4

The man on the phone said he was the minister at the Church of Faith here in Dreamwood, the church mother had infrequently attended when she was still alive. He said he  heard about mother’s passing and wanted to check up on me. I’m a 27-year-old man– I don’t need checking up on. That’s not what I said, of course.

I told him the truth. “I’m getting along just fine. A little lonely, but fine.” The minister was cordial, obviously devout, but kind. He said there were some of mother’s items left at the church that I was welcome to retrieve, including her hand-bells and bible. He said I could come by any day after 6 pm. He hung up the phone and I made a plan to head down to the Church of Faith later that evening. It was about 4 pm.

Grabbing the raincoat and some extra layers, I headed out to Frank’s Books to grab a few quick books. On the list were Fodor’s Turkey Travel Guide (Turkey was next on mother’s list) and Being Mortal. As I walked over, the early evening felt uncharacteristically dark, and the air was still.

I sat in Frank’s for a while, quickly becoming engrossed in the book about Turkey. The book explained The Temple of Artemis and the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus. It explored the intricacy and antiqueness of the ancient world. Everything was magical and otherworldly. It is hard to believe that such wonders were crafted before electricity and machines and modern-day conveniences.

I was snapped out of my trance when a man tapped me and said it was closing time. It was 7 pm.

I purchased the books and hustled out into the cold night. On a brisk walk, I made it to the Church of Faith in no time. But what was awaiting me was not a kind minister with a bag of mother’s things. Rather, it was some sort of cult gathering around a bonfire– or so it looked.

Nearing the ring of people, their singing became louder and clearer. Church songs. The people were taking part in a religious revival. Now this was some good entertainment. A few minutes later, a guy walked by the whole thing, looking just as bewildered as I’m sure I did. I motioned for him to come next to me– I had the best view.

“Does this happen all the time?” I asked him.

“I have no idea. I thought people like this lived in the country, not in the middle of Dreamwood,” he responded. We continued to watch the singing and dancing, both completely stunned and taken aback. He said a few more things, but I couldn’t catch any of them. I was too dazed and enthralled to comprehend anything.

I felt myself moving forward towards the center of the group. I don’t remember intentionally approaching the circle, but somehow I did. I don’t remember what happened next, but I woke up on the couch of the KWHR local radio station the next morning.

3- apt. 415 in Dreamwood Terrace

The ground looked like a big marshmallow, or an opaquely cloudy sky, or a pile of feather pillows, kind of like those mother was deathly allergic to. Her feather allergy was never a problem, except when she travelled, which she did all the time. When she traveled, she stayed in the nicest hotels in the area, but was never able to enjoy the soft, luxurious pillows.

Mother was rich and she was curious about the world, a combination that is very conducive to a satisfying life. She was rich because her husband, my father, was a crook. I haven't seen him in quite a while, though. 

Anyway, mother’s curiosity had no bounds. She visited every city, village, and rain forest that she wanted during her life. She learned how to bird watch on a safari in the sub-Saharan Africa and watched the New Year strike in Beijing. Mother took a Venetian riverboat cruise, and she enjoyed watching wanna-be Beatles bands play in throughout Great Britain. But seven months ago, she suffered a stroke and died in her sleep. In her will, she left me her money, her raincoat, and her remaining “to see” destinations. The next trip she had planned was to Tibet, so that’s where I went.  

In the wake of her death, I have felt very little sadness. As a monk, reflection devoured my time, and there wasn’t a moment for wallowing in sadness. Since coming home, things haven't felt normal, but they haven't felt tremendously sad, either. Today, seeing the ground covered in a thick blanket of snow reminded me of mother, which, to be frank, I would rather avoid.

Around 6 o’clock, I donned the raincoat and headed out for dinner at Sunnyside Up Diner. Walking in was a bit like walking into a hairdryer blowing hot air at full blast, but it was a welcomed surge of warmth.  The diner was full, and I would have left, but at this point, I was almost halfway to my ham and spinach omelet. I situated myself at the bar and looked around at the customers packed into the booths like sardines. Sardines on speed-dates. Not interested!

After a few moments of people-watching, a man sat next to me. He was skinny, very happy, and ravenous, apparently.  He started to ramble on about wanting fried chicken, his lack of girlfriends, rumors of apartment searches, and something about a hot box.

“You ever hot-boxed?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

He told me I seemed like the “chill” type. What does that even mean?

“Thanks.”

The man’s talking only seemed to put him in a better mood, so I let him go on. Once again, my time in Tibet was proving worth it what with my overt kindness and good virtue.

“I’m Legs,” he said. I told him my name.

“Like the chocolate factory?”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Do you have any chocolate?"

My three-egg omelet with ham and spinach arrived and I started in, hoping maybe the man would continue to talk to me. He was giving me a good laugh. “Why do they call you Legs?” I asked. As he started explaining, he also began eyeing and poking my food, which I slowly began pushing away from him. My patience for this man, who I quickly realized was as high as a kite, began to wane.

But his story, the one where he explained why he is called Legs, was well worth my time and the large portion of omelet eaten from my plate.

2

I was falling from the sky a hundred billion miles per hour, bracing myself for the fatal impact, and jolting awake. The clock said 4:39 am.

It was just a dream.

It was a plane crash.

You know who gets in plane crashes? Rich people. 

I fumbled around on the floor next to my bed, rifling through piles of magazines and legal documents and unidentifiable foodstuffs, trying to find the switch to turn on my lamp and my book The Catcher and the Rye. That’ll put me right to sleep.

At 8:39, the lamp was still glowing a dull, fiery yellow and my book was strewn out on my chest like the unreadable book it is. I got out of bed and drew back the curtains, peering out the window down Main Street where everyone else was going about their normal morning routine. 

Nothing feels normal yet. But maybe I should give normal a shot.

My bedroom was a mess, so I thought I would start there by making my room back to normal. I stripped my bed and gathered my dirty laundry into a big trash bag for easier transport. I grabbed 10 quarters and threw on my raincoat, just in case, and headed to the Laundromat.

It was warm outside as I people-watched and walked to the Laundromat. My mother, who had been an avid bird-watcher until she had seen all the birds she cared to see and became a people-watcher instead. The great thing about people watching is that it’s fiction. It’s not real, or, at the very least, it’s not my reality. People-watching has all the drama of a soap, and it’s happening with real-life characters. The great thing about fiction like that is it’s not my own life.

I got to the Laundromat in record slow time and found washer towards the back. I got it going and watched as my clothes and sheets got covered in soapy water. I watched them spin around and take on new forms and converge and cleanse themselves of grime. Sort of like monks, really.

There was a clamor. The man with crazy eyes had spilled the laundry detergent all over the floor at the machine to my left. People.

He looked panicked and not too able physically, so I decided to help him. The months spent as a monk were really showing in my overt generosity. Up close, the man looked verifiably insane. Big, alert-looking eyes and a bit of a head twitch. His eyes were clear but he was busy inside. I hope people don’t think I look like that too. “I’m Charlie.” Visibly shaken by something other than his spilled detergent, he responded, “God bless you for helping me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Having done enough to clean the pool of clear, fragrant liquid off the floor of the already-disgusting Laundromat, I stood up, and from the ground, he gave me a kind of pleading look, so I lent my arm and helped him up. “It’s Yesu,” he said. “Excuse me?” It was then that I noticed a wooden rosary about to fall out of his pocket. A Christian. That explains the crazy. “My name,” he clarified, “is Yesu.” What kind of a name is that?  

As I walked back to Dreamwood Terrace, droplets of normalcy began to return.
 …411, 412, 413, 414, 415 – I was back to my apartment. I took off my raincoat and hung it on one of the 5 hooks to the right of the door. Normalcy, the ghost of the not-so-distant past, was creeping back in. I put my laundry away and headed to the kitchen to watch the local news. The newscaster said there was a meteor shower last night. Mom would have loved to watch.