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References

The lights flickered for a moment then flushed into a florescent whiteness around the cafe. Big Nel, the café's owner, always used to let me in early when it was still grey and dismal. She was very strict about opening at exactly seven o'clock. She just sits there and reads her newspaper, drinking her coffee, and mumbling from her Adam’s apple. Many bore witness to her freak Adam's apple.

I think she used to let me in because I was a cute teenager back then, which doesn't apply today.

I drank my coffee and watched the street lights. Sometimes people would intrude into the light's domain, catching my eyes. It was relaxing. Ben was always a bit late while I was always a bit early. I wondered which car he would drive up in.

Almost soon enough to be a response, Ben's unmistakable white Le Baron rounded a corner and pulled into the café's limited-capacity parking lot. I waved. He gestured, smiled, and opened the door to his car. I remember that car.

When he entered, the bells made a sound. Big Nel looked over. "Can I help you?" she said in a voice that had been smoked out of her throat years before.

He ordered a vanilla cappuccino and walked over to my booth. He said hi before sitting.

"Sorry for disturbing you at work yesterday," I said.

"It’s OK. How have you been?"

"Oh, not all bad. I haven’t heard much about your job lately. Is your training almost complete?"

"Near so. Only a few more cities to visit." Nel brought the cappuccino with a long, slender spoon resting in it. She even had napkins commissioned from some company. They read Big Nel’s Cafe and Diner, which is funny, since I can't remember which I used to consider it.

"So what compelled you to meet me here?" I asked. "It's Saturday. You should be resting."

"I forget; do you interpret dreams?"

"That depends on the dream. I've tried but I haven’t had much success at it."

"I've had this recurring dream."

"Explain."

"It always starts in one of those classic, mystery corridors with red carpet. Where light hits the walls or the floor, I can see shadows or people. Sometimes they look like silhouettes. I’ll travel down the hall a bit, seeking to discover the people at the light's source. I can't even find the light. I have the feeling of interacting with these people. Do you believe that souls congregate in dreams?"

"No," I shook my head. "I've never heard of such a thing either. I've heard of souls exerting influence, but not congregating. I don't think it's another plane of existence."

"Well that's how the dream always starts. The placing of lights and shadows might change, but it remains, by-and-large, the same. I proceed down the corridor further and usually come to a cart, such as a maid would use to hold towels and such. However, in this particular dream I saw a small table with nothing on it but a mirror. The mirror is broken so I don't pick it up. The dream always ends with me kind of levitating down a stairwell."

Ben takes a sip of his coffee while I ponder. "Well," I start. "I've always believed recurring dreams to be a place that is familiar. Uh, kind of like an allegory to your life. Not necessarily your life. Perhaps your mentality. I'm not sure at this point, but I'd be willing to bet that only the alterations in your dreams are what is significant. In this case, the mirror. Why not pick it up?"

"It was broken."

"I had a computer role-playing game once. They told me (the manual, that is) that a good strategy was to pick up anything not nailed down. I accepted that as a universal statement to life."

Ben pondered silently. He was slurping his cappuccino.

I cocked my head in curiosity. "Sometimes you're at a juncture in life where all you can do is perceive the shadows of people. I guess the question you could pose would be: should you care about what the mirror would’ve shown you? That is my impression, at least."

"Hmm," he said. He gave me a resigned half-smile that said he was not quite satisfied with my interpretation.

I shrugged and smiled back.

"I imagine I'll be back there again."

"It’s familiar like I said." And I shrugged.

Moments passed and my drink was refilled by the mistress herself. She brought a new mug for Ben.

"This place sure conjures up memories doesn't it?" he asked. It sounded more like a nostalgic statement.

I smiled at this. "I'm envisioning a story. It will be beautiful. It might even avoid the red felt pen of my editors." I made a sweeping motion in the air, "I can see it now."

"Go on." He stirred his cappuccino, making a metallic clamor.

"When I first talk to people I'm very sagely and dominating. I don't know why. Then as that tenuous illusion is wiped away like fog on a windshield, my true self is revealed, and although they usually don't notice the difference, I just lose interest. You're a lucky one." I’m guessing my eyes looked distant, because he gave me one of those looks that seems intended to jerk me back into reality. "I suppose this entire place is lucky."

"So you'll write about the progressions in your relationships?"

"Yea. The various phases of my address book."

"I know what you mean." He leaned back into the embrace of the booth. "It's a dynamic book. As far as inanimate objects go."

"I keep getting people telling me that everything I do is an expression of myself. It's easier to think of them as primates. But that concept only lasts so long."

"I don't know." He leaned forward. "When I write music, I do it as a refuge. Sometimes it expresses what I feel, but only by some strange miracle."

I smiled. Ben could always make me feel normal. "Take this cappuccino for instance. You hold it, you stir it and pay it little attention. By what they're saying, I could turn this vanilla-flavored cappuccino into an incarnation of my soul. By what I'm saying, it would be an escape."

"Sounds like one of my songs," Ben stated.

"Have I heard this one?"

"Yea. You commented that it . . . Let's see if I can quote you exactly. You said it bore a striking resemblance to the readings in a Pagan ritual at Samhain. A hybrid between Christian radio and Pink Floyd."

"You remembered all that?"

"Of course." He made a deliberate effort to look like a savant.

I laughed and he chuckled. I can't remember what he looks like in an authentic laugh. Someday I should provide actual documentation of his laugh--just for personal reference.

"It's true," he began. "Our relationship has taken on a different shape. Like you said: I'm lucky."

"Remember what I said a long time ago? That I was getting in the way of your destiny and perhaps my own? I was dead on, wasn't I?"

"Dead on. Erin is truly my destiny." He flicked his cappuccino's mug, making a porcelain sound. "She proposed to me. I accepted."

"That’s wonderful, Ben." I nodded, simply reaffirming that I meant it.

"What about you and Danielle? You never mention her anymore in your mails."

"Seven months and rapidly approaching eight."

"Going to marry her?" He grinned.

"I proposed. She accepted. Nothing is finalized." I sounded indifferent.

"I can see past you," he smirked. "I know the load of philosophical garbage you like you dump on a relationship."

"Don’t get the wrong impression. I really want this. I just don't want us to be contingent upon the commitment alone."

"Just don't let that make you apathetic."

"I'll try. And I do really want it."

"I know."

"Look at the two of us, Ben. Both of us having found our other half. And we're content being that way."

He nodded. Both of us were absent for a moment.

"I still make reference to you, you know," I said. "Ben used to say . . . Ben composed something similar . . . Ben had this car . . ." I must've looked distant again. "When people ask, I say he was my best friend. Gay, in fact, and 29."

Big Nel came by again with another steaming mug of cappuccino.

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