She sat down on the edge of her bed and stared at the clock. It read 8:47.
Sleep, she thought. That was the big problem. She needed sleep. But if she slept, she set herself up for yet another god-awful nightmare. And when she awoke from the nightmare, she would be unable to get back to sleep—unless she drank herself silly, that is. And there weren’t even any guarantees in that. She’d drank about six ounces of scotch before falling asleep in the bathtub and look what good that had done her—
She needed help—professional counseling. It was plain as day. She didn’t stand a chance of survival if she went on like this. Sleepless nights. Nightmares so real that she could no longer differentiate between what was real and what wasn’t real. A morbid fear of entering into a personal relationship with anyone—men in particular. In fact, she couldn’t trust a man any further than she could throw him.
Miss Rutledge had been right, Emily thought. Somehow the old woman had sensed she was having problems serious enough to warrant psychiatric counsel. She’d blown her off though, totally dismissing this option just as her father had done when she’d made the same suggestion to him all those years ago. Denial . . . Isn’t that what every sick person’s first reaction was? But she wasn’t going to make the same mistake her father had made. She had problems, and she was going to face them head-on and try to resolve them. She needed someone who could view her dilemma at arm’s length and guide her through all of this; to advise her as to how to deal with it. She couldn’t do it on her own. For all she knew there might be a simple solution; perhaps even a drug that would allow her to sleep without dreaming. It was a possibility, wasn’t it?
Emily sprung from the bed and headed determinedly down the stairs to the first floor. She walked briskly through the living room to her father’s study and opened the door, realizing instantly that she hadn’t been there since his death. She switched on the lights and swore to herself under her breath for neglecting the room as she had. A thick layer of dust covered everything, and in several corners of the musty-smelling room she could see cobwebs, causing her to let out a gasp of revulsion. She quickly went over to one of the windows and raised it a few inches to let some fresh air in. Then she stepped over to the immense mahogany desk and began opening and closing drawers until she at last found what she was looking for.
She set her father’s Rolodex on the desk and thumbed through the cards. She couldn’t remember the name of the psychiatrist who had treated him for his gambling addiction, but she knew she’d recognize it once she saw it. Finally, under the M’s, she spotted it.
Markowitz, Stephen.
Emily withdrew the card then placed the Rolodex back in the drawer where she’d found it. After taking another look at the room and deciding to give it a good cleaning the first chance she had, she turned off the lights and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Emily went to the kitchen and began brewing a full pot of strong coffee. She found some luncheon meat in the refrigerator and made herself a sandwich. She ate her sandwich quickly, washed it down with a glass of water then gave a Milkbone treat to Cassie who had been eyeing her hungrily. She opened the back door and picked out several good-sized logs from the dwindling stack of wood on the porch then carried them into the den. After starting a fire in the fireplace, she returned to the kitchen and poured herself a mug of black coffee and carried it back with her to the den.
Emily set the mug on the coffee table and went over to her personal library. As she browsed through the titles, she made a mental note to select a work that could hold her interest long enough to get her through the night and into the morning. Because, she had already decided, she wasn’t going to be sleeping a wink.
Finally, she made her selection: Victorian America: An Era of Change. She went over and placed the thick, leather-bound volume on the table beside her coffee then stoked the fire a few times before returning to the oversized chair and plopping herself down in it. Cassie jumped into the chair to join her, snuggling up with her head resting on her paws.
Emily reached for her coffee, took a sip and skimmed through the table of contents. She found a chapter of particular interest and turned to it. Before allowing herself to get absorbed in the text, she pondered the next day and considered her agenda.
After a sleepless night of reading and tons of coffee, she would eat a light breakfast, take a shower, and pack up a few personal belongings. She would then drive to the shop and tape a note to the door beside the closed sign explaining that there had been an emergency and that the shop would be closed temporarily until further notice. Then she’d hop in her bus and head south on the highway; en route to New York City to meet with Dr. Stephen Markowitz . . .
Emily breathed a long sigh then began reading the chapter entitled, Mill Workers: Salt of the Earth.
CHAPTER 9
The snow was coming down hard as Lenny Williams scaled the short flight of steps to his apartment building. He’d never quite outgrown his childhood fascination of winter storms and he now wondered why they were so rare nowadays. Global warming? The greenhouse effect? Hell, if he knew. All he knew was that it was a fact, and it bothered him. A lot of things bothered him anymore, it seemed. Things for which there seemed no rhyme or reason, yet nonetheless existed. Those cold, hard, inexplicable facts which one had to come to terms with and accept, like it or not.
He reached the stoop and swung the heavy steel door open then entered the foyer. After checking his mailbox and finding nothing inside, he located yet another key, unlocked the inner door and went inside. Fort Knox, he thought to himself as he ambled down the dimly lit hallway to the stairway.
He reached the fourth floor, turned left, and stood at the door long enough to locate his apartment key on the undersized (or was it overfilled?) key ring. He unlocked the door and entered then closed and locked the door behind him.
Lenny made a beeline over to the large living room window and pulled up the blinds, removed the bulky camera bag from his shoulder and set it down on the floor. As he took off his snow-flecked leather jacket, his eyes never left the wintry scene outside. The snow was coming down relentlessly; huge, wet flakes backlit by the lights of the city. Might as well enjoy this while it lasts, he decided. He went over and grabbed a well-worn directors chair, set it down in front of the window then plopped himself down in it.
Mesmerized by the fury of the storm, he thought of how nice it would be to go outside with a sled right this moment, find a steep hill, and sleigh ride for an hour or so—just as he no doubt would have done when he was a kid living back in Ohio. God, those were the days! he thought. Didn’t have a care in the world . . .
Where have all the good times gone?
The notion was preposterous, of course. There were no steep hills in New York City—just a lot of steep buildings. And he wasn’t a youngster anymore. He was pushing forty and felt anything but carefree. In fact, he felt like the whole world was closing in on him, inch by inch, and he was angry at himself for the way he kept letting everything get the best of him. Why, he wondered, did everything have to be so damn complicated in this world? And why did it only seem to be getting worse the older he got?
Lots of questions, but no answers. Lots of facts, and no explanations.
His eyes focused randomly on a portion of the Manhattan skyline, barely visible through the blurred frenzy of white. He thought back to when he still felt like he was “just a kid,” and decided it must have been sometime around his junior year in high school. He’d had no real responsibilities back then—just school and a part-time job in the evenings to pay for gas, beer, and cigarettes. The majority of his free time had been spent cruising around town in his ‘67 VW bug with his cohorts, trying to scheme on the chicks or scoping out safe places to park and drink without getting caught. It was the late Sixties and a real happening time. Days of lost innocence and great music . . . Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
Things were totally different nowadays. Casual sex had become a life-and-death situation
, with the threat of AIDS and all. Drugs, considered back then to be little more than a recreational pastime, had now become a major problem. They were bad news. And basically, all those things that used to make growing up so fun now seemed to be virtually nonexistent. One had to feel sorry for the present generation of kids, who could only wish they’d been there during the Swinging Sixties and now were obliged to do the Next Best Thing: live vicariously through the legacy of that era- its music—and pretend to be getting a handle on what it was all about. But in reality, these kids couldn’t be any further from what it was all about. Wealth, status, “power lunches,” Beemers, computers, “screw thy neighbor?” Not exactly what was on most folks’ minds back in those days.
But the saddest irony of all was the fact that the very same generation of folks who had lived the Sixties had now evolved into the bloodsucking yuppies who were pulling all the strings today.
You had to laugh to keep from crying.
Lenny yawned. He felt incredibly tired—as though he hadn’t slept in days. But lack of sleep wasn’t the reason for this; nor was overexertion. His problem, and he knew it, was that his mind never seemed to stop wandering. Maybe “analyzing” was a better word. Whatever it was, it wore him out. Especially when his thoughts were negative, as they were now.
Gotta snap out of this funk, he thought. Gotta start looking on the bright side of things for a change.
Well, you’re alive . . . That’s something. You’ve got a roof over your head and you’re pursuing a career that you enjoy. Can’t complain about that, eh? Your friends back home envy you, too. After all, here you are in the Big Apple, you’re a professional photographer, and you’re making a living at it to boot. Pretty impressive. If only they could be in your shoes . . .
He let out a laugh, piercing the still silence of his modest Queens apartment. If they only knew . . . It was a fact that whenever he visited his hometown, he was forever being aloof around his friends and family. And for good reason: he didn’t particularly want anyone getting wise to just how dismal things were for him here in the big city. How he had to struggle just to make ends meet. How he snatched up practically every photo assignment that came along no matter how lousy it paid. Hell, he was supposed to be an artist; not some hacker taking headshots of corporate big shots in their offices; or shooting product shots of cams and gears. Nothing too artistic or glamorous about that shit, eh?
Granted, he’d had his moments of grandeur. The occasional high-budget fashion layout, for instance. Or the even rarer artsy-fartsy spread; such as the one he’d shot not long ago portraying the replacement of crumbling and decaying historical landmarks with glistening new high-rises or yet another parking garage. Stuff that really meant something; stuff that had been challenging and artistically fulfilling at the same time.
But these types of assignments were few and far between, and certainly not paying the bills. And that was the big problem. To survive in the city, you have to hustle. It was a plain and simple fact.
And he was just about all hustled out.
Lenny reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit up and inhaled deeply; his eyes riveted to the wintry scene outside.
New York. What could he actually say good about New York? he thought. That he is here? Big deal . . . Hey, everybody, guess what? New York ain’t everything it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it’s even worse!
Okay, so maybe it had been pretty exciting the first three years or so. So many things going on—so much to see and get excited about. It had been a great experience; a great learning experience if nothing else. But after eight years, it was no longer exciting. In fact, it was a huge pain in the ass. And downright scary at times . . .
Where have all the good times gone?
He arose from the chair long enough to snag an ashtray off the coffee table and sat back down again. Peering down at the street, he estimated the depth of the snow to be about three inches. The whiteness hid a multitude of sins and served as a baffle to the usual cacophony created by the clattering of subway trains on the el just outside his apartment and the ever-present traffic below. What normally sounded like a military invasion was now reduced to a muffled whimper of low frequencies. Quite soothing, he decided.
Leaning back in the chair, Lenny heaved a long sigh. The urge to go sledding popped into his mind again, but he quickly dismissed it before it had a chance to annoy him. He glanced at his watch, which read 7:05, and debated whether or not to fix something to eat. He was famished, but too stressed-out to do anything about it. He considered how much weight he’d lost in the last few months—certainly more than he could afford to lose from his already slender frame—and silently cursed himself for his apathy. He needed to start taking better care of himself and he knew it.
Opting for coffee to help battle the fatigue, he stood up and went into the tiny kitchen to brew himself a pot. He’d just finished cueing up the machine when the telephone rang.
He returned to the living room and picked up the phone.
“Studio,” he answered.
“Uh, yes. Is this the photographer?” a male voice with a thick Indian or Mideastern accent inquired.
“Yes, it is,” Lenny replied.
“Uh, yes. I saw your ad in the uh, Village Voice newspaper, and I was wondering what would be the price for the uh, headshot.”
“Black and white; or color?” Lenny asked.
“Uh, yes. The black and white is okay. I am a uh, actor and need the publicity headshot.”
“I see,” Lenny said. “Black and white headshots are seventy-five dollars. That includes thirty-six shots, a proof sheet, and two eight-by-tens of your choice.” And a bargain, at that, he thought to himself with a wry grin.
“Uh, that sounds okay. When could I uh, set up the appointment for the uh, session?”
“Just a second, and I’ll check my schedule,” Lenny replied.
He pressed the hold button and continued looking out the window. After a moment, he pressed it again. “How would the day after tomorrow at one o’clock be for you?”
“Uh, that would be okay.” the caller replied.
“Alright. Let me give you the directions to my studio. Where will you be coming from?”
“Uh, I would be coming from midtown.”
“Fine. Just take the “N” train at 59th and Lex. downtown to Canal Street. I’m at 303 Broadway—just a couple of blocks south of Canal. Third floor,” Lenny told him.
“Uh, Canal Street?” the caller asked, obviously confused.
Lenny sighed to himself. “Right. Now, write this down, please. Take the N train from 59th Street at Lexington Avenue downtown until you reach the Canal Street station. When you walk up to the street, you will be on Canal Street. You will also see Broadway on the corner. Just walk down Broadway for two blocks until you locate 303 Broadway. I am on the third floor. You got all of that?”
“Uh, yes. So sorry. My English is not so well.”
No shit? Lenny thought to himself. “I understand. Now let me get your name and phone number,” he said, reaching for a pen. He jotted down the caller’s name and daytime phone number.
“As a rule, I get paid up front on the day of the session—cash, preferably. Please wear dark colors and stay away from whites if you can—the shots will look better. Okay?”
“Uh, yes. Dark colors, no, uh, whites. I have it. I will see you Wednesday at one o’clock, sir.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then. By the way, the name is Lenny—Lenny Williams,” he said.
“Uh, Lenny. Okay. Thank you, uh, Lenny.”
“Thanks for calling.”
Lenny hung up the phone wondering if this potential client would actually show up on Wednesday. He’d certainly had more than his share of no-shows in this business; and the so-called “actors” were perhaps the least dependable of all. But this guy seemed sincere and would probably make it, he reckoned
If he didn’t get lost somewhere along the way, that is.
As he went ba
ck into the kitchen, Lenny reflected on how bad business had been lately. Up until the holidays, he’d been booked fairly solid. But January had been a total bust and February was proving to be just as lousy.
Time to get a real job? he thought as he poured himself a mug of fresh coffee.
No way.
Returning to the living room, he sat back down in the chair and took a sip then lit up another Merit.
As he sat there gazing out the window, Lenny suddenly wished he were somewhere else. Somewhere in the country—far from the city. A log cabin with a roaring fire in the fireplace. An icebox full of beer and not a care in the world. Stranded in the middle of nowhere with enough food, beer, and firewood to ride the storm out for months.
Just he, and his Dream Lady—
Yes! he thought excitedly. Now that would certainly get me out of this funk . . .
Lenny closed his eyes and envisioned her: Young, but not too young. Intelligent. Beautiful, but in a natural, unpretentious sort of way. She was soulful and kind; strong and profoundly vulnerable at the same time. She related well to the same things that he related to. Like good music, Mother Nature, speaking your mind instead of hiding behind a façade of total bullshit, and believing in the concept that there is actually more to life than making money just for the sake of making money. Stuff like that . . .
Dream Lady, where are you?
In my dreams, yes—but where else?
Nowhere else, but in my dreams
But dreams aren’t real, not reality
So nowhere else that she can be
But in my dreams
Lenny opened his eyes. As lame as it sounded, the poem he’d just concocted pretty much summed up the tragic truth: His Dream Lady existed, but only in his dreams.
He’d dreamt of her countless times throughout his life, even as a child. He had no idea who she was or where she came from. All he knew for certain was that she had appeared in his dreams practically every night, seemingly, since day one; or at least for as far back as he could remember. He’d never told a soul about her.
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