Walking the Sleep (7 page)

DAY. A small cottage sits on a little bluff above
Venice beach. The time is early 1900’s. I can see this by the landscape, the lack of anything that looks like Venice beach but I know what this is. I know this place. A little girl sits in the yard playing with a doll and singing to herself. A soft cool breeze caresses my soul. The smell of salt and the absolute serenity of the waves crashing yards away with not a wisp of 20th century noise. Not a car, not, a sound but the waves, a seagull in the distance, and a little girl singing to her doll. A sailor with his sea bag strapped over his shoulder stands in the doorway smiling, smoking a cigarette, and looking at the little girl with eyes that are as blue as the sky, and adoring beyond love. Soul. Heart. Eternity.

“Daddy?” She looks up at him.

“Yes, sugar plum?”

“Where are you going now?”

“Japan, the Orient, maybe India…I showed you on the globe, honey.”

“What are you going to bring me this time?”

He flicks the cigarette over the white picket fence into the sand. Mother looks through the window in a cotton white sundress with red polka dots. She is strikingly beautiful and her eyes are sad but smiling.

“You’re papa is a merchant marine dear, not Santa!” She laughs.

The little girl giggles as he reaches down and scoops her into his thick forearms. He is short and square jawed. The look of toughness that cannot be faked. The eyes of a man who has seen more than most ever imagine.

“What do you want pumpkin pie?”

“A kitty! A
Japan kitty!”

The laughter is deep.

“And a little Japanese kitty you shall have! Besides, I need something to keep me company on the voyage home!”

“Yay! I love you daddy!”

I stay here for weeks and months. I watch him leave. I watch him come home. I watch him bring a Chow dog from china for the little girl. I watch him bring Tiki statues from
French Polynesia, and silk dresses from India. I watch him come and I watch him go. He never cries but they do. And I realize these are not my memories for I have never lived this life. I am seeing and living my grandmother’s memories from childhood. These are things she has told me but they are in front of my eyes. These are her memories, her soul, and I am in her heaven looking through the window of my existence.

I realize now…now…. that memories are energy and they are sustained, for energy does not, cannot be destroyed, it can only be displaced. It can be redirected. These images, this life I see, is the energy of that life and time. I am sharing in what was. I’m only part of it because it was shared to me in fraction, but I see and feel it in whole. My grandmother is not here, but her life and energy, her emotions and all that she saw, felt, lived, and died with…they are here.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Back so soon?”

“Yeah, but it was years or seconds, I got no fucking clue.”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Right. Just weird how it seems I was watching my grandmother’s life and it seemed like I was there for so long. You do that ever?”

“Nope. Maybe you have better things to see than me. I stay here mostly.”

“I don’t care anymore why I died here, Sam. I used to think I did. I felt I should keep coming back and figure out why I got shot out there in the parking lot, what I was doing here, but I stopped trying to figure it out.”

“Huh. Well, that’s growth ehh?”

“Yeah sure. Why not?”

“I can feel, see, live memories of others.”

“How’s that working out?”

“Fuck you Sam”

“Heh”

“How about some help here? You been here a long time. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on sometimes, maybe even a hint of what to expect?”

“How would I know that? It’s all personal. I don’t know what’s out there, or here for you, it just is and happens.”

“I get tired of wandering around though. My fucking dog was with me for a while and then he disappeared. I hate when I slip.”

“Yeah, that isn’t pleasant. Find a place you don’t slip.”

“Like this place?”

“This is my place. I don’t slip here, but then again, I’m always here so be careful what you seek out.”

“You seem content enough.”

“Better than what I might run into wandering around. Yeah. I don’t wander.”

“Ever?”

“Nope.”

“Bad?”

“Good and bad I guess. Never comfortable. You never know. Ever see the ones that never wake? I don’t want to see or hear something that might turn me into that.”

“Yeah. I know. I slipped for a long time. Fucking Ravens seem to find me.”

“As they will.”

“I’ve seen some people I need to talk to though. There’s this girl.”

“Ahhh seeking love in this place huh?”

“No. I just feel like I know her.”

“Maybe.”

“Anything interesting going on in the store?”

“Every day, all day. I see them come and go. Twenty four hour cable access. Better. I see right through them and I know every bit of hope and despair they bring when the bell rings.”

“Lucky guy. How long have you been dead, Sam?”

“Good question. I’m not sure. Am I dead?”

“If you’re not then you’re one sick motherfucker, Sam.”

I hear Sam’s laughter as I walk out the door….ding ding I hear the faint bell on the door ring as I walk down Dyer towards the 55 freeway.

Be careful. Memories are energy and they can swallow you alive here. They will take you into the abyss of another’s soul. Anywhere anytime. You can be sucked into another person’s hell. And you can wander.

Find yourself weeping another person’s sadness that they carry. You can be a walking, wandering, slobbering, sobbing Jesus Christ, taking the sins and sadness of another. It’s easy. Watch too long. Wander too long. You’re not even helping anyone here, you’re just getting sucked in. Your life and pain won’t be enough for your tortured whore of a soul, trust me.

There’s so much more to feel and suffer.

That which isn’t yours will become yours because you stared too long. And watch with fascination the wandering, you’ll be in there’s when yours is standing outside the door knocking.

I’ve begun to see why Sam stays put. Maybe he has it right. Find a place to keep from wandering. Stand behind the counter and watch the dead and alive pass by. Watch with bemusement and know the horror of their lives compares nothing to waking from the sleep to the ravens pecking the flesh of your soul.

I lay on the floor of a vomit and piss stained bar watching a man get a broken pool cue shoved through his neck. The blood sprayed my face like a hole in a garden hose. I watched his face turn from anger, to fear, to resolve in five seconds as he slumped to the ground. The ravens screaming in the parking lot. The doors slammed and locked. The windows covered. The tarps and Windex appeared out of nowhere and the burlap sack dragged oozing into the back room. I walked out into the daylight of screaming ravens. One swooped down screaming murder at me. Too close. I grab the black wing at the last second, snap it, pull his black eye close to mine, I bite hard through the putrid oil feathers and my mouth is filled with the filth of angry blood.

I bite hard as his cohorts scream threats, dive in and out, grabbing pieces of me, in a flock of black filth and screaming. I stand and bite, chew, and spit, until I have the huge head in my hands. Black blood drips from my lips. I spit and run. Laugh. I slip it into my pocket as the threats and screams shriek over my head.

And sitting again at the pier in San Clemente. She walks slowly towards me, floating on air. Light brown hair with tinges of sun bleached blond. Dark skin tanned in the sun. She is longer legged than I remember. Sunglasses shade her eyes. The smile is the same as I always remembered. I watch every step. I watch as she stops to kneel down and stare at little girl in a flowered sundress. And it is 1980, 1990, and it is 1969, and it is so many times because I cannot keep my mind straight. She stands and looks directly at me. The smile again. And I know finally who she is.

“What are you doing here?”

She smiles.

“Took you long enough to get things straight.” She smirks and my heart falls to my stomach.

“I always loved you, Paul. I would have done anything and everything for you I would have never cheated on you.”

“I know.”

I begin to weep.

I feel the tears flow down my face but as I cover my face I peek through my fingers fearing she will disappear forever. She stands before me. She stoops down and pulls my hands from my face.

“It’s ok. Don’t cry.”

“Did you die?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?”

“For you, for me, I can’t say exactly but I’m about done.”

“I loved you more than anything I ever knew.”

“I know. That’s why I came.”

“I’m so sorry. I lost everything when I lost you. I lost my soul.”

She stands up and I hear children laughing. The waves crash against the pier, a soft motion of the water moves the pier and I am reeling. She bends down and ruffles my long brown hair. She runs her fingers through my hair. I realize I have hair again after shaving my head for so many years. My hair thick and laying on my shoulders in thick sun-bleached surfer style. I look up into her soft brown eyes. She bends and kisses my forehead.

“It’s ok.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“I don’t know, Paul, I can’t say.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I know. I love you, Paul. Everything will take form and purpose. I don’t know how but it will…goodbye…”

I watch her walk on her air. Steps long and beautiful, fluid, and graceful. She stops to kiss a little boy on the head. And I sit and weep. I weep. I lay on the filth of the pier and stare into the sky.

And I cry until I cannot, then I laugh.

And I laugh.

And I feel the first thing that resembles peace for what has seemed like an eternity. And the ravens are a million miles away. And I feel what seems like hope. Hope.

“Sam, I saw a woman I loved more than any woman I ever loved. I didn’t know her at first but then she finally spoke to me. Finally gave me words that tore my soul apart. And gave me some peace.”

“Good for you. Check out that old mom and her fat kid over there.”

I look.

A ragged fatter old mom. Worn and ragged. Her son is obese. Maybe 14 and in tight fitting clothes that accentuate the bulges and rolls of years eating Taco Bell, one dollar cheese burgers, and cheese puffs. He looks like he has never eaten a good meal in his life. Clothes out of fashion and obviously dug out of the out of some bin at Goodwill before the morning sorters came and they decided what was sell worthy, and what was thrown in the trash. They hadn’t selected particularly well.

He was sullen and self-conscious. He glanced around the store looking to see if anyone was watching him.

Mom pulled a loaf of Wonder bread from the shelf and a pack of Cheetos from the rack. In her hand a bottle of Thunderbird.

“You want a Twinkie?”

“No”

He looked around again to see if anyone heard.

“Can we go home?” He pleads

They pay for dinner and he slinks outside to huddle in the corner of the front. The look of despair robs me of some of the peace I have found. I want to tell him it can be ok. It might be ok. Just hang on kid. Please just hang on.

“So what, Sam. Some fat kid and a piece of shit mom.”

“They’re dead.”

I look over and notice he’s staring straight at me.

The despair makes me look away.

The mom shuffles out and he follows head down. He shuffles along behind her in fat laborious steps. He trudges along.

“He was picked on every day since he was about in 5th grade. In middle school until a day ago. They used to come in here every day and get his lunch when they had money. I used to watch him walk to school right by the store. Sometimes kids threw shit at him. Hey fat-ass! Lard ass! Did you eat your mom? I watched once as they pushed him on the ground and smashed a cupcake in his face.”

“God I fucking hate you, Sam”

“And yet you keep coming back here. Ironic isn’t it ya sanctimonious prick.”

“Yeah. Maybe I won’t anymore.”

I secretly pray the ravens won’t find him. I pray knowing that it is only to hope.

“So, last night they come in. Mom is drunk. Tries to buy his lunch. He says no, he’s getting free lunch now. She gets an extra bottle of Thunderbird and shrugs. He looks different though. He has a look on his face I never saw. Some kind of anger and he smirked. I never saw him smirk. Just a scared fat kid shuffling, looking around to see who was looking at him, tucking his head in shame, then always hiding, hiding in the shadow of the front door.