school."

            "What has your attention, then?"

            I rolled my face on my hand to look at him. "A plan."

            Dad's eyebrows went up. "For what’s-her-name?"

            I rolled my eyes. "Yes, for Brie, Dad."

            "That's good," he said. "That's great. Fabulous. Does this mean I get to meet her?"

            "Let me try my plan first. No guarantee of success."

            "Of course there is," said Dad. "You're my son, after all."

            "Right," I said. There was no sarcasm in my voice. None at all.

            Dad threw my pillow at me anyway.

            "I hear you're working on a project," said Mom at dinner.

            "No secrets in this family," I said.

            "With four women? Of course not. We are like neurons in the same brain. We communicate with each other ceaselessly, and what one knows, all the rest know."

            "There's a problem with that metaphor," said Dad. "We actually store memories in different places, so one neuron may NOT actually know what another neuron knows. It's a matter of specialization."

            Mom looked around the table. "Would any woman in the room who thought it was an appropriate metaphor please raise her hand?"

            Three hands went up.

            "I tried for more sons, Perry," said Dad. "Honest, I did."

            "So," said Mom. "Your project."

            "It's just something," I said.

            "Aha," said Mom. "That means it's regarding a girl."

            I looked at Dad, but he held up his hands and shook his head, declaring his innocence.

            "Please, Perry. I don't need your father to tell me these things. I've had over twenty years experience translating his Man Speak into real conversations. I'm assuming this girl is Brie? Or did you fall in love with someone else during the last week?"

            "I'm not in love, Mom."

            "Of course he's not," said Cindi. "He's going to go out with my friend."

            "I'm not doing that, either."

            "That's what you think," said my sister.

            "This curry is really good," I said.

            "Yes," said Dad, "to totally change the subject, I AM rather proud of this curry. Would anyone like more curry? Please, Diana, have some curry. It's a curry festival!"

            "All right, you two," said Mom. "We don't have to discuss Perry's project if he doesn't want to. But if you need any help, let us know."

            "I will," I said. "Thanks."

            "Besides," said Mom, "I like how you've looked the last couple days. It's a definite improvement."

            "Agreed," said Cindi. "My friend from cross country thinks so, too."

            I flicked a pea at her from my curry. She threw back a cashew. It was a curry festival.