by Unknown
"Hey, Isaiah. Another oatmeal stout on the house?" a honeyed voice rang out over the rumblings of the latest Yankees' game. I looked over my shoulder to see a busty, young brunette batting her fake lashes at me. It wasn’t a shock that she was hitting on me. She often did. Pushing her free drinks and fake boobs at me in a nonchalant way, hoping for more than the normal bartender-customer relationship. But that’s as far as our relationship was going. Back in the day would I have gone after her? Absolutely. But again, I was waiting for something meaningful or nothing at all. I was tired of wasting my time. I had kids, and I wasn’t about to introduce someone into their lives that wasn’t going to stick around. It was nerf or nothing baby. And most of the young women I’d met were only interested in one thing - to hit it and quit it.
"Actually, no thanks. I’m leaving," I replied, Pete and Frank with dumbfounded looks on their faces. The hour hand was ticking away, and I needed to get a good night sleep. It was that simple. Having my kids with me every weekend brought me joy, gave me something to look forward to. I wasn’t about to be one of those loser fathers. An irresponsible prick who stayed out all night drinking just to be hungover the next day. I liked being present for my kids. Not just physically but mentally too. To be clearheaded enough to throw the ball with my son or play tea party with my daughter was a part of being a good father. I wasn’t going to be one of those dads that laid on the couch and watched football while my kids begged for their Dad to play with them. I was determined to never be my father. As a kid, my sister and I asked my father repeatedly to play with us, always ending badly with our hearts broken. After years of asking and asking, we gave up. As teenagers we despised him for it. We ignored the fact he was even around. He’d correct us and try to punish us, and we wouldn’t listen to a word he said. You can’t expect your children to respect you if you were never there for them to begin with. It just doesn’t work that way.
I slapped a pair of Hamiltons on the bar and downed what was left of my beer. "See you guys on Monday. I’ve got a weekend of family time. Might take the kids to a game."
My three-bedroom apartment wasn’t located in the Manhattan borough, it was sandwiched between another apartment building and a warehouse smack dab in the heart of Queens. Suzanne, my younger sister, worried constantly about me living in the "shitty" part of town, but it never bothered me. I actually preferred to live far away from Manhattan. Working there was one thing, living there was something different. Both Suzanne and my Mother lived in my sister’s recently renovated loft apartment in Manhattan. Suzy wasn’t hurting for money. That was putting it lightly. Being a few extra miles away from Mom and Suzanne wasn't a bad thing either. If I’d lived any closer, I would’ve had two crazy, ranting hens at my apartment on a daily basis. Privacy would have been a fleeting thought. I relished the silence over the clucking of two Irish New York women. Have you ever met an Irish woman from Manhattan? They’re the opposite of quiet. I’ll just say that.
Walking up to the century-old apartment building, I noticed one of my neighbors had hung their socks out the window to air-dry. The same neighbor one floor above me who had mopped their floor with gallons of water literally causing a leak in the ceiling above my bed. The same neighbor who also had their trashcans blocking the pathway to the front door of the building. Geniuses.
The old door creaked as it opened, and with a tired groan I made my way up two flights of stairs to my humble abode. I noticed something sitting in front of my apartment door. A delivery from the mailman. Hell yes. It came. I picked up the cardboard box gently, making sure not to shake the fragile contents inside. My patience had worn thin waiting for this package. Before I could enter my apartment, I’d ripped the package open with anticipation. My hands had a mind of their own, and I’d waited long enough to have this piece of artwork within my grasp. Sheer and utter perfection now sat in my rough, calloused hands. I turned it over to inspect the back of it. It's Never Play-Time: signed by Dottie Love. It's like this piece was made for me. The neon abstract painting hit close to home. It was beautiful and bittersweet. It reminded me of how I felt when Cynthia left – wounded and defeated. She had stomped all over my ego, crushed my balls beneath a pair of slutty stiletto heels.
I’d heard of this new artist through my sister. Suzanne had made her way to Florida the week before and picked up a few very unique and contemporary pieces from a local artists' exhibition. Lucky for me. These particular paintings spoke to me the first time I laid eyes on them, and surprisingly the artist had more listed on her website for a reasonable price. Although, the money didn’t really matter to me. I would have paid out the ass for this particular piece.
Contentedly, I hung the painting on the wall above my headboard. The nails had been patiently waiting for something new, something fresh. A mock Van Gogh painting I’d picked up at a yard sale in Montague that used to hang from these nails was propped up against the hallway wall ready to be replaced. I had imagined the nails forming tiny mouths, begging me to hang something on them. Weird when you start seeing inanimate objects around you having consciousness. This was a trait I had acquired after plunging face first into the world of art in my late teen years. You start seeing faces on tree trunks, feeling vibrations from the ground beneath your feet, seeing messages in the clouds. Once you become an artist or an art enthusiast, the world around you begins to look brighter. You feel more alive than ever before. I’ve always thought you can’t become an artist, you’re born an artist. Only certain people have the gift of seeing beauty in the everyday norm.
After admiring the painting’s twisted scene for a while, I decided to crash into my flannel sheets and call it a night. This was the night I had my first strange dream in a series of dreams that would introduce me to the love of my life, a love I had known many lifetimes before.
****
Tunnel vision. The main thing I can recall was seeing a bright light up ahead of me. Sort of like the light people say greets you when you die. It felt a little less permanent, though. I flew, or possibly glided, towards the dim light breaking its way through the gloomy darkness. A frightening thought flashed through my head that maybe I was dead, but I realized I was just dreaming. My boots hit the pavement, and I looked up to see what was casting a shadow over me. I was standing in the front of an old Methodist church. Luminescent stained glass windows and large wooden doors dressed up the old clapboard building, and the entranceway beckoned me forward. Step inside, it said. You need to come inside.
I glided up the stone stairs, stepped into the solemn shadow of a huge hexagonal steeple. At the top was a bronze bell, cobwebs had collected on its chain. It looked like no one had rung the bell in a century. I figured there was nothing to lose. I was only dreaming anyway. I pulled open the heavy door and a puff of dust blew into my face. It was odd to physically feel something in a dream, but not totally uncommon for me. An organ’s dismal tone filled the interior. I tried to rub the debris from my eyes. The inside of the church was empty, except for a row of pews and a few people comforting each other beside a casket. From a distance, they looked blurry…like a mirage or an illusion. Sort of like when you have an eye exam and the ophthalmologist switches the lenses on you. Except everything looked out of focus.
Why had my dreams taken me to an old church? I walked up to greet my family and say my last goodbyes to whomever was in the casket, when I realized these people were not recognizable, although on some level I had the feeling I knew them well. There was a middle-aged woman with a large-brimmed black hat sitting in the pews sobbing, blowing her nose into a white handkerchief like the kind my grandmother used to carry. A young woman was being squeezed by an older gentlemen with a brown ponytail. The young lady and the man were whispering in other’s ears. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. My mouth opened in an attempt to speak to someone but nothing came out. And then the young lady disappeared into thin air. The large man with the ponytail was left standing alone in the aisle.
I decided to walk up to the casket to
take a peek at who was inside. There’s no logical reasoning when you’re dreaming, you just do things without thinking them through. There’s some other force driving you within your dreams. Obviously in reality I wouldn’t have gone up to a random casket if I hadn’t known who was inside to begin with.
The lid was shut, so I did the gutsy thing and opened it. A grizzly bear of a man was lying there, eyes closed and hands crossed over his chest. His hair was pulled back at the nape of his thick neck. This didn’t make any sense. Goosebumps traveled up and down my spine. I realized the man in the casket was the same man standing beside me at that moment. This was one hell of a dream. My mind was playing some serious games on me.
The dead man’s doppelganger grabbed my shoulder with his huge hand and bellowed, “She’s ready for you. Go get her."
"Who is she? Who do I have to find? I don't even know who you are," I replied. Before I could get any answers, my fuzzy dream world had dissipated. The irritating sound of my alarm clock sucked me back into reality, like a vacuum cleaner consuming a dust bunny. A clear cut reminder it was time to wake up and get my kids for the weekend.
After a quick hot shower, I poured myself a cup of two-day-old coffee and slouched in front of my laptop to do some quick surfing. The browser opened and I prompted myself to type in a very specific URL, www.theartofdottielove.com. I wondered if she had some newer items up for sale. My art addiction had spiraling out of control, and I found myself visiting my sister's art gallery in Manhattan more than I cared to admit. The employees there probably had every one of my moles and birthmarks memorized. A staged intervention was sure to stop me in my tracks sooner rather than later. I enjoyed strolling through the many aisles and corners of Suzanne’s gallery, never searching for anything specific. I allowed each piece to speak for itself. And if one happened to call to me, I gladly answered. Luckily, my obsession hadn’t broken the bank. One of the perks of being the gallery owner’s brother.
But these paintings by some artist in Florida named Dottie, they coincided with some of the revoltingly prophetic dreams I had while in the last days of my marriage. Dreams of finding my wife in bed with a younger man, my wife pushing me from the top of a skyscraper so tall you couldn’t see the ground, my wife taking my kids worlds away from me. While my ex-wife hadn’t attempted murder yet, I did catch her having an affair and she attempted to take my kids away from me once I had handed her divorce papers. She wasn’t successful with the latter. I’m a good father and the judge saw that loud and clear. No one is taking my kids from me. Ever. I’ll run through a burning building drenched in lighter fluid then roll in a pile of salt before I’d let someone take my children away from me.
Each stroke of paint on the canvas above my bed had their own message to give, telling me I wasn’t alone in this world of loneliness. Yes, I lived in one of the most populated cities in the world, but just because there’s people around doesn’t mean I’m not lonely. I asked my sister if she’d known this artist personally, she shook her head no and slipped me a business card from her wallet. It had rounded corners and an artic blue background. "Here. If you like it that much, check out her website.”
Since my discovery of this woman’s artwork, there wasn’t anything I’d wanted more. I craved it like a junkie craves a hit. I ached to see what else this brilliant artist had created. I wanted to see if it spoke to me on the same molecular level as the past couple paintings had. The website opened, displaying another new painting, and like all the others, it hit me like a shit-ton of bricks. The title was Empty Pews and featured an abstract but still discernable interior of an old church, with pews on the left side and casket in the front. Three shadowy figures painted around the casket, seemingly floating in front of a pulpit. Every figure on that painting seemed to be staring at me. I literally couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This was a scene from my most recent dream, did I maybe look at this piece online before bed and simply don't remember? No, I wasn't drunk, so I would’ve remembered and probably would’ve bought the piece already. Very strange coincidence that this woman painted the exact scene of my dream. Downright creepy, really.
I had to have it. I pulled out my credit card and speedily made the purchase, at the same time pondering what all of this meant. Or maybe it meant nothing and was pure coincidence. I closed my laptop and wondered who this artist was and what sort of connection was there between us. There had to be something there. Did I know this woman as a kid? Were we related? I hadn’t known anyone by that name, nor did I have any relatives in Florida. Maybe I was just losing my mind. Yeah, that was probably it. I thought maybe I should’ve been drinking with the guys instead of mulling over a painting all night like an obsessive middle-aged housewife. Why couldn’t I just be a normal guy?
Chapter 6
Dottie
Ding! I heard my laptop make that familiar peppy sound, as I poured myself a second bowl of cereal. Another one of my dream paintings had sold online after only two days. My excitement was accompanied by curiosity, as I contemplated who was this customer and why was he so interested in my work. I had always felt my paintings were very personal and true to my life experiences, so it was difficult for me to picture anyone having that strong of a connection with my own life stories. It would be like if you wrote an auto-biography and had a reader come out of the woodworks and claim you had captured their life with ink and paper. You haven’t lived my life, so I don’t expect you to get it. Somehow people still fancied my style of art, at the very least. Because I pushed the boundaries of modern-day art I was able to eat and pay my bills. Only because I thought outside the box, not because people felt a connection to my story. This mystery man was peaking my interest, though.
The lucid dreaming techniques from the book were working. I’d harnessed inspiration from my first lucid dream I’d had in years. Weirdly enough, I technically hadn’t read a full chapter of Miss Anne-Marie's book, yet I was still having these dreams. My Dad seemed to pop up in my first dream as if on cue, like he knew I needed him at that point in my life, more than any other time before. If only I could see him again. If only he was still around. If only he hadn’t been so obsessed with his job and spent more time with his family. I know he did his best as a father and husband, or at least what he thought was best. But I also know he’d put his job at the top of his priority list, above his family. And knowing that just sucked. Because of his selfishness there was an eternally empty space where he should’ve been at numerous milestones – spelling bees, camp-outs, art fairs, prom nights, graduation ceremonies, birthday parties, housewarmings, and the list goes on. There’s an empty space in my heart for him. There always will be. But I was sick of him being the center of my artwork. I was happy to have a new muse answer my prayers.
In the midst of running my boring weekend errands (grocery shopping and a visit to the laundromat), spontaneity bitch-slapped my plans and steered my bike toward the Crystal Owl. In the past six months, this gorgeous, mystical woman had become a solid support system, even more so than my own mother. Her heartfelt advice was always spot on, and I found her eccentric interests intriguing. Though I was skeptical of people who claimed to have psychic abilities, I wanted to see if she’d tell me about my future. Would I be alone for the rest of my life? Would I meet someone else who’d put up with my crap? I wasn’t able to picture myself with anyone other than Rory. He’d been the longest relationship I’d ever had. In high school I dated a guy for three months and broke it off after I caught him staring at my friend’s boobs. So yeah, Rory was the only real relationship I’d been in. But Rory was gone, so the image of me as a crotchety, chain-smoking old maid living in a trailer park invaded my head often. I was destined to be a cat-hoarder. Then when kids come to my door for Halloween I’ll hand out cat treats, plastic lighters and candy cigarettes because I won’t know any better. At that point I’ll be senile from all the alcohol I’ve drank over the years, my liver totally shot it won’t have the ability to filter the toxins out of my body so it’ll all go straig
ht to my brain. The whites of my eyes will be canary yellow and my thinning hair and fingernails brittle as an emery board.
Maybe I just needed a moment of clarity to discover I’d never truly needed a man in my life to make me happy. I didn’t need someone eating my food, taking up space, and bossing me around in order to feel a sense of fulfillment and peace of mind. Art was my life and my serenity, so I should keep it that way. The only men I wanted to share my apartment with were my cats, Pinky and The Brain. Yes, they were sometimes boisterous when hungry, but at least they didn’t expect me to spread my legs on a daily basis, nor did they criticize my artwork, and the best part was they only farted once a week. Give or take. These cats were a single woman’s wet dream. If Pinky or The Brain had ever proposed, I might’ve said yes. Ugh, I can’t be a cat lady forever. I’m already slipping into senility for Christ’s sake.
