As he grappled with gravity and aching old joints that creaked and popped, pushing himself from the ground to his feet, Oscar could remember nothing of the night's dream or his long, meandering journey back to the graveyard. Nevertheless, he felt that the two were irrevocably linked. Something, after all, must have caused him to get up from his bed, stumble his way to the front door, and slog well over a mile in the dark across partially tedious terrain, something that should have jostled and shook him fiercely and made him more likely to collapse than continue on his merry, sleepwalking way. The dream was where the significance was to be found, he assured himself--not in some cosmic force that compelled him to this place, forcing him to wake at his dead wife's side. He must've dreamed of Madeleine, he decided. That was what drew him to this place once again. But his actual dream was something far more bizarre.
That night before, when his head first came to rest against a firm pillow, there was nothing. He lay still, consumed by the darkness around him. There was no rapid eye movement, no snore and tagalong whistle. At that point, he was treading the fine line between sleep and death, standing at the very edge that would determine whether or not his physical body would regain consciousness in the morning. Then there came a sudden flash in his unconscious mind, a spark in the darkness, and he awoke in his bed, refreshed, invigorated.
He threw the covers aside and leapt from his bed, blindly navigating the often-tred paths of his house with a certain newly acquired clumsiness, as if he'd never felt the carpet beneath his feet or sidestepped the coffee table that floated in front of the sofa. He blundered and careened throughout the house in the unnatural darkness for the sole reason of a sudden inability to recall where the light switches were located. Before long, he found the door and bounded across the threshold onto the front stoop, where the low light of a street lamp lay in patient wait to illuminate something new, and so it found young Oscar Bruges.
He stretched his lean muscles, still sore as if freshly gained, and set out into the night, knowing that just because the world had gone dark did not mean everything was sleeping. He aimed to find some of his usual haunts, to see if any old chums or enemies loitered in the downtown streets and all-night diners. By the time he escaped into another neighborhood, he wished he'd remembered to put on shoes, or change out of the ridiculously baggy clothing that sent shivers up his legs every time the cool wind rushed, or grabbed his wallet to pay for a late night snack (a soda, if the shop was still open; if not, a plate of eggs and a coffee from the diner on 1st), but he could no longer place which house he'd just left. In fact, nothing about this area felt familiar. He wondered: had he been staying with a friend? That would surely account for the feeling of treading on foreign soil.
Never mind that, he though to himself. He could ponder it further with a full stomach. The blonde from the next town over, the one who was working at the diner to pay off her college tuition, surely she'd be working tonight. He'd always found her particularly vulnerable to his charms, and he could probably convince her to slip him some toast and a coffee or two with a wink and a grin. He may not have had the physique of the boys who went out for sports and won the hearts of the swaying, exhaling girls in the stands, but he certainly had a way with words. Poetry and athleticism, he had learned, were the two biggest culprits of broken hearts.
That's not to say that Oscar was a constant ladies' man. He was content with his Madeleine, after all. It didn't take him long to realize he was smitten. After their first conversation, he knew. She didn't look like the girls he normally chased. She was taller, for instance, and thinner. She looked the way proper ladies ought to look, but it was the way she spoke that attracted him, cementing her forever in his heart and mind. She was incredibly sarcastic, with an acerbic wit that most boys her age found standoffish and strange. But where others saw coal, Oscar saw a diamond. She was his ideal woman. She was exactly like him.
He stalked down the dark, bare streets, himself a shadow on the sidewalk, against the sides of the buildings he passed. Something felt off. Something he couldn't quite place. It was as if the world around him was somehow wrong. It was the same town he knew, all right--the place where he was born, where he grew up, where he never intended to leave. The street signs were all the same, as were most of the stores, but he couldn't remember the lights being this bright. The streets had always been so dimly lit, barely giving off enough to see the portion of the sidewalk just ahead, but now, it was as if he could see everything. But all he could discern was a vacant husk--this darkened shell, like a shed skin. It was the shape of the place he knew and loved, but there was no substance within it.
The few cars parked along the side of the streets were odd, sleeker than they should have been and void of the proper markings. It didn't sit well with him. Nor did the site of the soda shop, seemingly replaced by an all-night launderette, from which he could hear the clattery spinning of coin-operated dryers, rattling with zippers and loose change.
Is this the right place? he wondered. Have I taken a wrong turn?
No, after retracing his steps, he was sure this was where the shop should have been. It was there last night, at least. He recalled meeting Maddy there just before eight. They split a soda. Vanilla. It was always her favorite.
Two blocks away, the all-night diner was still there, yet it was wrong. The interior, he observed through the wide front window, had been completely redone, and he recognized none of the staff. The blonde from the next town definitely wasn't there. Strange music bled through the door, and the realization that struck Oscar at that very moment was unsettling on a deep, personal level.
This was not his place. He did not belong here.
He raced through the streets, his feet already blackened by the dirt of the sidewalk, with only one thing on his mind: Maddy. He had to find Maddy. Maybe she'd found herself here, too, lost in some strange world. Thoughts began seeping into his brain like water filtering through a sponge. She wouldn't be home, he understood. There was no use looking for her there. She was somewhere else, a place he would've never thought to look.
So young Oscar Bruges began a sullen promenade across town, venturing through the park and over the rolling hills to the one place he knew Madeleine could be found. The cemetery grass was soft, like a salve for his battered soles. He found the grave quickly, as if he'd been there before, and wished that he had brought flowers to lay against the headstone. Then he began to weep, collapsing to the ground--first hitting his knees, then his shoulders, then his head, until he had become just another mound, a rejected plot of earth that bulged over the surface. He fell asleep there on the grass.
So when Oscar Bruges awoke again that morning, plainly accepting that he was an aged man not fit for roaming across town at night, he would remember nothing of the night before. Not a single dream, if a dream it was. He smiled at his wife's grave and wished her a good morning, and then he clambered to his feet and set about the long journey home, never knowing that perhaps for a brief night, he had known how it felt to be young again, that somewhere there was another Oscar Bruges, just now settling into the patterns of life and yearning to become something great.
Sixty years earlier, he almost certainly awoke one morning, the bare threads of a strange dream still pulling against his mind. He dreamed of a place where he didn't belong--a place with dark, labyrinthine streets punctuated by ill lighting--and of Maddy. It felt important, as if it was something more than just a product of his unconscious mind, and then it was gone. There was no warning. There never is one for dreams. They simply slip away, forgotten.
That night before, when his head first came to rest against a firm pillow, there was nothing. He lay still, consumed by the darkness around him. There was no rapid eye movement, no snore and tagalong whistle. At that point, he was treading the fine line between sleep and death, standing at the very edge that would determine whether or not his physical body would regain consciousness in the morning. Then there came a sudden flash in his unconscious mind, a spark in the darkness, and he awoke in his bed, refreshed, invigorated.
He threw the covers aside and leapt from his bed, blindly navigating the often-tred paths of his house with a certain newly acquired clumsiness, as if he'd never felt the carpet beneath his feet or sidestepped the coffee table that floated in front of the sofa. He blundered and careened throughout the house in the unnatural darkness for the sole reason of a sudden inability to recall where the light switches were located. Before long, he found the door and bounded across the threshold onto the front stoop, where the low light of a street lamp lay in patient wait to illuminate something new, and so it found young Oscar Bruges.
He stretched his lean muscles, still sore as if freshly gained, and set out into the night, knowing that just because the world had gone dark did not mean everything was sleeping. He aimed to find some of his usual haunts, to see if any old chums or enemies loitered in the downtown streets and all-night diners. By the time he escaped into another neighborhood, he wished he'd remembered to put on shoes, or change out of the ridiculously baggy clothing that sent shivers up his legs every time the cool wind rushed, or grabbed his wallet to pay for a late night snack (a soda, if the shop was still open; if not, a plate of eggs and a coffee from the diner on 1st), but he could no longer place which house he'd just left. In fact, nothing about this area felt familiar. He wondered: had he been staying with a friend? That would surely account for the feeling of treading on foreign soil.
Never mind that, he though to himself. He could ponder it further with a full stomach. The blonde from the next town over, the one who was working at the diner to pay off her college tuition, surely she'd be working tonight. He'd always found her particularly vulnerable to his charms, and he could probably convince her to slip him some toast and a coffee or two with a wink and a grin. He may not have had the physique of the boys who went out for sports and won the hearts of the swaying, exhaling girls in the stands, but he certainly had a way with words. Poetry and athleticism, he had learned, were the two biggest culprits of broken hearts.
That's not to say that Oscar was a constant ladies' man. He was content with his Madeleine, after all. It didn't take him long to realize he was smitten. After their first conversation, he knew. She didn't look like the girls he normally chased. She was taller, for instance, and thinner. She looked the way proper ladies ought to look, but it was the way she spoke that attracted him, cementing her forever in his heart and mind. She was incredibly sarcastic, with an acerbic wit that most boys her age found standoffish and strange. But where others saw coal, Oscar saw a diamond. She was his ideal woman. She was exactly like him.
He stalked down the dark, bare streets, himself a shadow on the sidewalk, against the sides of the buildings he passed. Something felt off. Something he couldn't quite place. It was as if the world around him was somehow wrong. It was the same town he knew, all right--the place where he was born, where he grew up, where he never intended to leave. The street signs were all the same, as were most of the stores, but he couldn't remember the lights being this bright. The streets had always been so dimly lit, barely giving off enough to see the portion of the sidewalk just ahead, but now, it was as if he could see everything. But all he could discern was a vacant husk--this darkened shell, like a shed skin. It was the shape of the place he knew and loved, but there was no substance within it.
The few cars parked along the side of the streets were odd, sleeker than they should have been and void of the proper markings. It didn't sit well with him. Nor did the site of the soda shop, seemingly replaced by an all-night launderette, from which he could hear the clattery spinning of coin-operated dryers, rattling with zippers and loose change.
Is this the right place? he wondered. Have I taken a wrong turn?
No, after retracing his steps, he was sure this was where the shop should have been. It was there last night, at least. He recalled meeting Maddy there just before eight. They split a soda. Vanilla. It was always her favorite.
Two blocks away, the all-night diner was still there, yet it was wrong. The interior, he observed through the wide front window, had been completely redone, and he recognized none of the staff. The blonde from the next town definitely wasn't there. Strange music bled through the door, and the realization that struck Oscar at that very moment was unsettling on a deep, personal level.
This was not his place. He did not belong here.
He raced through the streets, his feet already blackened by the dirt of the sidewalk, with only one thing on his mind: Maddy. He had to find Maddy. Maybe she'd found herself here, too, lost in some strange world. Thoughts began seeping into his brain like water filtering through a sponge. She wouldn't be home, he understood. There was no use looking for her there. She was somewhere else, a place he would've never thought to look.
So young Oscar Bruges began a sullen promenade across town, venturing through the park and over the rolling hills to the one place he knew Madeleine could be found. The cemetery grass was soft, like a salve for his battered soles. He found the grave quickly, as if he'd been there before, and wished that he had brought flowers to lay against the headstone. Then he began to weep, collapsing to the ground--first hitting his knees, then his shoulders, then his head, until he had become just another mound, a rejected plot of earth that bulged over the surface. He fell asleep there on the grass.
So when Oscar Bruges awoke again that morning, plainly accepting that he was an aged man not fit for roaming across town at night, he would remember nothing of the night before. Not a single dream, if a dream it was. He smiled at his wife's grave and wished her a good morning, and then he clambered to his feet and set about the long journey home, never knowing that perhaps for a brief night, he had known how it felt to be young again, that somewhere there was another Oscar Bruges, just now settling into the patterns of life and yearning to become something great.
Sixty years earlier, he almost certainly awoke one morning, the bare threads of a strange dream still pulling against his mind. He dreamed of a place where he didn't belong--a place with dark, labyrinthine streets punctuated by ill lighting--and of Maddy. It felt important, as if it was something more than just a product of his unconscious mind, and then it was gone. There was no warning. There never is one for dreams. They simply slip away, forgotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment