Dream Gig
“I am the first and the last — destroyer of Worlds.”
Four in the morning. John’s barely aware he’s awake. I had a dream, it was about us.
Lying still for a long moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room, his ears to sense a faint ‘click, click’ sound and his nostrils to suck up a wad of still air, perfumed with a smell he didn’t recognize. Licking his lips, enjoying the sensation of his moist tongue meandering across his mouth, John stirred. Stretching his arms high above his head, John drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Wide awake, laying his arms, palms up, by his sides.
There were two actors, he was pretty sure, yes, there were two alright. Down on their luck. Evidenced by their unfashionable clothes, one had greasy hair. John noticed little things about people. Been out of work for a year, the Man said. John suspected the Man. Approaching John outside, in the car-park, he was sorry, very apologetic, he’d pay for the damage, he said. Anxious to leave, to get some distance from the Man, John said it was OK, a minor scratch, nothing to worry about, really.
Ever so happy, they were, to get a gig, a dream gig, the Man said.
The one who played you was beautiful. I loved the way her long red hair tumbled over her bare shoulder, cascading down. I was disappointed with the man. Wooden. Down pat, they had us. Our personalities I mean. We were traveling, it was summer. Driving the convertible, roof down, sunlight flickering through the trees. We lay on the grass, remember?
I reached for your hand. A breeze came, warm, ruffling your skirt. Patting it down tight around your bare legs, you lay still, gazing at the purple sky, the deepest purple I’d ever seen. Shielding my eyes I rolled over. Burying my face in the grass, the earth underneath smelt like death, decaying matter breaking down.
The weather turned and I packed up the picnic basket and stowed it on the boot lid of the convertible, securing the basket with thick leather straps. I popped up the roof, just in time. You made a run for it. The rain made such a racket, pounding the thin roof, I hardly heard you. I was suddenly cold. By the time we got home, the rain had stopped. Standing on the footpath, the torrent of water howling through the storm drain, I hardly heard you.
You said it was for the best. I agreed. You, no longer beautiful. Age catches up. Me, standing alone, wooden, wordless. What was there to be said? I had no clue. Too late for words.
The actors, well pleased with their work, were happy. The gig a success. They would have to share their fee with him, of course. The Man had found us, the couple. Give credit where it’s due, they agreed. Good to be working again. The man, not at all wooden, energized, quickly unbuckled the thick leather straps. Releasing the picnic basket, he carried it to a level grassy spot and put it down. The woman spread out a rug and lay down. Purple cloudless sky overhead. They made plans. The man lay down beside her and took her hand in his.
The weather turned, they made a run for it. The man popped the roof. Sounds of laughter drowning out the pelting rain. The woman snuggled up close. The car skidded, sliding out of control and hit a tree. Such force, the fireman said, no one survived, though he was certain they had not suffered.
The Man came and told us about the accident. I felt, a kind of obligation, a duty, a show of respect. It was my dream and they had performed to my satisfaction. The funeral service was beautiful, outside, we chatted. She was pregnant, the Man said. Oh, was she, you said.
