“It happened again last night.”
Raff yawns, and takes a sip of coffee. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I know what you’re thinking but spare me the lecture.”
He complies but arches an eyebrow—the non-verbal equivalent of ‘Duh!’ I ignore it and stare wistfully at the turning leaves outside that remind me of precious parts of my dream.
He’s right though—I should have asked Lucinda out a year ago when I had to leave my teaching assistantship for a lecturer’s position at Victoria College. But I am not going to defend that again.
He tries a new tack.
“I’m trying to help you, David, not enable you. You know this situation with Lucinda is futile—especially since you refuse to do anything to resolve it.”
“What can I do, Raff—phone her up and tell her I love her?”
He shakes his head sadly. “Don’t go simple on me, Pal. Why not just drop by Sweetwater’s Friday night and touch base with the old gang?”
“I don’t know,” I hedge, “it makes me feel needy.”
“You are needy,” he laughs.
We go silent and I can see he’s brooding about my situation. I watch his face darken.
“C’mon David, how pathetic can you get—dreaming about a girl and hoping Fate will somehow bring you together?”
“It’s a harmless diversion—and it makes me happy and helps me sleep.”
“Yeah, well counting sheep does that too, but it also doesn’t fill you with longing.”
He crumples his paper coffee cup and stares at me sadly. “I worry about you, Man—I can’t see how pining after Lucinda, or any beautiful woman, for that matter, is going to enhance your life. If anything, it plays into your passivity.”
I nod. “I get it, Raff, but I’m stuck. I can’t let her go, and can’t move forward. It’s hopeless.”
He sighs, giving me a slow, piteous head shake. “Next, you’ll be into lucid dreaming.”
“Hey, I’m into that now.”
“Not Lucinda dreaming,” he laughs, “I’m talking about lucid dreaming—you know where you can actually control the direction of your dreams?”
My eyes widen at the prospect. “I never heard of that. Is it real—does it work?”
“Oh boy, I should never have mentioned it, but now I better tell you rather than have you Google it and be influenced by all the drivel on the Internet.”
“What kind of drivel?”
The corners of Raff’s mouth turn down. “Oh, there’s all sorts of scams—people trying to sell books that purportedly guide people on dream adventures. It’s a bunch of nonsense.”
“But what’s the theory behind it? You teach Psychology, Raff—you understand these things.”
“Look, it’s just a bunch of silly nonsense about your frontal lobe waking up and allowing you to have all kinds of mystical adventures. People like to think they can fly or go back in time and meet famous people from the past—but of course they can’t. It’s simply a form of escapism.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I grumble.
“Look, forget about mysticism—just think about Sweetwater’s—drop by Friday and toss your hat in the ring,” he grins encouragingly.
It’d be more like tossing my own heart before me, I muse inwardly, but outwardly smile back.
“I’m ready to try anything,” I reassure him.
“I know,” he frowns, “That’s what concerns me.”
That night I lie awake in bed watching the Moon through my window.
How many nights have I spent alone staring at lunar craters, my thoughts wandering the shores of lava seas?
It’s pathetic the way I’ve romanticized grief and loneliness. I need a life.
I turn over and stare at the red digits of the clock luridly proclaiming one a.m.
Raff’s right—I need to stop being passive and start doing something—but dropping by Sweetwater’s—How do I work up the courage to do that?
I get out of bed and flip open my laptop and do the very thing Raff warned against—I Google lucid dreaming.
A Wikipedia entry convinces me the phenomenon is legitimate and a cursory look at related entries tells me the quackery element associated with it is probably the result of marketers trying to merchandise the experience.
For the next three hours I read everything I can on how to control my dreams—everything from training my subconscious to keeping a dream journal, but I’m still not satisfied. It appears to entail a protracted process.
I don’t want to invest a whole lot of time, but when I try to project ahead and visualize an end game, it seems dismal.
I cringe at the thought of months wasted experimenting with something that could turn out to be a bust.
Just as I’m verging on despair, I come across an advertisement for a smartphone app that uses the sensor in the phone to track sleep cycles and gives an alert when someone’s lucid dreaming.
It looks promising. Besides, it’s 4 a.m. and I’m desperate.
I read further and discover I can get the app free on Google Play.
How can I lose?
I go ahead and download the app, but by the time I do, I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.
I’ll have to learn all I can about the app tomorrow during my free time at work.
For now, my eyes are closing. I fall into bed and instantly fall asleep.
Ironically, I dream of Lucinda—her red hair, brown eyes and soft voice.
I awaken in the morning feeling tired, but strangely happy. For once I have hope something might actually work and change my life for the better.
In my unscheduled time during the morning I learn how to use the app and program it to my individual needs.
I choose a notification sound similar to the Droplets tone on my i-phone to let me know when I’m entering a lucid dreaming state. It’s appropriate because I have a recurring dream of sheltering with Lucinda and comforting her during a lightning storm. I’m beginning to feel really hopeful.
At lunch, Raff notices my upbeat mood.
“So, are you planning to take my advice about Lucinda and be more proactive?”
“Definitely,” I mumble between bites of my Swiss cheese sandwich. “I intend to put an end to passivity.”
His eyes shine with joy. “You won’t regret this, my friend.”
He’s right—I won’t regret it, but only wish I could be more forthcoming about my actual plan. But Raff would see it as New Age mysticism and more of an avoidance than a way of approaching Lucinda.
And maybe he’d be right, but it’s all I’ve got. And it better work because I’ve nothing else left.
That evening, I unwind with a glass of Shiraz while listening to Jazz Noir and later, luxuriate in a warm bath. I’m doing everything I know to relax and prepare for a pleasant night of sleep.
Just after midnight I turn out the lights, and as usual, the last thing I see before I fall asleep is Lucinda’s face.
At first, I sleep lightly, and occasionally awake to see the familiar moon face peering in the window—but gradually I fall into a deep sleep.
Sometime during the night, I experience my recurring dream. Lucinda and I meet on a rainy downtown street. We shelter beneath a store awning, but this time I deliberately try to speak and steer the conversation.
“It’s odd,” I tell her, “this is a place I never come except in dreams.”
“Why do you think that is?” Droplets are sparkling in her hair and she looks up at me with huge brown eyes.
“I suppose it’s because I know I’ll find you here.”
“And do you—does it happen every time?”
“It does,” I smile.
“But why me—why do you come looking for me?”
I allow myself to be carried along by the dream, like a stick floating down a stream.
“I look for you because I love you, Lucinda. I always have—right from the beginning, from the first time we met.”
She’s quiet, reflecting on what I’ve said.
“But you never told me that—or gave any indication of how you felt. The way you left…I thought you didn’t care.”
“I just find it very difficult to express emotions—afraid of rejection, I guess.”
She nods. “I can understand that feeling—I’m deathly afraid of storms but always force myself to walk in the rain because I love the solitude.”
“So do I.”
She laughs in embarrassment, “…but then I end up cowering in a corner when the thunder begins.”
“I guess we all have corners inside us where fear and shadows collect.”
“That’s very poetic, David.” She furrows her brow and studies me as if trying to figure me out. “Maybe that’s why you struggle. You have a sensitive soul.”
“A lot of good it’s done me,” I frown.
She touches my arm. “Don’t say that—sensitivity is a gift. It gives you depth.”
“You think I’m deep?” I croak in disbelief.
“It’s why I love you,” she whispers.
I attempt to embrace her but she dissolves into a million tiny pixels.
The Droplet sound tone brings me back to the bedroom. I groan and tap STOP, but want the experience to go on.
I can still smell the acrid scent of dust and rain—and feel the brush of wet droplets on my cheek and her hand pressing upon my arm.
I groan again. I can’t bear the thought of another day without her. My i-phone display reminds me it’s Friday, and I console myself with the prospect of seeing her at Sweetwater’s tonight.
As Fate would have it, it’s a busy Friday with a Jay’s game and no parking available for blocks around.
I park at a municipal lot near the subway and ride two stops back to the pub.
By the time I arrive the place is in full swing and not a seat in the house. My heart sinks as I scan the room looking for the old gang, but they’re nowhere to be found.
Disappointed, I’m preparing myself for a sad subway ride back to my car when I hear a familiar voice.
“David—you finally made it out to one of our gatherings!”
I turn and look into Lucinda’s lovely face.
My arms instinctively want to reach out and embrace her but I suppress the urge.
“I couldn’t see you guys anywhere,” I mutter lamely.
“We have a table in an alcove at the back—and there’s room for one more.” Her eyes sparkle and I feel myself melting inside.
“C’mon,” she laughs and grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd—it’s the same hand that patted my arm—the same voice that whispered her love.
Everyone seems genuinely happy to see me and for a while I’m making the rounds renewing old acquaintances. Once or twice Lucinda’s eyes catch mine, and she smiles encouragingly.
Finally, we find an opportunity to talk and we end up closing the place—actually the waiters begin stacking chairs on tables as a not-too-subtle hint that it’s past closing time.
We go outside and a waiter locks the door behind us. And as we stand under the awning, we realize it’s raining.
“Oh great! I didn’t bring my car,” Lucinda moans, “I took the subway because it was game night.”
“No prob,” I smile, “I’ll give you a lift home.” Then, it hits me. “Damn! I took the subway too. My car is parked in a subway parking lot blocks away.”
“Why don’t we just wait until the rain ends and walk to the subway?” she suggests.
“Sounds like a plan,” I concede, “but if I see a taxi, I’m getting you out of this rain.”
Her eyes are shining. “I don’t mind—we’ll have more time to talk—with no one stacking tables around us.”
Just then, an ominous peal of thunder rolls overhead.
“Oh great! I better phone a cab on my cell—I know how storms make you nervous.”
Her eyes grow wide in amazement. “How do you know that?”
I color instantly. “I don’t know—maybe someone mentioned it to me once.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve never told anyone—not even my closest friends. The fact is, I was very fearful as a child but forced myself to face all my fears—except this one. It’s embarrassing to say but once a storm begins I feel like a lost little girl again.”
I look at her pale, frightened face.
“I can’t get a cell signal—do you have a phone?”
She shakes her head.
Lightning flares and illumines the street.
“Oh!” she cries, and shrinks back into a corner. Instinctively, I put my arms around her as she presses her face into my shoulder.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, “You’re safe with me.”
We stand there, under the awning, pressed back into a corner, sheltered from rain while the storm rages around us.
After a while, she stops trembling but continues to cling tightly, as I shelter her with my body, whispering reassurances in her ear.
A horn beeps softly and I glance out into the shimmering street to see a cab stopped by the curb.
The side window rolls down and the cabbie calls out, “You folks okay—You need a ride?”
Before I can reply, Lucinda calls out. “Thanks, but we’re good.”
The cabbie nods, rolls up the window and drives off into the shining night.
I stare down into Lucinda’s upturned face, and fall right into her huge brown eyes. I’m kissing her.
This time, she doesn’t dissolve into a million pixels.
This time, the dream doesn’t end.
