Dope Penmanship

The first time I went to visit Yuri (not her real name), I was greeted with a kiss on the cheek at the door. She grabbed me and hugged me and said, “Thank you. I’m so proud of you!” in thick Bangladesh.

“Come in, come in.”

I smiled and stepped further into the apartment, indeed pleased with my initiative, yet thinking at the same time, that’s a weird thing to say. Standing in the middle of the living room, I surveyed the area as Yuri apologized for the mess.

Her place wasn’t messy. At least not more than the average apartment unprepared for visitors. I had come unannounced, as I didn’t know her number, only her apartment unit. I noticed there was no television in the living area. The walls were off-white and void of art. Furniture, spare. The color theme, bronze and beige. The home looked lived in. Cozy isn’t the word. Dingy, neither. Somewhere in between.

I held up a bag of Lindor truffles that I’d picked up on the way home as an offering.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You didn’t have to! You don’t have to bring anything when you come here. Just yourself. Yourself is enough.”

“Okay, well, I wanted to bring something.”

I took a few chocolate wrappers out the bag and left it on her counter. In exchange she handed me a banana, which I politely accepted.

“My mom is here,” she said,” ushering me to the bedroom to say hello and apologizing again for the mess to which I insisted, “It’s okay. Really. I’m messy too.”

I’m not.

She introduced me to her mom, who was sitting on Yuri’s bed wearing a pastel colored sari. When Yuri and I returned to the living room, I sat on a sofa that seemed lower than most, and Yuri sat beside me still smiling.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said again.

I knew this was all weird. Entering a stranger’s home in your apartment building just to say hi. Well, for no reason at all. This was abnormal. A language barrier prevented any complex dialogue. The basic things, though, we understood and we empathized and I knew all she really wanted was someone in the building to talk to.

I asked her if she went to work that day. She didn’t work. She received alimony from her husband, whom she recently divorced. The 11 years she mentioned when we first spoke was actually how long they’d been living together in the apartment, not the length of time they’d been divorced as I initially thought.

I would learn more about him and about them the next time I came to visit her.

I told Yuri I had just come from work and just wanted to say hi. Our exchanges were brief and trivial and we talked mostly about her, everything she said lightly coated with depression. A sigh between phrases. A sudden frown. She was lonely. I could tell she didn’t quite comprehend everything I said. She got the gist.

I stayed for about 15 minutes before leaving, banana in hand. Again on my way out she grabbed and pinched my cheek.

“I’m so proud of you for coming!”

“Me too…”

I was sure she didn’t realize what that meant. Or maybe she did. I did hope she realized she wasn’t the only one that needed someone.

Lucid dream: A dream in which the sleeper is aware that he/she is dreaming. When the dreamer is lucid, they can actively participate in and often manipulate the imaginary experiences in the dream environment.

The Lucid Dreamer: Part I

She awoke with a stir. Pent up and in, where she was, she could not see the faces she desired. Through the glass window she peered, head tilted clockwise at vacant faces, and then examined her sea green gown open in the back and foreign to her. She arose from the bed, feet finding a cold, damp, unfamiliar, unhomely floor that felt disinviting. Where the hell am I? The white-coated male and female stared through the glass, empty faces turning more concrete – They were old. And White. And in white gowns, holding clipboards. Examining. She tiptoed toward the glass, approaching her reflection, witnessing her tousled mess of a thing called hair, almost reaching up to make it somewhat presentable, but then, presentable to whom? Where the hell am I?
“Your session is complete, January.”
She awoke and fumbled about the air, with skinny arms, aimlessly. Blurry eyes became focused. She rubbed them and groaned, her mouth dry.
“Wha…”
“I said your session is complete, January.”
“Oh. Okay. That was…” she trailed off, “Different. Not what I signed up for.”
“Well, as I said, it takes time to control where your mind takes you. After two weeks or so, the reality in your head will begin to take shape.”
Jan sighed. “That’s what I’m hoping. Thanks, Lynn. See you next week.”

He was gorgeous. Standing in a huge, huge room she hoped to call home, he resembled one of those giant chocolate rabbits that abound around Easter. He was showing her this place, spoke in a deep voice.
“Well. This is New York City. I know you were looking for something, uh, bigger, but well this is what you get,” he joked. Her mouth was agape.
“Are you kidding? This is huge. I’ll take it. Tell me what you need?”
“I’ll get the papers for you.”
He rummaged through his briefcase as she pulled out her checkbook.
“Your session is complete, January.”
“S-sorry, how much do you need?”
He looked at her, quizzically. “You alright?”
“Are you alright, January? Your session is complete.”
Her torso popped up from on the couch, forehead sweaty, Black wavy hair pulled back.
“Y-yeah. That went well. How long before I can stay longer?”
“The more you do it, the more you’ll be able to control where your mind takes you and for how long. You’ll be in complete control.”
Her voice soothed.
Jan recounted in rapid excitement. “I was about to buy this huge penthouse in New York all these windows and the skylight, and the broker—”
“Broker” escaped as a sigh.
Lynn smiled from behind her desk, oak. From behind black frames. “Good.”
“Thanks Lynn.”
Her feet left the couch. She paid Lynn for the service, left for home.

She hated this place, its peeling wallpaper, skittering mice, leaky faucets, soiled ceilings, noisy neighbors, creaky floorboards, screeching babies, idiot landlord, hood boys, dope boys, silly-heeled city girls, cold showers, rusty pipes, dusty corners, hallway dealings late at night, screaming and shouting and no one and nothing, a place not worthy of belonging. So… when she found that money, that rubber-banded wad of money in the hallway, it was the out she needed. She wanted in. It was hers. This is mine.

Weeks passed. The reality in her mind had begun to take shape, and dreams desired manifested for greater lengths of time, the length of time that would lead to true contentment. She wasn’t, for a few bits of time, living in that place with no one, no family, a dead-end job. The lucid dreams made her someone else. She was in control. Lynn helped her do that and all it took was a phone call to a number, written in red marker, on a cardboard box, in an alley, where she wasn’t supposed to be, but somehow ended up, and all it took was that wad of money.
Today was the day mom finally called. She never did.
“Your father’s clean.”
“No, he isn’t. He never is.”
“Jan, he is… Come see us.”
She ended the call, and, yeah, finally, he was when she went home tomorrow, clean. She and the broker, Jaleel, were growing close in this building of a life desired, the reality in her mind. He loved her and she loved him. Until tomorrow.