Shadows of a Dream

by Nicole Disney

  When she parks, I feel like I’m waking up from a nap. She’s stopped in front of a cozy looking five-story building. I get out and follow her up the stairs, admiring the stone lions on either side as I pass.

  We’re uptown now, not in the richest of neighborhoods, but a few steps over the Chapel for sure. She appears beside me and finds her key. Again, her warm smell overwhelms me.

  “Well?” she asks. I step inside. Where does she live? Top floor? First? She leads me around the corner and starts down some stairs. Basement. I follow along behind her. She stops in front of a door at the end of the hall.

  “I should probably warn you, I have a roommate.” Her face tightens with anxiety as she says it.

  “Okay. That’s cool.” I don’t have to tell you I’d rather be alone with her, but I smile anyway and try to seem nonchalant.

  She turns the key and creaks the door open. She steps in so quietly it feels like we’re sneaking in. I guess we might be.

  “Jaselle?” It’s a man’s voice from another room. She sighs and looks at me apologetically before answering.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” There’s a short hallway that is the entrance into the place, and to the left an open door reveals a room in disarray. There’s a mattress on the floor, One Love posters on the walls, clothes everywhere, and dishes littering the ground. I know instantly this is the roommate’s room. It has man written all over it. Around the corner to the right, the place opens up into a much bigger living space than I would have guessed.

  The most conspicuous thing in this room is the man lying stretched across a brown couch in a torn, fringed, and faded bathrobe far beyond its lifespan. He’s already starting to sit up when we come in, but when he sees me he shoots to attention.

  “Who the fuck is that?” He flings his arm my way.

  “This is, uh—”

  “Rainn,” I say. Nice, she doesn’t even know my name.

  “Rainn? Damn it, Jaselle, you can’t just bring home any trash you want. What’s the matter with you? Where did you get her?”

  “She’s not a stray dog, Noah, she’s a friend. Relax.”

  “Who do you think you’re fooling?”

  Jaselle stares him down, grabs my arm, and pulls me into the kitchen. “Here, sit.” She pats the counter, then goes to work running my bloody hand under the faucet.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

  She looks at me. “Hey, don’t worry about him. He’s an idiot.”

  “I can hear you,” Noah says from the couch.

  “He can’t help it,” Jaselle continues with a grin. “Dementia runs in his family.”

  Noah appears from around the corner. “I’m not crazy. I’m enlightened.” He comes to get a closer look. “Oh, that’s wonderful, she’s getting blood everywhere.”

  “Shut up already, Noah, Jesus. She got in a fight.”

  “How barbaric.”

  “It’s not like I started it,” I say.

  “Are you really that weak-minded? Violence is ignorant. Reverting to the ways of the caveman.”

  “I told you, I didn’t start it.”

  “What difference does that make? Thank God you’ll never be president. Every time someone pisses you off you’d just nuke them.”

  “I hardly think that’s the—”

  “She’s a savage, Jaselle. Look at her.”

  “I was there. The bitch got what was coming to her.” Jaselle turns the water off and pours two glasses of the promised red wine.

  “You’re both savages,” Noah says.

  “Well, we savages are going to bed.” Jaselle hands me a glass, grabs my free hand, and guides me out of the kitchen. We turn the corner to the hall I had already predicted to be Jaselle’s section of the apartment. It’s like a different universe from the hall we entered through.

  There are paintings covering every inch of wall from the hallway all the way into her bedroom, hundreds of them, big and small, hung and stacked and leaning.

  “Wow. What are all these?”

  “They’re mine. I can’t afford a studio for all this right now. Sorry about the clutter.”

  “Sorry? They’re amazing. You painted these?”

  “Yeah, but trust me, I’d rather they weren’t here. I need to sell them.”

  I’m aware of Jaselle shuffling things around behind me, doing I’m not sure what, but I’m preoccupied with browsing the walls. The colors are striking. The scenes are somehow sad. I feel like I just dropped into Wonderland.

  “They’re beautiful.” Jaselle doesn’t seem to mind when I leave her room again to look at the paintings in the hall. Each is more intriguing than the last. They pull me farther and farther down the hallway until I’m at a second door. It’s open just a little, and through the crack of space I catch a glimpse of it, a grand piano, cherry wood finish, curved legs, intricate hand carvings. I’m craning my neck for a better look when Jaselle startles the stealth right out of me.

  “Go on in.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, come on.”

  I circle the flawless piano, afraid to touch it, certain I’m imagining it. “Do you play?” I ask.

  “Nope. My grandmother left it to me.”

  “It’s spectacular.”

  She must notice I’m salivating over it. “I’m told it has a beautiful sound,” she says. Instinctively, I go to it and hold my fingers over the keys.

  “Play something,” Jaselle says.

  “You sure? It won’t irritate your roommate?”

  “I’m sure it will, but if we live in accordance with Noah we won’t be allowed to do anything but smoke weed and draw peace signs.”

  I sit down and take a deep breath. I’m nervous. It’s been a while since I could say that. Besides the fact that I have a gorgeous woman watching me, I’m unsure of my abilities. Back in my little alley, all I have to work with is a not so glorious hundred-dollar keyboard I can only power by jacking Benny’s electricity. And here I have the most beautiful antique grand piano I’ve ever seen. Completely different animals. The keys of a piano are heavier and a little wider. Aside from aesthetics the differences are subtle, but can still spell catastrophe for muscle memory.

  I decide something short, slow, and pretty is a good way to go, so I start playing Chopin’s Prelude Op. 28 No. 2, one of my favorites. Once I’m past the first measure my fingers take over, and the rest of the room melts away.

  Then I feel her arms slip around me, her breath in my hair. I press the last note and spin around on the bench.

  She doesn’t back away. “You’re really good.”

  Her lips are soft, I can tell just by looking. They’re shameless but timid. They’re waiting, begging for mine.

  Chapter Two

  Something about not being on my own, well, pavement, keeps me half-awake all night. The soft pastels of sunrise are only just creeping in, and I’m staring at the ceiling with a titanic knot in my stomach. I can hear Jaselle breathing next to me though I refuse to look at her.

  Instead, I look out her window, which is three-quarters of the way up the wall since we’re in the basement. It feels like it’s a mile away. The view is overgrown weeds and some kid’s bicycle wheel.

  I sit up slowly, in microscopic increments so as not to wake her. Once I’m up, I notice the weakness and dehydration that comes from drinking. I don’t have a headache, though. I didn’t drink nearly enough to get sick, and still there’s this nauseous squeezing in my throat. What have I done?

  The night comes back to me in flashes, Bianca’s spit landing on my cheek, the moldy pizza on Noah’s floor, Jaselle’s breath in my ear, her thighs around my neck, the warmth of her kiss. Too warm. Way too warm. I have to get out of here.

  I ease out of bed and start putting on my clothes. My heart is pounding like waking her will detonate every nuclear missile in the world. I’m missing a sock and using every ounce of my energy to calm my frantic search. I’m certain I’m going to wake her up. Finally, I say screw the sock and put
my shoe on without it.

  I stand in the doorway for a minute, looking at her finally. Something about her pulls me toward her in a way I’ve never felt. She’s a magnet, and I’m metal. I’m certain it must be exactly that, not the other way around.

  I roll my eyes when I notice the wood floors. Last night they looked nice, but now they look like a never-ending death trap. No matter how slow and careful I step, I can still hear the tap of my shoe, and as I shift my weight there’s a steady groan. It takes me ten minutes to cross the living room.

  I feel that thunder in my chest again as I turn the corner. Noah’s bedroom stands between me and freedom. I take long, painstaking strides past his open door. He’s facedown on his mattress. His muffled snores are steady.

  I put my hand on the doorknob, squeeze my eyes shut, and turn it. It sounds like someone crumpling up a newspaper. Noah stops snoring. I stop moving, frozen, petrified. Then he starts again. I let out a huge breath of relief and cram myself out the tiny opening I’ve made.

  Outside, the wind is blowing, making what should have been a warm day sharp and cold. I curse myself for not bringing my stupid coat. So what if it’s dirty and ripped?

  I walk fast like she’s going to come get me until I’m off her street. Then I start laughing like a crazy person. I can’t stop. What an absurd fear, that someone’s going to come after me. Then the tears come. I can’t put my finger on what it is, that she’s going to wake up and think I played her, that I’m running from something I should want, or the irrational terror that she’s actually going to chase me. No one is chasing you, Rainn. No one will ever chase you.

  I take a deep breath and wipe my face, then turn my attention to figuring out where I am and how to get home. Why didn’t I pay better attention on the way here? I pick a direction and walk, hoping something along the way will jog my memory. I call this psychic walking, letting intuition take over and hoping for the best. It usually works out.

  But today it doesn’t, of course. I’m walking and walking and nothing seems familiar. Eventually, I do what I should have done from the beginning and stop at a gas station to ask for directions. The relief of walking inside makes me want to just curl up and stay here. My hands and arms have this nice pattern of purple going on, like the shadow of water. My knuckles have cracked back open and are bleeding again.

  I walk around like I’m doing something for a minute, stalling so I can warm up. The cashier is eyeing me. I don’t know how people know you don’t belong, but they always do.

  I go up to him. “Hey, I’m trying to get downtown, 20th and Welton-ish.”

  He smirks at me. “Well, you’re all fucked up then.” He rolls out some blank receipt paper and goes to work drawing a map. It’s never a good sign when the directions are so extensive they need to draw. He turns it around for me to examine and starts going over all the different ways I might choose to go. They all boil down to one thing: you should have found your sock.

  I thank him and take the map. Outside again, I notice a pay phone and think really hard about calling Jayden to ask for a rescue. I despise doing that, though, and the sun is starting to get higher, so it should be warming up. One day in the dead of winter I’ll need that call more, and I’m mad at him about last night still anyway, so I start walking again.

  Three hours later, I can see the beat-up sign that reads “Blue Moon” with a cheesy crescent moon shaping the second o, which doesn’t even make sense. That’s what the bar is really called. Only the guys and I call it the Chapel. I said it one day and it just stuck. It always seemed so much more appropriate.

  Jayden’s pickup is parked in front. I close those last few yards to the bar, take out my key, and let myself in. Benny and the band are all here. They’re on their feet and all over me the second I step inside.

  “Rainn!” “Where have you been?” “Where did you go?” The questions are a barrage. Benny seems genuinely concerned while the others are more curious than anything.

  “I need a drink.” My throat is on fire from the walk and the dry, chilled air. I meant water, but Benny slips a rum and Coke in my hand. I take a sip. The warmth of the rum runs down my arms while the Coke is the most refreshing thing I’ve ever tasted. Brilliant bartender, Benny.

  They’re already set up for practice. I must be really late. I go grab Jayden’s guitar, sit on the stool in front of the mic, and absentmindedly start tuning it for him.

  “Heeel-looo,” Alex draws it forever. “Rainn, what happened?”

  “I went home with some girl.” I try to sound as casual as possible, hoping if I sound like it’s not worth talking about, they won’t drill me. Alex and Shiloh start whooping like third graders.

  “Ohhhh, some girl, huh? Which one, player?” Shiloh says.

  “The one with the dreads.”

  “Oh, yeah? She was hot. How come you get better pussy than I do?”

  “Who says I got any?” Alex and Shiloh look at each other for half a second and then burst out laughing.

  “Come on, tell us what happened. Was it good? We want to know!”

  “No, no, no. We’ve got work to do, guys, come on. Get your shit.” They moan and groan but eventually move to their instruments. Jayden is still sitting at the bar, unusually quiet. I go over and give him his guitar.

  “Let’s go. Only a month ’til Brad comes in.”

  He takes his guitar from me reluctantly. “I think we’re ready,” he says.

  “I don’t.”

  “You never do.”

  “Last night sucked. You know that.”

  “I was just trying something new. That’s what artists do, not stick to some rigid formula like a paint-by-numbers.”

  “The stage is not the place to be creative, practice is. When we’re on stage we need to be on it,” I say.

  “The show needs some life. You can’t just stand there and deliver the same crap the exact same way all the time. No wonder we aren’t getting anywhere. I’m bored by us, and I’m in the band.”

  “People want to hear good music, Jayden. Jumping around and acting crazy is great if you can do it and still sound good. New music is fantastic, but we all have to be playing it, not just you.”

  Jayden rolls his eyes.

  “This guy knows everyone, Jay. I just want us to sound good when he comes to see us.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “So, fluff up your Mohawk and let’s go.” I flash him my biggest smile, begging with my teeth for cooperation. He glares at me but moves to his place.

  The guys all have short attention spans on stage. Take away the audience and it’s hard to get them through a single song without someone screwing around, but today they’re on their best behavior. Jayden sulks his way through practice, playing everything exactly as it’s written, offering no feedback. I know he’s trying to make a point of how lame and boring that is, but he sounds fantastic, so the effect is lost on me. I don’t let myself get irritated that now is the time I want him to share his ideas and be free, yet he refuses once again.

  Alex and Shiloh tend to take their lead from Jayden, so when he stops with the antics and just plays, they do the same, and the music comes alive. This is what gives me hope, these small little moments. They keep me playing, keep me nagging and pushing for perfection. They keep me banging down Brad Schafer’s door even though he’s failed to appear the last two times he’s promised to come see us.

  The music industry is brutal, though, and I figure if he didn’t want to see us he’d have no reason not to just say so. No one tiptoes around feelings in this business, so he must want to come see us. We’re obviously not on the top of his priority list, but he wants to see us. I know it.

  We barely get to practice since I was late. The bar opens at four o’clock, and we have to get our stuff out of the way so the band that performs tonight can have time to set up.

  The guys have their hoodies on and are about to leave for the night. All three of them live in a one-bedroom apartment together. I say good-bye and spend the
last hour before it gets busy hanging out at the bar with Benny. Then I head out the back door to the alley.

  It’s not too cold yet. I flip down the door to the little storage unit in the wall. It’s a ground level, two-by-five-by-two hole in the wall by the dumpster with a thin metal flip door. It’s probably intended for tools or something, but I use it to hold my few belongings.

  I have three good blankets inside, my coat, a few changes of clothes, a couple books, notebooks, my keyboard, and the foldable stand and seat that go with it. I pull out my keyboard and set up my little music station. I use headphones and keep myself tucked away behind the dumpster so no one bothers me. Bad headphones though, really bad, bad on purpose so no one gets interested in stealing them.

  And then I play. I start with the music before I worry about lyrics. It always happens a little different. Sometimes it’s a beat, other times it’s a melody, a chord progression, but there’s always something rattling around in my head, and I just play until it sounds right. Then I add another layer, and another, and another. Then maybe I’ll move things around, go up or down an octave, push a handy little button on my keyboard and see what it sounds like with a violin thrown in. We don’t have a violin, or a violinist for that matter, but it’s all about the creative process.

  I’m deep in my mode when the back door of the Chapel opens and Benny steps out with a cigarette in his mouth, a plate in one hand, and a cup in the other.

  “Hey,” he says. I smile at him and accept the opportunity for a break. It’s two o’clock in the morning. Benny always comes out for his last cigarette after the bar closes, which is two a.m. tonight. I sit on the step with him. He plops the plate on my knees.

  “Benny, you—”

  “Shut up and eat it. You haven’t had anything since breakfast. I’m hoping that girl gave you breakfast.”

  I take a long look at the turkey sandwich on the plate. I can tell the bread is soggy without touching it. José must have made it. He’s Benny’s main cook, and he’s not what you’d call a gourmet chef.

  I pick it up and take a bite, for Benny’s sake. He’s such a worrier.