A Winter Dream: A Novel

by Richard Paul Evans

  “My father was big on self-defense,” I said. “He insisted that all of his boys be able to take care of themselves. I have two black belts and I used to be ranked nationally. When I was nineteen, I competed in an open ultimate fighting competition on a dare and won.

  “For the record, you swing like an eight-year-old boy. The only reason I didn’t beat you to a pulp on Friday is because I know what it’s like to have the woman you love hurt you.”

  Peter just stared at me.

  “You’re a bully, Potts. And there are few things in this world more satisfying than watching a bully get his comeuppance. So, if you still want to ‘break me into a thousand pieces,’ come and get me. And don’t use the office excuse, I won’t tell anyone. Except to get you some help.”

  He knew I was telling the truth. I could tell by the fear in his eyes.

  After a moment I slowly shook my head. “I thought so. Most bullies are cowards. You’re a coward, Potts. And a fool. You’ll eventually get yours. And you’ll learn the truth about Brandi, no matter how many messengers you kill. Good luck with that.”

  He didn’t say a word as I walked out of his office.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-two

  I dreamt I woke in a train. Not only did not I know where it was going, I didn’t even know where in the world I was. I got off at the first stop in what appeared to be a small, third world country. Asia? South America? I wasn’t sure. I asked for a ticket to Colorado, but the person at the ticket counter couldn’t understand me.

  I remember saying, “I think I’m lost.”

  Joseph Jacobson’s Diary

  The H.R. people at Burnett were efficient at moving their people, and Wednesday morning, just a week before Christmas, I was on a flight to LaGuardia. Then again, maybe Peter had just expedited things because he was scared I might change my mind and come back for him.

  I rented, sight unseen, a relatively inexpensive studio apartment in Sunnyside, in western Queens. I could be in downtown Manhattan in fifteen minutes if I took the No. 7 train.

  Leo Burnett New York was located near Madison Square Park on Park Avenue South, a street that paralleled the famed advertising mecca of Madison Avenue.

  I took a cab from the airport directly to the agency, carrying my bags into the building with me. I took the elevator to the seventh floor and sat in an austere waiting room for about an hour waiting to see the company H.R. director—a middle-aged woman with a broad, clamlike mouth bent in a scowl.

  “Joseph Jacobson,” she said, looking over my file. “Another transfer from our Chicago office. I don’t know why they keep sending us their dross.”

  “I can hear you,” I said.

  She didn’t respond. “You’re in what department?”

  “Copy.”

  “Just a minute.” She flipped through a directory a moment, then, lifting the phone receiver, looked back up. “What’s your name again?”

  “It’s Joseph Jacobson.”

  “Joseph,” she said. She dialed a number. “Hi. I have a Joseph Jacobson in my office. He says he was just hired in Copy. Okay. Okay. Go ahead.” Long pause. “All right, I’ll give him the address.” She set down the phone and looked up at me. “You’re at the wrong location,” she said. “You’re supposed to be at the Seventh Avenue office.”

  “You have more than one office?”

  “We have a satellite office.” She wrote down the address on the back of a business card and handed it to me. “That’s where you need to go.”

  I walked back out to the street, dragging my luggage behind me. My destination was about twelve blocks from the main office, and I dragged my luggage through the crowds of tourists that flooded the city at Christmastime.

  The satellite office was located in a tired, dingy building, and the only indication of its connection with the Park Avenue office was a diminutive brass sign on the wall inside the lobby. A tall, middle-aged woman was sitting at the reception desk. “You must be Joseph,” she said.

  “Yes I am.”

  “I’m Charlene. Welcome to the think tank.”

  “Is that what they call it?” I asked.

  “Yes. But we call it the sink tank. Sometimes the stink tank.”

  I looked around the office. It was small, maybe a thousand square feet. The eggshell white walls were simply decorated with framed pictures of advertisements in black steel frames. There was a small Christmas tree decorated with baubles, lights and tiny plastic Menorahs.

  “Why aren’t we near the rest of the agency?” I asked.

  “This is corporate Siberia. This is where they send you while they’re deciding your fate. If you’re here, someone doesn’t like you.”

  “Then I’m in the right place. What is it that we do here?”

  “We do what no one else wants to do. Write copy for the back of cereal boxes, direct mail pieces, the mundane stuff.”

  “Where is everyone else?”

  “There’s only four of us right now. You, me, Bryce and Leonard.”

  “Leonard,” I said. “Is he blond, thin and wears wire-rimmed glasses? Calls himself Len?”

  “You got three out of four,” she said. “Not so thin.”

  “Did he come here from the Chicago office?”

  “About a year ago. Come to think of it, he was thin back then.”

  “I wondered where they had sent him,” I said.

  “So you’re from Chicago too.”

  “Most recently. Actually, I’m from Colorado. Chicago was just a stop on my way up the ladder,” I said facetiously.

  Just then the door opened and two men walked in. One was a short, smartly dressed African-American man. The other was Leonard—though it took me a moment to recognize him as he had probably put on thirty pounds or more. Leonard froze when he saw me. The other man walked up to me, reaching out his hand. “I’m Bryce.”

  I took his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Leonard just stood in the doorway, paralyzed, gaping at me like Death had come to his door. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s good to see you too, Len,” I replied.

  “Destroying my career wasn’t enough for you? You had to come and gloat?”

  The conversation would have been awkward under any circumstances, but in front of my new colleagues it was painful. “Can we discuss this in private?”

  “Kicking me to the curb wasn’t private.”

  “I didn’t kick you to the curb, Len. I had nothing to do with your being transferred.”

  “Then it was just sheer coincidence that I was fired a week after you arrived at LB?”

  “Like you said, Potts likes to make human sacrifices.”

  “Back off, Lenny,” Bryce said. “He’s one of us now.”

  The way he said that sounded ominous. “One of us?” I asked.

  “The outcasts. The Leo Burnett untouchables.”

  I glanced over at Charlene. She nodded sadly.

  “Welcome to the eastern front,” Bryce said. “You had to do something to get sent here. Offend a client. Put the wrong discount on a coupon. Heck, use the wrong deodorant. Usually it’s nothing skill-related or they’d just fire you. Instead they send you here and hope you’ll quit.”

  Charlene said, “There are no secrets in Siberia, Joseph. So what did you do?”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “I used to be Mr. Ferrell’s personal assistant,” Charlene said.

  “Mr. Ferrell?” I said. She looked surprised that I didn’t know who that was. “Mr. Ferrell is the CEO of Leo Burnett New York.”

  “I should have known that,” I said. “So what did you do?”

  “I made a derogatory comment about the CEO of Nintendo.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Satou was standing behind me.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  I looked at Bryce. “And what’s your story?”

  “Love triangle. Copy chief and I both had our eye on the same woman. She chose me, so
I got demoted back to junior and sent here. Lost my desk and the girl. But it’s temporary, that rat won’t be there forever.”

  “And the girl?”

  “That’s permanent. She showed her colors.”

  “We all know Lenny’s story,” Charlene said, making a face. “We’ve only heard it a few million times.”

  “It bears repetition,” Leonard said.

  Bryce nodded. “I’ll abridge it. Some upstart, ambitious whiz kid came to Chicago and pushed him out.”

  Leonard’s eyes narrowed at me.

  “Good fiction,” I said.

  Leonard’s expression grew more intense.

  “I had nothing to do with it,” I said.

  “What’s your story?” Bryce asked.

  “Do tell,” Leonard said fiercely.

  I shook my head. “Like you, my offense wasn’t skill-related. My manager’s fiancée hit on me. He caught her on me at the company Christmas party. She blamed it on me of course.”

  “Yikes,” Bryce said.

  “That would do it,” Charlene said. “He couldn’t fire you because you’d win a wrongful termination suit, so he makes you want to quit.”

  Leonard looked at me with a satisfied expression. “So you and Brandi mixed it up.”

  “We didn’t mix anything,” I said. “The woman wouldn’t leave me alone.”

  “I don’t blame her,” Charlene said. “You’re hotter than a New York summer brown-out.”

  “That’s sexual harassment,” Bryce said.

  “Sue me,” Charlene said.

  “So how does it work here?” I asked.

  “I’m the office manager,” Charlene said. “The main office sends me their copy requests, I deliver them to you, you write them and I send them back to a senior creative who checks your work then passes it on.”

  “It’s humiliating,” Bryce said. “I was a senior creative.”

  “If they disapprove,” Charlene continued, “they’ll send it back with suggestions. I already have a half-dozen assignments waiting for you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Where do I work?”

  “Over there. You’re in the office next to Leonard.”

  “Karma stinks, doesn’t it, J.J.?” Leonard said.

  “Whatever, man,” I said. “Whatever.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-three

  There are dreams that are meant to be shared and dreams to be kept hidden in our hearts. It’s sometimes difficult to know which is which.

  Joseph Jacobson’s Diary

  Even though Leonard continued to detest me, the L.B. Outasts, as Bryce called us (he inverted the K to look Siberian, or, at least, Russian), were a close-knit group. We ate lunch together every day—usually takeout from a very good Thai restaurant across Seventh Avenue. We also played cards. Charlene was big on Hearts, so we played almost every day.

  Truthfully, the sink tank wasn’t bad duty. We left for home on time and rarely heard from the mother ship. I grew rather fond of Charlene and took to calling her Charbaby, which was politically incorrect on many levels, but made her smile every time.

  One day we were playing cards at lunch when Charlene said, “What’s this?” She was rifling through a file I had carried into our lunchroom.

  “Nothing. Just some things I’ve been playing around with. I don’t want to get rusty, so sometimes I create campaigns on my own.”

  “Mind if I look through them?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  She slowly flipped through the file, reading everything. A few times she burst out laughing. “These are terrific,” she said.

  “They’re okay,” I replied.

  “Okay? Some of these are brilliant. In my career I’ve seen scores of writers come and go, and I know talent. If I ever get back with Mr. Ferrell, I’m going to tell him about you.”

  I just smiled at her. “I’m sure you will.”

  She was bothered that I had taken what she said so lightly. “I’m not just saying that, J.J. Can I take some of these?”

  “Take them all,” I said.

  “Okay.” She slid the file under her arm. “You’ll see.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said, turning back to my cards. “Now who has the queen?”

  “Speaking of queens,” Leonard said. “Did I ever tell you that J.J. is a dreamer? He claims he sees the future in his dreams.”

  “I don’t get the segue,” Bryce said.

  I looked at Leonard and shook my head. “Leave it alone, Len.”

  “It’s true,” Leonard said. “That’s how he came up with the BankOne Bank On It campaign. He dreamt it even before he knew we needed it.”

  ‘That was yours?” Bryce asked. “That was a great campaign.”

  “You can tell the future?” Charlene asked.

  “No. I mean, sometimes I dream things and they come true.”

  “I believe in dreams,” Charlene said. “When I was ten, my mother had a dream that she was feeding my little brother bread. The next day he swallowed a bottle of cleaning solvent. Instead of making him throw up, she fed him bread. It saved his life.”

  “How many of your dreams come true?” Bryce asked.

  “Most of them,” I said.

  “What kind of dreams do you have?” Charlene asked.

  “All kinds. The other night I had a dream about the three of you.”

  “Tell us,” Charlene said.

  I looked into their eager faces. “Let’s just play cards.”

  “You can’t tell us you’ve seen our future then go on playing cards,” Bryce said.

  “I didn’t say I had seen your future. I just had a dream about you.”

  “Am I going to die?” Bryce asked.

  “C’mon, guys,” I said. “Let’s play.”

  “I knew it,” Bryce said. “I’m dying.”

  “We’re probably all dying,” Leonard said.

  “My dream wasn’t about anyone dying,” I said. “Come on, let’s play cards.”

  “No, I have to know about your dream,” Charlene said.

  All three of them had stopped playing cards and were looking at me.

  “C’mon,” Leonard said. “Tell us what it was about.”

  “All right,” I finally said. “But I’m not claiming to know the future.”

  “Have you ever been wrong?” Bryce asked.

  I hesitated. “There are a few dreams that haven’t come true.”

  “A few?”

  “Two.”

  “Out of how many?”

  I took a slow, deep breath. “Hundreds.”

  “Great,” Leonard said.

  “That’s precisely why I don’t want to tell you,” I said.

  “If it was something good, he would have already told us,” Leonard said.

  “We won’t hold you to it,” Bryce said. “Just tell us. Inquiring minds want to know.”

  I looked at them. There was no way they were going to drop it.

  “All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I know I’m going to die in it,” Bryce said.

  I ignored his comment. “My dream took place right here,” I said. “I was sitting at my desk when you all came to me carrying small, robin’s-egg blue boxes.”

  “Like Tiffany,” Bryce said.

  “Right,” I said.

  “I love Tiffany,” Charlene said. “This is a good dream.”

  “All three of you asked me to tell you your future,” I said.

  “Just like we are now,” Charlene said. “It’s already coming true. Go on.”

  “I said to you, ‘Let me see your boxes.’ Charlene, you went first. You handed me your box and I lifted its lid. Inside was a miniature day planner. I said, ‘You will soon return to being Mr. Ferrell’s personal assistant.’ ”

  Charlene leaned across the table hugged me. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  “It’s just a dream,” I said.

  “It’s a good dream,” she replied.

  “What about me?”
Bryce said.

  “You were next. I opened your box. Inside was a pen with an ink refill. I said, ‘You’ll soon return to the agency as a senior copywriter.’ ”

  Bryce pumped his fist. “Yes! Does Scott die?”

  “I didn’t dream about Scott,” I said.

  “It would be an even better dream if Scott died in a fiery car crash,” Bryce said.

  Leonard looked at me. “What was in my box?”

  I grimaced. “It’s kind of strange.”

  “What was it,” Leonard asked.

  “It’s a dream, okay? It doesn’t matter what was in your box.”

  “It was something bad, wasn’t it? Like a rattlesnake or grenade or something.”

  “No, there wasn’t a snake. And it doesn’t matter.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t matter. So tell me.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I opened your box and it had broken pots.”

  “Pots?”

  “Yes. Little earthenware pots.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  Leonard looked frantic. “You’re not sure? You knew what theirs meant.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

  “If the pots are broken, it’s got to be bad,” Charlene said.

  “Maybe it means that you won’t be able to hold anything,” Bryce said. “Like money, or a relationship.”

  “. . . Or a job,” Charlene said.

  Leonard looked even more distressed. “This is stupid. It’s just a dream.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Leonard shook his head. “You still have it out for me.”

  “I’ve never had it out for you,” I said. “It’s just a dream.”

  “More like a nightmare,” he replied.

  I got up. “Okay, I’m done. I’m going back to work.”

  As I walked out, I heard Leonard say, “It’s a stupid dream. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-four

  My winter has too soon been followed by another.

  Joseph Jacobson’s Diary

  Two days later it was my turn to pick up lunch. I went up front to get Charlene’s order, but she wasn’t there. I found Leonard and Bryce in the conference room.

  “Hey, where’s Char?” I asked.