Aberrations of Reality

by Aaron J. French

  Dreams were the way with her. She had an affinity for them.

  “Tell me.”

  “Carol and I had been fighting again, this time in the morning as we got ready to leave for work. We’re extraordinarily prone to arguments in the morning. Anyway she left for the office, and I, feeling overwhelmed and upset, decided to malinger and go back to sleep.”

  “Is that when you had the dream?”

  I nodded. “In it, I’m walking down a dirt road at night in the middle of nowhere. A dark barren landscape, pockmarked by trees. I have a dainty little flashlight that is low on batteries. I see someone approaching from up ahead, stumbling down the road in a drunken manner. The figure appears more shadow than anything else, a black silhouette shambling forward.”

  “Creepy.”

  “I know, right? I’m about to pass him and I think, Just keep going, don’t look at him. But of course I shine my flashlight right at him. The beam illuminates his appearance, which is—you might say—average-looking. He’s the kind of guy you would encounter at some restaurant or bar and think, There’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about this guy.”

  “Ew, those guys make me shiver; it’s always the average ones that are the most damaged. Remember Ted Bundy?”

  This got a laugh out of me. I continued, “So he looks at me and says something like ‘Hey you.’ I stop and stare at him, and by now I’m certain he’s drunk. ‘Would you please hug me?’ he says, seeming earnest, but so sad. I’m scared you know because the guy’s drunk and not only that he wants to embrace me.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Well, I hesitate, and then he asks again, this time holding a curled stick, saying, ‘Would you just take the stick and hug me?’ I’m really scared and I tell him, ‘Sorry but I’m late for work, I gotta keep moving.’ He’s disappointed but acquiesces, turns, and starts staggering along beside me. Out of the darkness on the side of the road appears a mansion festooned with lights—one of those Spanish villa types, replete with stone statues, a lighted pool, and squirting fountains. There are men in neckties and women in fancy dresses.

  “ ‘Oh, are you here at a party?’ I ask. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘My wife got drunk. I got drunk. We all got drunk.’ He then walks into the courtyard, over to the pool. He’s fully clothed, dry so far as I could tell, but he stumbles toward the water like a man walking the plank and dashes himself in. Such a sad gesture. I really felt bad for him. I remember thinking, Christ, I should’ve given him that hug.”

  I looked at her. “So what do you think?”

  “First of all, it’s safe to assume that all the people in our dreams are different variations of ourselves, since the story is unfolding in our own heads, and using our own memories.”

  “I’d agree with that.”

  “The guy is drunk, which is interesting. He says his wife’s drunk too—everyone is drunk. Well, drunkenness and becoming angered to the point of argument are both very similar. In either state, one has less control over one’s actions, and is more likely to react based on emotions rather than thought.

  “My thinking? Well, because you and Carol were fighting, in a way you were both drunk. Your inner child looks at the world through your eyes. When he sees you not being yourself, and sees your wife not being herself, he automatically assumes everyone is drunk. This is called Child Logic.”

  “Makes sense. But what about the whole hugging thing?”

  Darcia stroked her chin. “Perhaps your inner child wants to be comforted after a traumatic experience. When you refused to hug him, he tried more of his Child Logic by offering you that stick—in other words, a reason to hug him. But again you refused. So, feeling totally miserable, the child throws himself into the pool, symbolically committing suicide.”

  The young man in the apron came over to replenish our coffee pot. After thanking him, I said to Darcia, “That’s one interpretation, a good one—perhaps the one—but I had another idea.”

  She sipped more coffee. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Actually, I thought of this just now. Something Carol often says to me especially if she’s upset or feeling down is hug me. And yet whenever I do hug her I don’t feel as though it does any good. What I mean is she’s never the better for it, not on the inside at least, where it counts. It seems futile, you know? Sometimes I don’t wanna do it, then I just look at her, thinking, You sad miserable wretch. It’s like… what’s the old Dylan song where he sings something like I’m sorry for your suffering, but hey man, it’s not my problem?”

  “I don’t remember that one. Wait—I got it! So if the drunk guy represents Carol, then you may have been smart not to give away that hug. After all, when people are drunk and emotional, don’t they often ask for hugs? And what good comes of it?—nothing, obviously, because they’re drunk and not aware of what’s going on. So maybe it was your Thinking-Self who decided not to do it. Like hugging Carol, hugging the drunk guy would’ve been futile, wouldn’t have made him feel any better because that wretchedness exists inside of him, and instead of dealing with it, he’s seeking external consolation and not turning inward. He’s afraid of the truth.”

  “And what is the truth—with respect to Carol, I mean?”

  “That she feels terrible and lonely inside, and hates herself, and it’s always been that way for her, and always will be unless she deals with whatever is going on. I suspect it has something to do with her childhood. Always does.”

  I sipped from my mug, staring out the windows, thinking about Darcia’s interpretations.

  “Strange how much you can extract from a single dream,” I said finally.

  She nodded in agreement. “Freud said dreams are the royal road to the unconscious.”

  “Freud… What’s so great about the unconscious, anyway?”

  She scoffed. “Only everything! Your unconscious is like the puppet master pulling strings from the scaffolding over the stage. You can’t see it, but you can bet it’s running the show. Once you’re able to see it, though, you can decide what show you’re going to watch.”

  “Show?”

  “That’s right. Your unconscious replays the shows it has stored over the years. Movies is probably the better word. That fight you and Carol had, that’s a movie. Your unconscious minds were acting automatically, thinking there was no other choice; that’s the unconscious running the show. Once you become conscious, you’ll be able to decide what show you put on. But you only become conscious by first observing and examining the unconscious.”

  “Hey, I’m starting to get it.”

  She grinned. “That’s great!”

  “It’s a bit depressing, though. Perhaps I do need that hug.”

  Abruptly she stood, sliding the chair back, legs scraping across the floor. “I’m not afraid to give it.”

  It took a moment before I understood what she was getting at. Then, feeling pleased, I let my exterior soften, set down the mug, and stood before her. I brought her against my chest, arms curling about her waist.

  I held her tightly, palm pressed into the small of her back. Her hair smelled like oranges and fresh lilac. I closed my eyes and saw a warbling white light in the darkness.

  “How’s that feel?” she said.

  “Like Heaven.”

  * * *

  I was with Carol later; the house was quiet. Blackness outside the windows, in the treetops, in the street. Stars hung over the roof of our neighbor’s house.

  We were at the dining room table eating bowls of soup. I know some people love to eat while the TV is on but not us—and I know some people like to hold conversations while they eat (Darcia was one of these people), but Carol was not. Carol loathed having to speak when she was eating—said it disrupted her digestion.

  I forgot and said something. I asked, “Did you remember to call the insurance company?”

  In classic Carol fashion she refused to answer and instead held out one of her hands, palm toward me, and I inwardly told her to go fuck herself and die, before re
turning to my soup.

  Sometime the next morning I found myself standing in the kitchen holding the coffee pot fantasizing about braining Carol upside the head with it. It was a strange, violent image—not too uncommon of late—and I immediately felt guilty about it. I filled my mug and went to join her at the table for breakfast.

  “I like a quarter cup of milk in my oatmeal, Dan,” she said. “You know that. Why’s it so runny? You must’ve used a half a cup. Did you—did you use a half a cup?”

  Go die, go get killed, run over, get in a car accident, slip on an ice patch, dive in a lake, in a manhole, do something, leave me the fuck alone, rot in Hell, die—

  “Hello, Dan? I asked you a question.”

  I cleared my throat. “I used a quarter cup of milk, like you asked.”

  “Are you sure? I think maybe you didn’t because look how runny it is. I can’t eat it now.”

  She got up and went to the sink to pour it down the drain.

  “Goddam it, I used a quarter fucking cup.”

  The bowl clattered as it struck the porcelain basin. “Don’t swear at me. What’s your problem?”

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. “Nothing.”

  We glared at each other a moment, an invisible laser linking our eyes, frozen and reliving situations from our past. What was it Darcia had said? That the unconscious stores up memories from our childhood, then replays them? In this case, it seemed, I was reliving the horrible battles I’d had with my mother growing up; and on Carol’s end, she was re-experiencing the uproars she played out with her father. (During high school, Carol’s father had been abnormally jealous of her boyfriends, and they’d argued about it constantly.)

  Realizing this I let the situation diffuse. I lowered my death stare and by doing so enabled Carol to do the same. “If I used too much milk, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll make sure to use the right amount next time.”

  I heard her sigh like she was having trouble letting go of it, like part of her wanted to cling to the anger, but finally she said, “Thanks, I appreciate that, Dan.”

  I suddenly realized I was smiling—and that she was smiling too. We were smiling at each other, and I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done that.

  “Well, I have to get ready for work,” she said.

  I nodded. “Me too.”

  And with that we parted ways, but for the first time in a long while, it was done without a mutual desire to see the other one hanged.

  * * *

  Darcia called.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello yourself. Are we meeting today?”

  I was at work—which is where she typically called me—sitting at my desk, staring at the computer screen. “I get off at the usual time,” I said.

  “Same place?”

  “Same place.”

  * * *

  The snow in the city had melted, but the air remained metallic, a reminder that winter was not yet finished. This time I beat Darcia, and this time it was me sitting at the table, waiting for her.

  Waiting and waiting.

  When she still hadn’t shown up after twenty minutes, I ordered coffee and sat drinking it, staring out the window. Multitudes passed by; not a one was my girl.

  Ten more minutes.

  Ten more.

  I dialed her on my cell phone, but got no answer. Eventually I came to accept that she wasn’t coming, and so I marched out into the cold, into the crowd, into the street, and goddam it—I was fucking angry.

  * * *

  “You seem irritable,” Carol said.

  “I am.”

  “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be happy that we managed to avoid an argument this morning. I’m sure pleased about it.”

  I felt myself softening. She was right. I should be feeling good about that. But instead I was thinking about Darcia.

  I moved over to the sofa where she was sitting and wrapped an arm around her. It was not something we did often.

  The television was blaring a news report about another bombing in Pakistan. Carol snuggled into the crook of my arm. “Can you believe what goes on over there?” she said.

  I inched myself closer, until our legs were touching. “I know. It’s crazy. We’re lucky we don’t have that shit happening in the US.”

  “It’s like I go to church every Sunday and listen to Pastor Mendelson speak about love thy neighbor as thy love thyself, while over there they’re killing each other. It’s terrible.”

  A voice in my head wanted to dispute this, but I let it go and instead placed a hand on her thigh, moving it up toward her crotch. I anticipated a rebuke, maybe even an outburst—but to my surprise she looked at me and said, “Really, Dan, you want to?”

  I nodded, moving my hand into the cleft between her legs. She closed her eyes, moaning softly. It had been months since we’d had sex. But soon we’d both disrobed and were going at it right there on the sofa.

  She came almost immediately—which seemed odd to me, since on other occasions it had required a Herculean effort to get her off. Meanwhile, I was having trouble. I pumped and thrust, even had Carol bend over the arm of the sofa. I tried everything I could think of, but nothing got me to climax.

  Carol came again. But not long after, she gasped, “God, what’s gotten into you? Are you ever going to finish? It’s starting to hurt.”

  Her words triggered something in me. I found myself thinking about Darcia and the hug we had shared at the coffee shop. I focused on it—the closeness, the safety, how sweet it seemed, the smell of Darcia’s hair.

  That did it. I was suddenly coming. But at that moment something strange happened. I had a feeling. I didn’t know where it came from or what had brought it on, but it was a long-forgotten feeling, all the way back to my childhood. A feeling like being suspended in the womb. A warm embrace mixed with a cold refusal.

  I hadn’t felt that way in a long time.

  * * *

  Days passed. Still no Darcia. I was beginning to worry. At work I’d sit in my chair, staring at the telephone instead of the computer screen, hoping it would ring, hoping it would be her.

  It never was. And when the phone did ring, it was usually Carol. I began wondering if she had rejected me. Was she afraid of getting too close?

  I dwelled on these thoughts endlessly. Carol noticed it, noticed my temperamental moods, and my brooding around the house. When she asked me what was wrong I invariably made some excuse. I was too depressed to have sex or even to argue, so our time together became mechanical—you do this while I do that—and I don’t believe it was a real existence, and I don’t believe Carol thought so either. But when you’re married, you don’t have much of a choice.

  I called Darcia and left messages on her answering machine. These escalated from stoic inquiry to frantic raving. I thought about going to her house (I knew where she lived because I’d walked her home once) but that seemed like too much of an intrusion. However after a week had gone by, I was desperate. I soon found myself knocking on her front door.

  It was so cold that I had to pull my coat around my shoulders. But I kept knocking till my knuckles turned blue and my hand began to throb.

  Why didn’t she just fucking answer?

  I peered into the darkened windows and called, “Darcia? Darcia?” A few of the neighbors came out to investigate, but I assured them that Darcia was a friend of mine.

  I caught a strange odor—a mix of revulsion and sweetness—which the wind kept dashing about, swirling around not only in my nostrils, but around the clapboards, trees, and cropped hedges. I made my way back to the porch, fiercely irritated now, searching for some clue, some reason why she had abandoned me. I looked in the flower pots, underneath the two patio chairs, finding nothing.

  When I hoisted up the welcome mat, I felt a jab of delight.

  I picked up the key and tried the lock; it slid in nicely. I had a choice to make: break every ethical code and chance ruining my friendship with Darcia, or let it lie and st
umble back sneering to my old life.

  The decision was no decision. I unlocked the door and went inside.

  “Darcia?”

  I noticed the smell again, sickly sweet and permeating. It had now mixed with a bouquet of other aromas, botanical in nature: bergamot, thyme, lilac, rosemary, frankincense.

  Underneath it all was still Darcia’s smell, and I felt drunk just thinking about her.

  Because it was my first time in her house, I looked about with scientific interest, making categorical observations and drawing conclusions. I was unable to do anything else; in truth I felt like a scientist. This whole thing had been one giant experiment for me. And Darcia had been my subject.

  There was her television, her leather sofa, leather chair and ottoman, the glass coffee table scattered with candles, crystals, rocks, various New Age books, and assorted miscellanea.

  I moved across the living room and into the hall through a curtain of hanging red beads. I called for her again, knowing she wouldn’t answer. I saw a lifetime of photographs mounted on the wall, framed and positioned just right. I stopped to admire a few, but my main goal was at the end of the hall and that semi-ajar door—from which came the strongest emanations of the sickly-sweet odor.

  On some deeper level I knew what I was going to find. But I ignored these feelings, and, pushing the door open, I crept inside.

  The smell hit me like a ton of bricks. Coughing, I covered my nose and mouth. Her bedroom was nicely decorated, blues and purples mostly, and more candles and crystals. Three massive bookcases stood one against each wall. Above the headboard hung a watercolor of two horses galloping through a pasture. There was a lump in the bed, a mound of blankets and sheets tangled up with a warm, navy blue quilt.

  I approached with caution, aware that I’d just stepped over into some foreign realm. This was a new experience apart from those I had with Carol, and those I had at the office, and those I accumulated everyday by engaging with a mediocre society—trips to the grocery store, sitting in traffic, going to the bank, paying credit card bills. This was new ground—and here, anything was possible.