The City of Dreams -- Part 24

[Once again, I'm playing fast and loose with section numbers here. This really should be Part 23b, but since we're already one section beyond where we should be, this should really truly be Part 22b. Along with that crazy, late-night weight-loss lady, I beg you, stop the insanity!

[We're really almost at the end in my head. Total, the story is at 51,400 words so far. From my expansive and nonexistent experience with the publishing industry, it seems like the book ought to be a bit longer, but we'll see what happens. We have a few more sections to go, and I'll try to borrow my credo from Fat Tony: more tangents!]


Somehow I wandered back into the barn, over to the chairs, and sat down next to Mr. Punctilious.
He looked sympathetic. "I tried, Perry," he said.
"Yeah."
"She broke up with you?"
"Not exactly. Not really. Mostly, yeah. Yes. I think so."
Mr. Punctilious laughed quietly, but kept his forehead creased in sympathy. It was nice of him to keep that up, though I probably deserved to be laughed at full on without any sympathy.
"Teenagers are always in such a hurry," he said. "I certainly was. Everything has to be figured out right away, solved immediately, bought now. 'Tomorrow' is a foreign concept, so how can we grownups ever expect you to understand something as archaic as 'next month' or even 'next year?' The teenage years are the age of immediacy."
I looked at him. "Was that supposed to make sense?" I asked.
"I suppose not," he said. "I tried to tell her not to rush. No need to rush into love, and no need to rush out of it. I don't think she listened."
"Doesn't seem like it," I said. I stared at the empty stage. "Is there some way to fix it?"
"Depends on what the problem is, exactly," said Mr. Punctilious. "What do you think went wrong?"
I lifted my eyebrows and took a deep breath. "I guess I did it to myself."
"Did what, exactly?"
"I shut down around her. Closed up."
"Just during the day?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I hate myself." There. I'd said it. I didn't know when it had started, but at some point I'd decided I was about as useful as one of those stupid vending machines: everything I had to offer anyone else was expired, out of date, worthless. "I mean, really, what do I do? Nothing. I don't try hard at anything. My friends put up with my crappy attitude, but they shouldn't have to. My sisters keep trying to get me to join a club or something, but I don't. I don't play an instrument, I don't draw, or act, and I sing, but I'm not that great at it. I just do it. I read a lot, I watch TV, I sleep, I do homework. That's it. I'm a lump."
Mr. Punctilious was smiling at me.
"What?" I asked.
"That sounded like you'd rehearsed it."
"I...guess I have. I've thought it a lot, when I'm awake."
"So," he said, sitting back in his chair, "you hate yourself. And, as a result, you don't think anyone else could like you?"
I blinked. "It sounds stupid when YOU say it."
Mr. Punctilious chuckled. "Well, let's leave out what Brie thinks about you for now. You tell me you hate yourself. What are you going to do about it?"
I stared at him.
"Do about it," I said. It wasn't a new idea. I'd wanted to change before, but whenever I was awake, it seemed too hard. When your whole life feels like sludge, it doesn't seem to matter if the sludge is a little greener or a little browner. Either way, sludge is sludge, and nothing I did seemed to change the color much anyway.
But in the City--even as messed up as I felt right then--I still felt good. I felt like I could DO things. I felt like, just possibly, I could change.
"I don't know," I said. "What SHOULD I do about it?"
"You don't have any kind of plan?"
"None. Nothing I do makes me feel better."
"What have you tried?"
I wrinkled my nose. "Homework, TV, reading, and school."
"Interesting," said Mr. Punctilious. "Doing the same things makes you feel the same way."
"Yeah, I get it," I said, "but what do I do that's different? What will work?"
"I have no idea what will work," he said, leaning forward, "but I do know what you should do."
"You're not making sense again," I said.
"Let me put it this way," said Mr. Punctilious. "Have you ever been to the edge of the City?"
I rubbed at my eyes. "Yeah, once. Why?"
"You saw the river?"
"Yeah. It was crazy."
"And you saw what was on the other side?"
I nodded. "Nothing. It was empty."
"I went there once," he said.
My eyes jerked up to his. I remembered the feeling I'd had looking out there, like I'd dissolve if I took the risk, break down into the emptiness that was all around us. "Into the nothing?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Why?"
Mr. Punctilious shrugged. "I'd just figured out that I wasn't waking up again, and I admit, I was...discouraged. Interesting word, that. 'Dis' and 'courage.' My courage had left me, or I had let it go. You can't have courage when you've nothing left. Courage is only real when you have everything to lose." He leaned back and rested his hands on his round stomach. "But that's neither here nor there. I wasn't sure I wanted to go on if I couldn't wake again. I believe, when we leave this life, we go on to a better place--better even than this wonderful city--and if I couldn't be home, I wanted to be there. So I stepped into the river, waded across, and took what I thought would be my last step, out into the darkness."
He was looking at me, but he wasn't seeing me anymore. He was seeing the emptiness again. I knew it, because I could still see that nothing, remember it. I looked away, uncomfortable with his stare.
And he wasn't going on. I glanced back at him, and he was looking at me--really looking at me--but he still wasn't talking. Ah. I got it. He wanted me to ask. Sure, I could do that.
"What happened?" I asked.
"I found a barn on wheels," he said.
I looked around at his barn, at the theater filling one end, and all the odds and ends and whatsits and people tumbling around at the other. It was a wooden box filled to the brim with life.
"I get the feeling there's a moral to this story," I said.
"Of course there is," said Mr. Punctilious. "Step out into the dark, Perry. See what you find."

The City of Dreams -- Part 23

[Finally, things are really terrible for Perry. Now we can start the recovery.

[What a relief.]


"That was amazing!" said Not. "Is chess always like that?"
"No," I said. "There's usually a lot less shouting."
"Why?" asked the dream. "The shouting was half of the fun. You remember when I distracted Father Thomas's queen RIGHT before she got your knight?"
"Actually, that was my queen."
"Oh, right. Did I apologize for that?"
"Yes, you did."
"But wasn't that EXCITING? Maybe I'm supposed to be a chess player. Try it when you wake up, okay?"
I laughed at him. I couldn't help it, though maybe I was actually laughing WITH him. He was shimmering, bubbling. It's hard not to be happy when you're walking next to a person who is actually bubbling.
Father Thomas's church was in a different part of the City that night, or else Big Ben's Market was. I could see the clock between twin billboards advertising 'Tweedle Dum Insulation' and 'Tweedle Dee Outsulation.' I wandered that way.
"Do you think we'll run into Brie at the Market?" asked Not. "Do you think she'd like playing chess? Why don't you ask her."
"I'll think about it," I said. Actually, I was looking forward to seeing Brie. If I could find her. Something about the conversation with Father Thomas had taken the fear out of me. I didn't know everything that I wanted, but I did feel like hanging out.
Not chattered and I walked. The sights of the City had become familiar, as insane as that was. I crossed the street to avoid a vending machine--it stared after me like a kicked puppy, but a guy has to be careful--and found my way to the market. It was the same riot of color and sound and calm, the same mix that I'd decided must always sit in the shadow of Big Ben.
On the way to the Four-Seasons Tree, I found Zoli's stall. He saw me coming and waved.
"Another one?" he asked. "Just a small dream will do, though I hear my langosh are quite impressive."
"No thanks," I said. "I just filled up on orange juice. You seen Brie around?"
"She was headed over to Punctilious' place, but that was a while ago."
I thanked him and kept walking, weaving my way through a group of little handheld video game systems, all tapping on themselves with their styluses. The tree was there, the barn, I hopped up the steps, and there she was, on a chair near the stage, talking to Mr. Punctilious. Her back was to me, but his face looked serious. He was shaking his head, saying something, and she looked away.
"Uh-oh," whispered Not from just behind my ear.
"What?" I asked.
"Bad vibes."
I walked over and Mr. Punctilious looked up at me, smiling--a smile painted on over a serious face.
"Perry," he said.
"Hey, Mr. Punctilious. Hey, Brie." She didn't turn to look at me. Something in the area of my stomach went hollow. I knew that feeling. I felt it all the time when I was awake. I didn't want to feel it in the City. "What's up?" I asked.
"I should go," said Brie. "I'll talk to you later, Mr. Punctilious."
"Why don't you stay?" he asked.
"I don't think so." She started to walk away. She still hadn't looked at me.
"I'll come, too," I said, waving goodbye to the round man with the serious face and jogging to catch up with the girl with the serious face. Serious faces all around, I guess. Mine was probably serious, too. Felt serious. A big serious party. I wondered where my party hat was.
I caught up and walked next to Brie. She didn't say anything, so I didn't say anything, and we walked down the steps and wandered over in the direction of the tree. Brie walked into the leaves that were shed from the 'Fall' section, and started kicking them softly, looking down. Then she stopped.
"You followed me," she said.
"Of course," I said. I couldn't tell from her voice if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
"Why?" she asked.
"I wanted to hang out."
"Why?"
"Because I like hanging out with you."
She finally looked up at me. "You do?"
"Of course I do. The overpass? And the Mall? Those were great."
"Is that it?" she asked.
I was supposed to say something. I was smart enough to know that. I just didn't know what it was. That's not true. I did know what it was, but I didn't want to admit it. I had messed up that afternoon. Probably more than that afternoon. I knew what I was supposed to say, but I also knew she wouldn't believe it. I wasn't entirely sure I believed it.
I said it anyway.
"I like hanging out with you in the day, too."
There it was. Out of my mouth and completely absurd. Brie's face was blank, and I was smart enough to know that blank was a bad thing.
"You do?" she asked, her voice as blank as her face.
"Yeah," I said.
She turned and looked up at the tree. Something changed about her. Her shoulders relaxed, and I hadn't realized she was tense.
"I figured something out," she said. A breeze stirred the tree, and leaves fell around us, silvered by the moon but loosing their living glow. I felt like I was in some kind of cheesy movie, and I knew I wouldn't like whatever it was she'd figured out.
I asked anyway. "What did you figure out?"
"Why I started coming to the City. It was when we moved here, and you know what I realized? I was lonely."
"But you've got friends now," I said.
Her back was to me, so I couldn't see her face, but she shook her head. "Not like where I was from."
"The smudge by the dot?"
"Exactly."
"But what about all the drama kids?"
"What about them?"
"They're not your friends?"
She turned back to look at me. "They're nice, but I don't fit. I'm like a K'nex piece in a box full of Legos."
Oddly enough, I understood what she meant. "Oh," I said.
"So I started coming to the City, and I've realized that I was looking for a friend. And then I found you."
"Oh," I said again.
Brie looked back at the tree. "I know the guy is supposed to say it first, but I like you, Perry. Really like you, and when we're here, it seems like you like me, too."
"I do," I said. "I think you're...neat." That's what I said. Neat. I scrunched my eyes closed and wished I could erase the last three seconds.
"But you don't like me during the day," said Brie.
"That's not true! I like you then, too. More than I like anybody." As I said it, I realized it was true. There was no one else I liked more than Brie. I wasn't sure how that was possible, since I'd only really SEEN her for the first time a week ago, but I did. Hormones, I guess.
Brie looked back at me and her face wasn't blank anymore. It was sad. I wished she were a crier. Then I could try to hug her, or something, or at least put my arm around her shoulder. She wasn't a crier. She was just sad.
"I need a friend all the time, Perry."
She walked up to me, hopped up on her toes to kiss me on the cheek, and walked away. The leaves fell all around me.
"I knew it," I said. "Bad movie."

Accidental God -- Section 01

[I know, I should probably be writing City of Dreams. But things are gradually getting worse for Perry, and I can't face it right now. I'll get there, because it's always darkest just before I figure out how to make things better and we get to the hopeful ending--but I can't face the darkness at the moment. Andrew = Wimp.

[So instead, I've started writing the story that my second Bulwar-Lytton contest entry was crying out to become. I don't know yet if this will be a keeper--so many first chapters dead end into...dead ends--but I want to make this one work. Here goes. Introducing Bradley and Luther.]


It started with curry.
Technically it started three months before that, when Marius Toombs began planning to kill a god. It's not a project to be taken lightly, but Marius had a serious mind and a great deal of determination--not to mention the financial backing of a rather shadowy multi-national corporation. Bribes were handed out the way a scary man in a dark van hands out suckers at an elementary school. The right security detail was inattentive at the right time (or the wrong time, depending on your point of view), and Mr. Toombs pulled the trigger on his specially made PL-38 Upton and Greck Long-Ranged Rifle, affectionately called 'Godkiller' by those in the know. Not many were in the know, and Marius Toombs was one of those few.
Unfortunately--at least, as far as Mr. Toombs was concerned--he wasn't the only one interested in obtaining divine powers. No god is ever more vulnerable than when, in a manner of speaking, he or she is fresh out of the cocoon. As Marius turned away from his astonishingly accurate shot--a shot that would have been greatly admired by marksmen the world over, if they'd had a chance to watch it, with the occasional quibble from the more uptight regarding Mr. Toombs' language after his shot--as he turned away, Marius was met by his attractive and oh-so-supportive assistant, Ms. Sweeps.
Ms. Sweeps had a knife. Mr. Toombs had a nasty surprise.
Ms. Sweeps--Veronica, not that it matters much--enjoyed the glow of new divinity for approximately forty-five seconds, before the brutally efficient Bjorn Baernson caught up to her. To be fair, Bjorn wasn't the only one after Ms. Sweeps. Several men were after her in a romantic sense, though they were destined for disappointment. Three others HAD been after her in much the same manner as Mr. Baernson, but they, tragically, were slightly slower on the draw, mildly inattentive when walking down dark alleys, and at the bottom of a river, in that order.
Surely, one would think that 'enough is enough.' The powers of a god had already changed hands three times in one night. Bjorn Baerson should have been able to head home, lie down in bed in his cheap apartment for the last time, and drift into pleasant dreams of a life of luxury and celebrity, all that is due to a god.
Mr. Baerson did travel home to his apartment. He did lie down. He did not, however, drift into pleasant dreams. Instead, the poison kicked in. The poison, which had been expertly administered by Rodrigo Malena, was of a sort that, for a well-settled god, one who had had a week or two to settle into some fuller flourishing of divine glory, would have been insignificant. A god of a few years standing wouldn't have felt even a twinge. The established gods, millennia in the making, could perhaps have traced the source of the poison and fried Rodrigo Malena where he sat, looking forward with relish to the curry he had ordered at THAI FOR FIRST, a twenty-four hour Thai restaurant in the upper-east side of New London, New Jersey, Confederated Colonies of America.
Bjorn Baerson was not an established god. He was, in fact, not much of a god at all yet, and shortly after the poison began its work, he was no longer a god at all.
It was mentioned that it started with curry. Rodrigo Malena's curry, to be more precise. Senor Malena enjoyed Thai food in its many varieties, but he always ordered with care. Rodrigo suffered from a common enough ailment: severe peanut allergy. He had narrowly avoided death on his thirteenth birthday, again when in his late twenties, and since then hadn't taken any chances. When he ordered Thai food, he asked twice--three times--four times, and the chef's feelings be darned--if there were any peanuts or peanut oils in the curries he ordered. Because Senor Malena did love curry. It wasn't a dish for every day, but it was a dish for special occasions. Rodrigo had decided, after a brief time spent considering, that becoming a god was a special occasion.
His curry was delivered by a man with a curious name. At twenty-eight, Practicality Bradley Shupak was a perpetual student and a brand-new waiter. He had never had a job he enjoyed enough to convince him to escape from round after round of undergraduate and graduate programs. The shoe department of a second-rate department store had dropped him into part-time work blending fruity things, which in turn had thrown him into work as second-assistant cleaner for a minor temple for a god who never visited. Finally, deciding he didn't want much more in the way of student debt as he started into a new graduate program in graphic design, Bradley (as he preferred to be called) had applied for a job at THAI FOR FIRST. He hadn't expected much in the way of pay--and he didn't get it, so that was good--but he'd heard that tips were more than adequate. He'd done his time in the kitchen, memorizing the menu and scrubbing his way to waiting on tables. He’d even complimented the manager on how beautiful his children were, which they weren’t. Finally, his day had come.
Two hours into his very first shift, Practicality Bradley Shupak told Rodrigo Malena that Bradley would be his server for the night. Senor Malena was in a festive mood, so he only checked twice that there would be no peanuts in the curry. Bradley had no allergies to speak of, but he had seen anaphylactic shock once in his life and had no desire to inflict that on anyone, so he was very clear with the chef. The chef, on the other hand, was not particularly clear. He had an unfortunate addiction to online gaming, one that took what few hours he had to dedicate to sleep and dedicated them to something else entirely.
It wasn't much of a mistake. Just a bit of peanut oil where there shouldn't have been, and it was covered by the rich blend of other flavors that went into the curry, so the chef wasn't too concerned. Besides, he was close to the level cap with his third character and anxious for his shift to end.
So Bradley served the curry to the content Rodrigo Malena. In his small and penultimate resting place, Bjorn Baerson took his last breath, and Senor Malena felt the vigor of the divine rush into his body and blood, like the flush of new love, or the buzz of the really strong cough medication they keep behind the pharmacy counter. His day had come, thought Rodrigo, and he took his first bite of his last meal.


Archangel Luthaenicat sat in the cafe and stared at the pepper shaker in front of him. He wasn't happy about it. That pepper shaker--cheep plastic, dented on the top, seven holes clogged--it seemed to represent the life he was guaranteed to have. That pepper shaker was his future.
"So," said his friend, Atrucat, also an angel. "What's next, Luther? There's got to be someone who needs angels."
Luther sighed, and the sigh brought his attention down to his expanded waistline. It wasn't much of a belly, but it was more than he'd had two-hundred years ago. Somehow he was sure it was part of why he was let go. Not a big part, but still.
Luther looked up at Atty. "No one who I want to work for. Bigelow has an open spot, I hear."
Atty cringed, bushy blond eyebrows almost hiding his eyes entirely. "Down in Atlanta? That would be bad enough, living anyplace south of the Delaware, but to do it working for Bigelow? An angel has to have standards. But," and here his friend looked hesitant, "what about a job as a regular old angel? Or even a seraphim? For some of the major gods, I hear even that level work ends up having decent perks. And an angel out of work is...." Atty shrugged, and Luther silently agreed with him. What's an angel without a god to serve?
Not that they were always pinnacles of virtue, the gods. Take his last boss, for example. Spent so much time in the party scene, he'd started to hemorrhage serious followers like a popped water balloon loses water. And without the serious followers, godly resources start to decline, and then you feel you have to cut corners, let a really experienced angel go so you can pick up two other angels on the cheep. Luther sighed again.
"Hey," said Atty. "Don't sweat it. "It's not like he was worthy hanging in there for anyway. He couldn't even remember your birthday."
"Yeah," said Luther. "Happy birthday to me. Go find a new job. You know, my hair is gray now?"
"It's silver, man. That's too shiny for gray."
"Forget it, Atty. This is gray. Dull, flat, non-radiant gray. I'm past my prime. Washed up. Washed out. An archangel with fallen arches."
Atty blinked at him. "Dude, was that a joke? 'Cause I know a good podiatrist--"
"Yes," said Luther. "Joke."
"Right," said Atty, nodding. "He is a good podiatrist, though. And you are way too depressing for me. Tell you what: I'm ordering cake. We need to celebrate your birthday the way birthdays were meant to be celebrated. Excuse me," he said, catching the eye of the passing waitress. "It's my friend's birthday. Could we get a cake?"
"No cake," said the waitress. Luther looked at her and could see from the way she stood that she had sore feet. Sore feet, sore back, probably a bra that was too tight and, to top it all off, she'd put on a little weight as well. Five miracles came to mind just off the top of his head, the sort of thing that, twelve hours ago, he could have done without thinking, all to make her life easier. Instead he sat there and accepted the inevitable as it came out of her mouth: no cake.
"There must be something," said Atty. "Muffins? Anything cake-like?"
"We have pancakes," said the waitress.
"With blueberries? That would be kind of like cake."
"Just pancakes."
"Whipped cream?"
"Just pancakes."
"I'll take the pancakes," said Luther. "Pancakes will be fine."
The waitress nodded and wandered off.
Atty looked at Luther and shook his head. "You’re caving in, dude. You're buckling under. This isn't like you. Was working for this guy seriously that bad?"
Luther looked out the window at New London at night, wet with rain and freckled with lights. "Didn't use to be. I don't know what happened to him. He had a good run for five-hundred years or so, but that fell apart, and then we all started to slide."
"What happened?" asked Atty.
"A woman."
"Ah," said his friend. "One of those."
"She was a real looker," said Luther. "The kind that you never see, even when you're a god. She knew it, though. Used him, lost him, and left him in pieces."
"I've seen it," said Atty. "Like shards of safety glass, all over the floor. Like they were designed to break apart and never get back together."
Luther nodded. "That was pretty much it. I tried to keep him together, but you know I don't get romance."
"Which of us does?" Atty picked up the pepper shaker and rolled it between his hands. "One of the only things we'll never figure out. That's what we get for being born from the sun and the moon."
Luther snorted. "Melanicus says he fell in love once. I think he was faking."
"The guy's a poser."
They sat in silence and Luther mused, mulled, turned his future over and over in his mind. Maybe life as a seraphim wouldn't be too bad. Sure, not half the responsibility he'd had before, but it was better than no work at all. At least with one of the more major gods he'd have people to care for, miracles to perform, something to offer to the world.
On his own he was just Luther. A wingless angel.
"Pancakes," said the waitress, dropping them on the table in front of him.

The City of Dreams -- Part 22

[Shorter section, but Father Thomas didn't have too much to say--or else he said more than enough, and it was time for something to EXPLODE or go ZING or go WHAMOOSE!

[Now you're learning the secret to my writing: when in doubt, blow something up.]


I almost called Brie.
I really truly almost called her. I even got as far as the 'M's in the student directory. I looked at 'Mitchell, Amanda,' and then I dropped it back in the drawer with the other lists of phone numbers. Why didn't I have Brie's phone number in my cell phone? I didn't know, but she could have called me, too. Right? It's not like there were six different entries in the directory for 'Crows, Perry.' True, there were two other 'Crows,' but we all had the same phone number. She could have called my home, and my sisters would have answered, and they would have teased me, but we would have talked. And then we could have done something.
So it wasn't all my fault.
I went to bed on the late side. I wasn't excited about seeing Brie. I didn't want to feel like I'd let her down, and I knew if I saw her that's how I'd feel. It shouldn't be a big deal, right? We didn't spend an afternoon together. Not a big deal by any kind of measuring stick, except maybe the wacky kind of measuring that girls do. The kind that makes a missed phonecall into a meteor crashing into the earth and digging out a hole the size of the Gulf of Mexico.
I kept telling myself it wasn't a big deal all the way until I fell asleep.

I looked around at the church. The organ was filling the heights of the hall with stately washes of white, red, and yellow, a comfortable and steady glory. I sat back in the pew, leaned my head back, and watched. However good Father Thomas might be in the waking world, he certainly could play in the City.
After a while--I couldn't tell how long--the music stopped.
"So we're back here tonight," said Not.
"Guess so," I said.
"You like the music?"
I nodded, my head still leaning on the polished wood of the bench. "Yeah."
"It is nice," said the dream. "Maybe I'm supposed to be a musician. Did you want to be a musician?"
I thought about it. "I don't think so. I'm a decent singer, but the best I could probably hope for is to be a choir teacher, and I don't think I want to teach high school."
"Also, you'd have to learn piano, I'd think."
I rolled my head on the bench to look at him. "How did you know that?"
"I don't know."
"Huh," I said.
"Should we go talk with Father Thomas?" asked Not.
"Maybe he'll start playing again," I said, hoping.
"Sorry. He's coming down the stairs."
"Oh well." It would have been nice to hear more music. To watch it. "Sure, let's go talk with him."
I pushed up onto my feet and walked to the back of the church. Father Thomas smiled at me and gestured toward the door that lead to his home on the side of the building. I nodded and followed him. Soon we were sitting around his little table with orange juice again.
"How have you been, Perry?" He smiled at me like he was genuinely glad to see me. I didn't mind.
"Up and down," I said. "Better at night than during the day."
"And what about you?" asked Father Thomas, looking at Not. "Found who you belong to yet?"
"I think I belong to Perry."
"I wondered."
"But even if he is mine," I said, "how does that do me any good? I still don't know what my dream IS. Not is a hodgepodge of things. It's not like he's a medical doctor or mathematician or anything recognizable."
Father Thomas settled back in his chair and looked at his orange juice. "Just because a dream is muddled, that doesn't make it any less powerful. Sometimes a person can be filled up with a need for SOMETHING in his life, even if he doesn't know what that something should be. I've seen it plenty of times."
"Like when?" I asked. "What happened to the people like that?"
"One man became a psychologist. Spent the rest of his life looking, but never found much."
"That's encouraging," I said with a hint of sarcasm.
"A woman quit school and became a mother. Another mother went back to school and became a hospital administrator. A father bought a fast car then sold it again six months later to pay for cooking lessons. A boy devoted himself to sculpture and got accepted to a fine arts college. All sorts of things happen." The priest looked at me. "The hardest part is figuring out that you need a dream to move ahead. Once you've discovered that, finding what the dream is just takes time. And persistence."
I looked around at the pictures on the wall. Father Thomas was in all of them. In some he was young, playing soccer or standing with friends. In another he was in military uniform. In others he was even older than he looked in front of me, thinner, supported by a wheel chair, surrounded by other priests or at an organ.
"Why do you keep coming to the City of Dreams?" I asked.
"Hmm. I figured you'd ask that. Wondering what it is that I'm missing, are you? I'm afraid it's quite straight forward, actually. I don't think I'm particularly good at helping people."
I looked at him. "Haven't you been a priest forever? Isn't helping people what you spend your life doing?"
He nodded. "Yes, it is. But I don't think I'm good at it. I may have managed to do some good a time or two, out of sheer perseverance, but, truth be told, I've often given up on having any real success. It seems that any work I do one day will be erased the next, like I'm weaving a cloth that is unraveled every night. I've found it quite discouraging."
I blinked at him. "Are you saying this to try to help me? Feeling like a failure is something I'm already good at."
"Perry," said Father Thomas. "I'm telling you how I feel, not what the reality is. I've kept journals through the years, names of people I've spent time with, kindnesses that others have done for me, good deeds I've managed to do. I have letters from children I've counseled with who have grown into happy adults, notes from couples who have stayed together and fallen in love again. When I look at these things, I KNOW I've done good, and I know that it can last."
"So why do you keep coming here?"
The priest smiled. "Let me teach you something: How you feel is seldom connected to the way things really are. I keep coming here because I feel like I've failed, like I have to do more and more and more. In truth, I think God and others are much more forgiving of me than I am of myself. And forgiveness is at least as true as failure."
Father Thomas set down his orange juice on the table and stood, walking over to look at pictures on the wall. "I think some people have an easier time being happy than others. For some it seems to fall down on them, day after day, like manna from Heaven. For the rest of us, we...have to work at it a little extra."
I thought about my days and weeks. "Or a lot extra," I said.
"Yes," said Father Thomas. "Or a lot extra. Do you play chess?"
I stared at him. "Sorry?"
"Do you play chess?"
"I know how."
"Care for a game?" He walked over and pulled a box out from under the low table. "The rules are the same as regular chess, but it takes a bit more work than you might be used to."
"Why's that?"
Father Thomas opened the box. "That's why."
I managed to catch an escaping pawn before he could fling himself off the edge of the table. A knight charged me, but I fended him off with my glass of orange juice. The black king looked up at me with disdain, and both queens leaned together, whispering something. Somehow, I knew it was about me, and I knew it wasn't particularly flattering.
"Attention!" said Father Thomas, steel in his voice for the first time I'd ever heard. The scrambling pieces slid to a halt and looked up at him with a wary respect. "My friend and I are going to play a game of chess. If you are good, we'll let you stay out. If you give me any serious trouble, you go back in and I find myself a nice, obedient set of checkers. have I made myself clear?"
One of the white rooks looked ready to bolt anyway, but a stern glance from a pair of bishops brought him back in line.
"Good," said Father Thomas. "Now, what would you prefer, Perry? Black or white?"
The pieces all looked up and pulled back, as if they dreaded having such an inexperienced chess player in charge. I had no idea how they could tell. Perhaps they could smell fear.
I had to ask another question, though, before I could play. "So I don't have to know what my dream is?"
"Not yet, no. You have to know that something is missing and set out to find it. Sometimes we get more from looking than we ever do from finding."
I looked at Not. He was leaning from side to side, trying to take in all the chess pieces at once, like they were something wonderful and new. Apparently my dream wasn't to become a chess player.
"Okay," I said. "I'll play white."
On the table the light colored pieces all sagged.

Stories that might have happened.

Life happens, and it usually tries to force its way between my fingers and the keyboard. It's like trying to type through a plank of dry wood. Sometimes I get the plank out of the way, and sometimes there's lots of banging without much writing getting done.

So, since interruptions are normal, I almost inevitably lose ideas. I have an idea of what will come next, I have to step away for five minutes or five hours, and that story disappears forever. Instead I discover another story and move on from there.

It makes me wonder what would have happened to Pete if I had stayed at the keyboard right then, or Fat Tony, or Perry. In the end, a story is written. It is, by definition, perfect.

And then I find another story.

The City of Dreams -- Part 21

[Been too long since a post, I know. Fat Tony is, however, in a state I can feel reasonably happy with, I have query letters out to a few agents, we're still hopeful about Pete and The Dog, and I'm finally writing again. I'm learning to stick the whole query process and the waiting-and-hoping-for-an-email-so-badly-I-dream-about-it-multiple-times-in-a-night thing--putting all that in a box so I can take the time to write.

[So here is more. The story needed something a little lighter during the daytime. I hope Perry's Dad was good for that. Enjoy.]


Sook and Mike had a meeting for yearbook staff the next day, so Brie and I ate lunch alone in the choir room. Well, as alone as you can get in the choir room.
"That peanut butter?" asked Brie.
"I like peanut butter," I said.
"What do you like about it?"
"It's easy to make."
She looked at me, like she was expecting something more. I took another bite and looked back.
"Is that it?"
"That's it," I said.
"Not that it's your favorite, or it tastes good, or anything else?"
"Nothing else."
"How do you survive?" asked Brie.
I shrugged. "Apparently, I survive on peanut butter."
"Okay," said Brie, sitting up onto her knees, "tell me this: what's your favorite food?"
"Pizza," I said.
"Why?"
"You can buy it frozen, or order it."
"And?" prompted Brie.
"And what?"
"And it tastes good."
"Of course," I said. "Otherwise it wouldn't be my favorite."
"But you just said you like it for the same reason you like peanut butter sandwiches."
"You can't order peanut butter sandwiches," I said, "though I have seen frozen PB and J."
Brie rolled her eyes. "Do you only like food because it's easy to make? What if your mom made pizza from scratch?"
"MY mom?"
"Or your dad."
"Dad might do it from scratch, but he's on an Indian food kick. We've had curry three times this week already."
"So what if your DAD made pizza from scratch?"
I thought about it. "I guess that would be fine. But he might not get the crust right. Maybe I'm just a frozen pizza, peanut butter and jelly kind of guy."
"You don't seem that way at night," said Brie.
I shrugged. "Who eats crummy food in his dreams?"
"We ate hot dogs," said Brie.
"But they were actually GOOD hot dogs."
"Yeah," she said. "They were." After a while she looked at me. "You doing anything this afternoon?"
I shook my head. "Probably not, though I guess I should finish the book for English. I'll have to finish it eventually, might as well get it over with now."
"Sounds smart," said Brie.
I had the feeling I was missing something, but I couldn't figure out what. We didn't talk much for the rest of lunch.

The last half of school slipped out of my hands like a melting ice cube--not something you feel like picking up again, but your conscience makes you think you really shouldn't leave it on the floor. Not a perfect metaphor, but it wasn't a perfect day.
         I thought about taking a nap when I got home, but it was Friday, and napping on Friday seemed like a waste. Instead, I wasted my time finding out more of the tragic life of a young-yet-literarily-significant heroine.
Dad walked in and sat on the part of the couch I wasn't sprawled across.
"You take up more space than you used to," he said.
"It's because of my excellent diet."
"Like that microwave popcorn?"
"Yeah," I said. "It's got fiber in it."
"Really?"
"Probably."
"Glad you're eating healthy food."
I kept reading. Dad sat there, thinking adult thoughts. Then I was paying more attention to my dad than to my book. Then I wasn't reading my book at all. I couldn't, with him sitting there doing nothing.
"Did you want something?" I asked.
"Sorry," he said. "Am I bugging you?"
"No," I said, sitting up. "That came out ruder than I meant it to. It's just that you came in and sat down, but you're not doing anything, so I wondered."
"I was just thinking, really."
"What about?" I asked.
"About when I was your age."
"Thirty years ago?"
"Huh," said Dad. "I guess it was about that, wasn't it. Yes, thirty years ago. You know, your mother had really large hair."
"How large?" I asked, playing along.
"Bangs like you wouldn't believe. I never could figure out how they did it, the girls. Must have taken forever, not that it seemed unusual to me then. Everyone had big hair. Men, women, dogs."
"Not dogs."
"Look at a movie some time. Big hair was almost a government mandate."
I gave half a laugh, which was maybe a quarter more than the joke deserved, but I was caught in what Dad was saying, so I scooted along on the couch and sat up.
"Was hair all you were thinking about?"
"No, it wasn't." Dad looked over at me. "You know, Perry, how old people are always talking about how simple things used to be? About how the world made more sense? About how bread used to be cheaper?"
"Was it?"
"Oh, absolutely. About the bread, I mean." He raised his eyebrows. "And about the simpler. And the more sense. Do you know how many electronic gadgets I owned when I was your age?"
"No idea."
"None. The only stereo in the place was your grandfather's, all the kitchen appliances were your grandmother's, and the TV was family property. The idea of a television in my room was unheard of."
"But, Dad, you don't let us have TVs in our rooms, either."
"Exactly. I'm looking out for you."
"Thanks," I said, almost sincerely.
"You're welcome," said Dad, much more sincerely. "No cell phones, no personal computers, no iPods--"
"Which you also haven't bought for me," I interrupted.
"Be grateful for your stereo and get a job," said Dad. "Or wait until your birthday."
It was my turn to lift my eyebrows. "Seriously?"
"You WILL act surprised, young man, or I will borrow it from you for my bike ride to work, every day for a month."
"The secret's safe with me," I said.
Dad smiled and looked off into space and, apparently, back in time. "I remember the first time I talked to your mother."
Suspicion reared its ugly head. "Come on, Dad."
"Come where?"
"Is this all a trick to get me to talk about Brie?"
He looked at me, innocence thick on his face. "Why would I do that? If I wanted to know about Brie, I'd look at you and say, 'Tell me about Brie.'"
"No you wouldn't," I said.
He looked thoughtful. "No, I wouldn't. But I really was thinking about how I met your mother."
I'd heard it before, in one version or another, but something in Dad's voice was relaxing just then. He'd been reading me stories at bedtime since before I could remember, and his voice would always have memories of warm blankets and the kind of security that comes with leaving the day behind. Melodramatic to think it in words, but the feeling was the kind of melodrama I didn't mind. I settled in to hear the story again.
"I did mention the big hair, didn't I?" he began. "I liked how hers looked. We'd been in the same English class for most of the year, but I'd never had anything remotely nearing the intestinal fortitude to approach her." He looked at me levelly. "You may never have known this, Perry, but I was not among the most popular or socially able element in our high school."
"I never would have guessed," I said.
"Exactly."
"You mean that I inherited that from YOU?"
"I apologize. Nothing I could do about it, short of not having kids."
"Why did I get it, and not my sisters?"
"I'm afraid your sisters are still a mystery to me."
"We should start a club," I said.
"When you were born a man in this family," said Dad, "you automatically joined a rather exclusive club. But, back to the story that you've heard a dozen times before, I'd never had the guts to talk to your mother, though I had seen her looking at me a time or two. You know, when you're looking at her, and she looks at you, so you look away fast so she won't think you were really looking at her, and then she looks away when you look back at her."
"Why do we do that?" I asked, remembering several awkward moments from junior high, and (cough) more recently.
"It has to do with saving face, actually," said Dad. "By adopting a 'casual' posture, we limit our exposure to potential--" He stopped. "Hormones, mostly," he said after a pause. "And fear. We don't want to look like idiots, but we mostly manage to anyway."
"Yeah," I said.
"Anyway," he went on, "I finally decided to talk to her. Ask her out, maybe, if the stars aligned and the world started spinning backwards, that sort of thing. So I found out where she ate lunch."
"I thought you already knew where she ate lunch."
Dad shrugged. "I might have."
"I thought you'd known for weeks."
Dad squinted. "I get fuzzy on the details. But the point is, on that day, I did know. So I waited until her friends left and went over to talk to her."
"So stalkerish," I said.
"Didn't even know what the word meant back then," said Dad. "As I was saying, I waited until she was alone--" He paused to look at me out of the side of his eyes in the closest thing to 'sinister' that Dad has ever managed, "--and I approached her. There she was, looking down at a book, eating her ham and cheese--"
"Mom says peanut butter and jelly."
"--eating her ham and cheese, since I'm the one telling the story, and reading her book."
"You already mentioned the book."
"And I'll mention it a third time if you don't stop interrupting. I didn't approach straight on, afraid that might be too confrontational, but kind of slid up to her from an angle. 'What's up?' I said."
"Did people say 'what's up' back then?" I asked.
"I'll be translating into modern language for you," said Dad. "At any rate, I greeted her while she was reading her book--I told you I'd bring it up again--and introduced myself. I mentioned that we were in the same English class. I said I'd been meaning to talk to her."
AND SHE SAID NOTHING, I thought.
"And she said nothing," said Dad. "Didn't even look up from her book. I struggled on for another sentence or two, trying very, very hard not to be crushed. Someone laughed nearby, and I was sure they were watching me. Finally I gave up. It was clear she didn't want to talk to me. So I turned to walk away."
I was smiling, and Dad was smiling, because we both knew what came next.
"Then," said Dad, "she looks up at me and, out of the billowy waves of her immense hair, pulls off earphones. She smiles, turns off her walkman, and says, 'Sorry, did you say something?'"
"I like that story," I said.
"I do, too," said Dad.
I lay my head back on the arm of the couch and looked at the ceiling. "Brie's in my English class, too."
Dad made a noncommittal grunting noise, not wanting to scare me off, I think.
"I screwed up again today."
Dad said nothing.
"I think she wanted to do something this afternoon, and I missed it. She asked me if I had plans, and I said not really. I'd just be reading this dumb book for English."
"Which book is it?" asked Dad. I showed him the cover. "That is a dumb book. You want me to sign some note saying I don't want you reading rubbish like that? I know I could make up something objectionable about it."
"Nah, I'm most of the way done. Doesn't matter now. Besides, I already know the end."
"She dies, doesn't she?" asked Dad.
"Tragically," I said.
"Thank goodness for English literature."
I lifted my head back up off the couch. "She did want to do something, didn't she."
Dad nodded. "Probably."
"Crap."
Dad took a deep breath. "You could still do something with her. Invite her over, or go to her place." He looked over at my scrunched up face. "What's that look for? Her coming here or you going there?"
"Either one," I said. "I don't know. It just seems--I mean, we only started hanging out this week."
"You don't have to marry every girl who meets your parents," said Dad.
"Still weird."
"Why?"
"I...don't bring friends home."
"I'd noticed."
"It's not you, Dad. You're fine."
"Oh, good," he said. "I have been showering every day, hoping it would help."
"Dad."
"Sorry. But I would like to meet your friends. If you like them, they must be impressive people." He looked in my eyes. "You have good judgment."
"Come on, Dad."
"I mean it, Perry."
I lay my head back on the couch arm. "Thanks," I said.
Dad put his hand on my foot and squeezed.
"Dad," I said.
"Yeah?"
"That tickles."
"Sorry."

The City of Dreams -- What day of the week is it?

I would be delighted to send someone a personally autographed email if they could tell me how many days have gone by in this story. I'm completely lost. Let's assume that the first dream happened on Sunday night, and the first day was a Monday. If we go from there, what day of the week are we on?

I'm getting the feeling that I ought to figure it out now, before I have Perry literally stuck in an endless week of school, and not just metaphorically.