The Dreamer

The Dreamer

By


storyteller

Chuck Andrews uncoiled the garden hose as he walked, letting it drop behind him in the fresh-cut grass like a smooth, dark-green snake. A warm breeze blew from the south, meandering gently through the houses along the cul-de-sac. He was perspiring from mowing the lawn and felt fine. The first good sweat of the year was melting the last of winter from his bones.

As always, spring renewed his hopes and dreams, though they got narrower and more practical every year. This year, he thought, a small wooden deck would be nice, so he wouldn't spend the precious summer in front of a flickering TV. He had chosen this house three years ago as a compromise between his budget and his dreams. Whatever roots were left in the forty-year-old bachelor would be sunk in the soil of this yard.

Stuart Court was a narrow street that suddenly burst into a circle fifty feet across. It was lined by two-story colonials, tri-levels, and ranch-style houses that clashed with the cookie-mold tradition of the suburbs. When the children weren't playing a raucous game of kickball on the asphalt court it was a quiet, pleasant place to live. He was acquainted with many of his neighbors, liked them, but spent very little time socializing with them.

As he crossed his driveway, Chuck dug into the pocket of his faded, short-sleeve shirt for a cigarette. He paused to admire the red and yellow petunias he had planted as a border. Everything here was so much more peaceful than the apartment he had lived in for twenty years. There were no gangs of angry, bored teenagers gathering under the streetlights at night, or hopping into cars to race around and cause trouble here.

Just as he was starting to water the flowers, he heard footsteps approaching and turned around to face a small, white-haired boy. The boy was tiny, looked about five years old, but Chuck remembered seeing him standing in line waiting for the school bus and knew he must be at least six or seven.

"Hello." the kid said cheerfully.

"H'Lo." Chuck answered. "What can I do for ya, kid?"

"My name's not kid, it's Homer." Homer lisped.

Chuck couldn't suppress a sudden laugh. "Homer, huh. Well, okay, Homer"

"I'm named after my Granpa Marks·"

Chuck didn't know how to respond. He didn't want the kid hanging around, but he didn't want to hurt his feelings either. A silence stretched as he smoked. Then he noticed some of the other neighborhood kids gathering in small groups across the street. Homer stood quietly beside him watching.

"Looks like they're choosing sides, kid. Better get over there if you want to be in on it."

"Naw." Homer answered with a tinge of bitterness in his voice.

Chuck had never seen this kid playing games with the others. He was usually close by, playing in the dust and gravel along the curb or just standing and watching, but never seemed to be included. In fact, he was always alone, the other kids appeared to avoid him.

Probably looking for someone friendly, Chuck thought. Well, maybe he could spare a few minutes.

"Don't those kids like you, ... Homer?" he asked.

"No."

"Why?"

"'Cause."

"Because why?" Chuck asked, but he could easily see why; Homer was poor, dusty and grimy, his jeans were torn in the knee, his polo shirt was frayed around the collar and bleached nearly colorless.

Homer shrugged.

Chuck noticed something in his hand, a colorful wad of shiny paper. "You're not gonna throw that in my yard, are you?"

Homer shook his head. "Nope. I wanna show ya sumpin'."

"Well, ... okay, let's see it." Chuck said, wondering why the kid wanted to show something to him, a complete stranger.

"It's a dirt bike." Homer said, unfolding the paper carefully. He flattened it against his stomach before handing it to Chuck.

The paper had been torn from a catalogue, Chuck noticed, and showed a clean black bicycle with shiny red spokes. "Very nice." He said.

"I want one!" Homer said excitedly.

"It's a fine bike alright." Chuck nodded. "Maybe you'll get one for your birthday."

"I want it now." Homer said firmly. "I been dreaming about it for a week. And I chose you!"

Chuck hesitated. "Me? To do what?"

"Buy it for me."

A cloud drifted in front of the sun, casting a large shadow on the grass.

"Why should I buy you a bike? Ask your mother."

"She said we can't afford it. That's why I chose you. My Ma says you aint married or got any kids, so you gotta have lotsa money."

Chuck stared into the brown eyes of the dirty-faced boy. The kid's expression was calm and determined. He tried to think of a way to get rid of him.

"Look, kid, I've got to finish the yard work, so you just go on and play."

"What 'bout my bike?"

"We've all got problems, kid."

"But I been dreamin' about this bike for a long time!"

Chuck tossed the stub of his cigarette into the grass. He felt sorry for the kid. When he was young, he had always wanted new toys and a bike, but there was never enough money.

"Well, we all have our dreams, kid ... Homer." Chuck said, mustering as much fatherly kindness in his voice as he could. "Sometimes they come true. But not usually. Understand?"

"Mine do!'' Homer blurted "When I dream about sumpin' it comes true "

Chuck didn't need this. He began to get irritated. "Go on and play," he growled, handing back the page from the catalogue.

"I dreamed 'bout two things last night. You ran over Mrs. Smith's cat, and then you bought me the bike."

"I'll be careful about the cat, but you can forget the bike."

"You'll see!" Homer said, refolding the page and glowering at Chuck. "This afternoon you're gonna run over Mrs. Smith's stupid cat. Just wait and see!"

The kid trotted down the middle of the street toward his house on the corner·

After a leisurely shower, Chuck sat for a while in his kitchen wondering about Homer. His feelings toward the boy were a mixture of pity and uneasiness.· He had heard rumors that the kid's family was struggling to keep their house, and Homer's statement about not being able to afford the bike seemed to bear that out, but to expect Chuck to purchase it for him was weird. Maybe it was a prank, some strange and desperate scheme the kid had concocted in an attempt to get something that all the other kids on the street had. Maybe the kid had watched too many TV shows. Anyway, the plan was not going to work. The kid could dream for a hundred years and Chuck still wouldn't buy the bike. Though the bit about the cat was odd.

Chuck decided to go to Altman's Bar, drink a few beers, and watch the Cub's game. Before climbing into his long, red convertible, Chuck paused. He squatted near the tires and scanned the yard as he moved in a slow circle around the car. No cat. A glance at the neighbors on either side -- no cat. The whole court seemed as empty as a ghost town. Satisfied, Chuck hopped into the car, started the engine, and flipped the dial of the radio to the ballgame.

He wasn't even out of the driveway when he felt the thump.

Chuck awoke late on Sunday, almost noon, slightly hung-over from the large quantity of beer he had drunk at Altman's. He'd heard that people don't dream when they've had too much to drink, and he didn't want any dreams. He knew that if he did, the dreams would all involve that cat, the bloody lump that oozed its life away under his back tire yesterday afternoon.

As usual on the Sundays he was not working, Chuck washed and waxed the twelve-year-old, red, Chevy convertible that was his pride and joy. But before he could do this today, first he had to hose the blood from the driveway.

He got out of bed slowly, his head pounding, and dressed in old jeans and sweatshirt. He went outside without eating. The hose lay coiled beside the house and as he strung it out in the grass, he had a chilling sensation of de-a-vu. He glanced around, but the kid was not in sight. Relieved, Chuck began hosing the mess from the concrete.

Later, when the Chevy glistened in the sun, Chuck got himself a beer and sat on a lawn chair in the doorway of the garage. The calm of the afternoon was suddenly shattered by someone yelling. Looking toward the sounds at his right, he saw Homer standing on the curb in front of Mrs. Smith's house. Though he couldn't see her, he recognized the voice resounding through the court as hers.

"My bushes! My rose bushes! Stay out of my yard you little juvenile delinquent! I'm going to call the police. I won't talk to your mother any more, you hear me! I'll call the POLICE and they'll come and put you in JAIL!"

To Chuck, the kid seemed disinterested. He stood looking at her, holding a plastic sand pail and small red shovel in his hands.

As abruptly as it started, the yelling stopped. Chuck heard a door slam. Homer stayed in the street for several long seconds more staring at the house, then he whirled around and marched toward the corner. As he passed, he paused and said to Chuck, "I'm gonna dream 'bout her tonight -- a real lot!"

Chuck closed the store early Monday night, and as he entered his subdivision, he thought it strange to see small knots of people out walking. Usually the only pedestrians out on Langford Drive were the teenagers walking in the road to annoy the drivers. These people seemed to be going somewhere. Groups of them gathered on the corner of his street. More of them were bunched up in the court itself.

Ominous red and white lights flashed as Chuck turned the corner. Perhaps someone had been burglarized. It might even be his house. Then he saw squad cars and an ambulance parked in front of Mrs. Smith's, the lights splashing their colors on the surrounding houses.

Chuck got out of his car and approached the crowd. The neighbors were hushed and seemed nervous. Chuck smelled cold cream and talcum powder as he mingled among the women, many whom were wearing colorful velour housecoats. He searched for a familiar face, one who might be able to tell him what was happening. He saw Ellen Browne standing beside the rear of the ambulance, the revolving lights mottling swift patterns of color across her darkly pretty face. She seemed transfixed as she watched the activity at the front door. Chuck was afraid that tapping her shoulder would startle her, so he whispered her name softly several times.

"Chuck," she said. "isn't it awful! My God, poor Mrs. Smith."

"What happened?" he asked, feeling a knot in his stomach.

"Someone said she choked to death on some food ... chicken, I think."

"Oh" Chuck said. His tone sounded relieved. Then he saw the expression on Ellen's face. The relief had been misunderstood. He explained. "I mean ... what with all the crazy people running around, and, you know, stabbing and shooting. Well, I thought that ... it might have happened to her. Living alone and all." He was interrupted by the ambulance crew wheeling out the body bag.

"It's so sad." Ellen said to him, shaking her head.

A minute later the crowd began to disperse, shaking their heads and whispering among themselves as they drifted home.

The last people to leave were Chuck, Ellen, and a short, rotund woman holding hands with her child. It was Homer and his mother.

She was scolding him. "See! Maybe now you'll believe me when I tell not to talk and chew at the same time! You'll choke to death just like that old Mrs. Smith. And that's a horrible way to go, absolutely the most horrible way ever!" Homer grinned at Chuck as his mother whisked him away.

Saturday morning was clear and sunny and the grass needed cutting, but Chuck didn't want to do it. All week he managed to leave early and return late from work. Still he felt apprehensive. He was becoming a nervous wreck trying to avoid meeting the kid.

He tried to convince himself that the deaths of Mrs. Smith and her cat were only coincidences. Maybe what bother him, he wondered, wasn't the kid, but the fact that his grocery store wasn't doing the volume projected, and, as manager, he was being forced to take the blame. He felt he was transferring his fear of losing his job to the kid. He found he could accept that better than dreams coming true.

Chuck walked into the garage and checked the fuel tank on the old lawn mower. He pushed himself and the smoky mower unmercifully, trying to force his mind to think only of the next pass across the narrow yard. But, whenever he reached the curb, his eyes darted furtively about for a glimpse of cotton-white hair. In less than an hour, he was done and went inside to eat.

He ate slowly, washing the sandwiches down with two bottles of cold beer. He felt somewhat relieved. He had been visible for at least an hour and the kid hadn't appeared. If Homer had the power he claimed, wouldn't he be around no matter what the weather or time of day?

Chuck decided to wash his car today and spend tomorrow, his last Sunday off for a month, doing something different, maybe even driving to Chicago to see a ball game. He took another beer from the crisper and lifted the edge of a large dish that was covered with aluminum foil to see what was there. It was a platter of fried chicken that instantly made him remember Mrs. Smith. He hadn't attended her funeral because he had never really known her. He had only met her the afternoon he squashed her cat, barely a week ago. She had merely nodded as he stammered his apology, didn't say a thing to him. She didn't seem too upset about the loss of her pet. Just stood in her doorway studying him through her thick, wire-framed lenses, supported by her hickory-wood cane, composed and unaffected. When he finished explaining, she thanked him and closed the door.

He contributed to the collections for flowers and thought of her often, but Mrs. Smith seemed to have been a very strange woman. Knowing he could not eat the left-over chicken, perhaps never eat chicken again, he scraped the plate into the garbage sack under the sink.

He backed his car out of the garage, and stood in the doorway admiring it. This car was his hobby, his joy. He had bought it off the showroom floor without even looking at the sticker. He washed and waxed it frequently to keep it clean and new-looking. Even under the spattered dirt from a week of rain, the paint flashed brilliantly, a smooth red color. As he was removing the plastic bucket full of sponges and the chamois from the shelf, he whirled around to see Homer, who stood staring blankly at him.

"What do you want?" Chuck said irritably.

"I come to see ya." Homer answered. He was holding the page torn from the catalogue crumpled in his left hand.

"I don't have time." Chuck said firmly.

"But ...I been wantin' to ask you about the bike." Homer held out the paper.

"Don't know anything about bicycles." Chuck said. He suddenly felt trapped in the garage.

"It's a dirt bike. With knobby tires and high-rise handlebars!" Homer said loudly, grinning. "When I learn to ride it, I'll do tricks for ya!"

"Sure. Say, I'm really kinda busy, so I'll see you around." Chuck forced himself to step by the kid and walk toward the Chevy.

"I been dreamin' about a bike like this for a long time."

Chuck glanced over his shoulder and blurted, "Well, keep dreaming, kid."

"Yep, I will. And you know what else I've been dreaming about? Them car chases on TV!" Homer said excitedly. "I like it when they crash into each other and explode!"

Homer looked at the red Chevy, then at Chuck.

END

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