There was no getting around it, she thought as she tugged her jeans on. Today’s the day.
Slipping her favorite shirt over her head she contemplated what would happen if she just didn’t show up. She chewed a little on her lower lip, eyes narrowed as she gazed, sightlessly, into the space of her room and considered doing just that, not showing up.
Who would realize?
Could that work?
Where would she go?
Could she pull it off?
Probably not, she decided. Her luck never worked in that area. They were bound to call.
It sucked, really, that she had to do this again, she sighed. Twice now in as many months. Double the torture, double the fun, she grumbled to herself, tying her hiking boots.
She stood up and took one last critical look in the mirror. Her eyes tracked over the faded denims, purple shirt and blue hoodie.
Clean, casual enough, not to different, but not so bland as to disappear, just herself. Maybe bland is a better plan, she pondered. Less color and maybe no one would notice. Maybe she'd just blend.
She snorted. Fat chance that would happen. They always noticed. Eventually.
Gathering her courage up close she headed out of her bedroom for the kitchen. Her stomach was too jumpy for food so a cup of tea was in order.
While it steeped, she envisioned the possibilities.
Would it suck? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Will it be awkward? Most definitely.
How would she deal with people? With difficulty.
Will she like it? Maybe.
Taking a sip of the tea, she closed her eyes and sighed, wishing for the millionth time that she didn’t have to do this again.
As she put the empty cup into the sink she realized her hands were trembling and braced them on the counter. When her hands trembled, she knew her voice would as well. Great, she’d sound like a warbling duck every time she opened her mouth. Way to make an impression. Staring hard at her hands, eyes intent, she focusing on pulling herself together. It took a few moments, but her hands steadied and her breathing evened.
She could go back to bed. She almost gave in to that thought but the aggravation she’d get later wasn’t worth it. Besides, she’d just have to do it tomorrow.
With that thought rattling in her brain, she grabbed her sunglasses and battered backpack and headed off for another first day.
Tomorrow would be easier once she got through today.
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
the red brick farmhouse
Everyday, twice a day, I drive past a modestly sized red brick house on my way to work. Set back from the road, partially obscured by a variety of old trees, the faded brick farmhouse sits on a little rise, the second floor jutting out in back from the hill it's built into, presiding over a small creek that runs beyond the house and meanders through untended farmland. It's a charming house, square and sturdy, sedately observing the passage of time.
There's an abundance of trees around the house, almost obscuring it from the road, that offer plenty of shade to tempt a lazy weekend nap in a hammock that could be tucked into the long front porch. I can imagine after dinner strolls along the wooded property as dogs dance around my feet or laugh as they streak across the field chasing the occasional wildlife. Some mornings as I drive by, if the weather is just right, mist clouds hovers over the fields, adding an air of mystery that could be viewed from a kitchen window while sipping a morning cup of tea.
In recent years the house has fallen into some disrepair, looking sad and neglected. The well used chicken coop and low ancient barn sprawled along the property seem tired and rickety and it's a testament to the perseverance of farm buildings that they managed to survive the whipping wind storms we've had recently.
The simple landscaping in the front has become overgrown and bedraggled. The lawns are scraggly and unkempt. Bare windows show no movement, day or night, further emphasizing the sense of aloneness and abandonment.
It clear that this house was a home and the land well tended in the past.
But now, the For Sale by Owner sign planted in the front yard for the past eight months or so corroborates the sense that this house, once a home, offers no one shelter now.
Something about this house has captured my imagination for the past thirteen years and often I've wondered if it would ever be available for sale at a time we might be in a position to purchase it. The house pulls at me and I never fail to look at it as I pass by, acknowledging it's presence in some small way.
Because the for sale sign has been up for awhile and I've not seen any sign of life in the house for some time, on impulse I pulled into the rutted overgrown drive, noting the rusted crooked gate and buckled fencing. There behind the house is a dilapidated blue truck full up with I don't know what. The outbuildings, on a closer look, appear to be holding together by sheer force of will and stubborn pride.
I slipped through a gap in the fence and walked up the concrete front stairs to peer in the windows. Windows that recently saw a coat of paint to cover the peeling weather-exposed trim. There's been some efforts to make the house more marketable, giving it a half hearted face lift, some shine to enhance the inherent personality of the property.
I felt a little sad as I walked around the back and found that the snow melt had left a small pond overflowing with dirty water that made the yard look wrecked and severely worn. An old bathtub, stained with rust and dirt, sat tucked under a tree behind the frosted glass enclosed porch. Ironwork stairs crackled with rust as I stepped up onto a small deck, the floor of which was the scratched and old roofing tiles of the enclosed porch. Despite the relatively new screen doors, painted windows and fresh walls I saw when I peeked in the windows, the house is in a state of disrepair that is a little daunting. Not to mention the condition of the yard with random piles of unidentifiable debris scattered amid the weeds and decrepit buildings.
Despite these things I could envision sitting out on that porch with my husband on a warm summer evening, holding hands and quietly discussing our day, as we watch evening settle over the land, softly and comforting. Going on impulse again, I dialed one of the numbers on the for sale sign, and when a very nice woman answered the phone, asked about the house.
It had been her mother-in-laws. Built in the early sixties, the woman raised chickens, sold eggs, boarded horses and tended a small crop of vegetables. She had loved her home and tended it well. The house has about double the square footage of our house, which isn't saying much, and probably tops out near 1900 sq. feet, has three bedrooms, two baths, a partially finished basement and stands on seven acres of land. The eager woman on the phone said there has been extensive work on the inside, new floors, paint and carpeting, but given that we just gutted three bedrooms last year I know what that type of work looks like and there is still much work to be done in and around the red brick farmhouse.
I then inquired of the asking price. And almost crashed my car as I pulled out of the driveway when she cheerily answered my question.
Eight hundred fifty thousand dollars.
I quickly explained that that was way beyond my consideration and thanked her for her time. I don't exactly know what I was expecting but that certainly wasn't it. Half that maybe. Certainly a little closer to attainable, even if attainable is just a fanciful thought of the possibilities.
We're not house hunting, we're not even considering house hunting. We just refinanced our house and we certainly don't have a reserve of funds that can be tapped into to appease my fanciful wondering. But even if we did, the modest red brick farmhouse on seven acres is way out of my price range. That price is so far beyond anything I can imagine paying for a house that even the faintest glimmer of a fantasy curled up whimpering into a deep dark recess of my mind.
It's going to cost a small fortune to complete the remaining upgrades on that house as it stands, not to mention removing or rehabbing the existing farm buildings. It's a fact that I almost never fantasize about moving from the house we live in because financially it's not in the cards. Now, if we won the lottery tomorrow, or I sold the two books I'm pecking away at for mountains of cash, well then, that might be a different reality. But today's reality says that the intriguing faded red brick farmhouse will belong to someone else and when it does I'll watch with interest what is done to bring it back to life as I pass by.
There's an abundance of trees around the house, almost obscuring it from the road, that offer plenty of shade to tempt a lazy weekend nap in a hammock that could be tucked into the long front porch. I can imagine after dinner strolls along the wooded property as dogs dance around my feet or laugh as they streak across the field chasing the occasional wildlife. Some mornings as I drive by, if the weather is just right, mist clouds hovers over the fields, adding an air of mystery that could be viewed from a kitchen window while sipping a morning cup of tea.
In recent years the house has fallen into some disrepair, looking sad and neglected. The well used chicken coop and low ancient barn sprawled along the property seem tired and rickety and it's a testament to the perseverance of farm buildings that they managed to survive the whipping wind storms we've had recently.
The simple landscaping in the front has become overgrown and bedraggled. The lawns are scraggly and unkempt. Bare windows show no movement, day or night, further emphasizing the sense of aloneness and abandonment.
It clear that this house was a home and the land well tended in the past.
But now, the For Sale by Owner sign planted in the front yard for the past eight months or so corroborates the sense that this house, once a home, offers no one shelter now.
Something about this house has captured my imagination for the past thirteen years and often I've wondered if it would ever be available for sale at a time we might be in a position to purchase it. The house pulls at me and I never fail to look at it as I pass by, acknowledging it's presence in some small way.
Because the for sale sign has been up for awhile and I've not seen any sign of life in the house for some time, on impulse I pulled into the rutted overgrown drive, noting the rusted crooked gate and buckled fencing. There behind the house is a dilapidated blue truck full up with I don't know what. The outbuildings, on a closer look, appear to be holding together by sheer force of will and stubborn pride.
I slipped through a gap in the fence and walked up the concrete front stairs to peer in the windows. Windows that recently saw a coat of paint to cover the peeling weather-exposed trim. There's been some efforts to make the house more marketable, giving it a half hearted face lift, some shine to enhance the inherent personality of the property.
I felt a little sad as I walked around the back and found that the snow melt had left a small pond overflowing with dirty water that made the yard look wrecked and severely worn. An old bathtub, stained with rust and dirt, sat tucked under a tree behind the frosted glass enclosed porch. Ironwork stairs crackled with rust as I stepped up onto a small deck, the floor of which was the scratched and old roofing tiles of the enclosed porch. Despite the relatively new screen doors, painted windows and fresh walls I saw when I peeked in the windows, the house is in a state of disrepair that is a little daunting. Not to mention the condition of the yard with random piles of unidentifiable debris scattered amid the weeds and decrepit buildings.
Despite these things I could envision sitting out on that porch with my husband on a warm summer evening, holding hands and quietly discussing our day, as we watch evening settle over the land, softly and comforting. Going on impulse again, I dialed one of the numbers on the for sale sign, and when a very nice woman answered the phone, asked about the house.
It had been her mother-in-laws. Built in the early sixties, the woman raised chickens, sold eggs, boarded horses and tended a small crop of vegetables. She had loved her home and tended it well. The house has about double the square footage of our house, which isn't saying much, and probably tops out near 1900 sq. feet, has three bedrooms, two baths, a partially finished basement and stands on seven acres of land. The eager woman on the phone said there has been extensive work on the inside, new floors, paint and carpeting, but given that we just gutted three bedrooms last year I know what that type of work looks like and there is still much work to be done in and around the red brick farmhouse.
I then inquired of the asking price. And almost crashed my car as I pulled out of the driveway when she cheerily answered my question.
Eight hundred fifty thousand dollars.
I quickly explained that that was way beyond my consideration and thanked her for her time. I don't exactly know what I was expecting but that certainly wasn't it. Half that maybe. Certainly a little closer to attainable, even if attainable is just a fanciful thought of the possibilities.
We're not house hunting, we're not even considering house hunting. We just refinanced our house and we certainly don't have a reserve of funds that can be tapped into to appease my fanciful wondering. But even if we did, the modest red brick farmhouse on seven acres is way out of my price range. That price is so far beyond anything I can imagine paying for a house that even the faintest glimmer of a fantasy curled up whimpering into a deep dark recess of my mind.
It's going to cost a small fortune to complete the remaining upgrades on that house as it stands, not to mention removing or rehabbing the existing farm buildings. It's a fact that I almost never fantasize about moving from the house we live in because financially it's not in the cards. Now, if we won the lottery tomorrow, or I sold the two books I'm pecking away at for mountains of cash, well then, that might be a different reality. But today's reality says that the intriguing faded red brick farmhouse will belong to someone else and when it does I'll watch with interest what is done to bring it back to life as I pass by.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
the art of ecstasy
Do you have a favorite image? One that takes you out of yourself and pulls you in at the same time? One that always, always, stirs something inside you?
This is mine.
Ecstasy by Maxfield Parrish, 1929
There’s a cheap calendar print of it over my desk and the image graces the cover of a journal I have propped on a shelf next to my bed so I see it at night before bed and in the morning after I open my eyes. After the glasses get shoved on my face of course, because there is no vision without the specs.
There are other images that pull me in, move me somewhat - photos, paintings, statues and the like. But this one? This one always makes me feel better, always.
I feel her, you see, up there on those rocks. Wind blowing through her hair, billowing her dress around her. That caress of wind and sun on her skin. It is liberating, that cleanse of air, the warmth of sunshine. I can feel it. The stretch of bone and sinew as arms reach up and over, reveling in the freedom and power of myself while standing alone in the breeze.
I’ve stood up on a mountain top, perched upon an outcropping of rocks as they jut away and left me standing on the precipice of air and stone with a vista of water and green below. And have felt the cares and worries and everyday fears slip away as easily as a cloud slides by the sun. Because that is beauty and perfect and wonder.
Whenever I’m having a crappy moment at work, feeling stressed or just wallowing in my head, I look up and there she is. Calling to me, telling me to breathe in the air, absorb the warmth and remember who I am. To remember how it feels to be perched on the top of the world with clouds and sky and finding my peace.
There are moments when I’m grooving on a project, when I’m writing or am just happy, I look up and there she is, celebrating with me in the ecstasy of that moment, reveling in the emotions as they surge through me and I can be, for a few moments, standing on those rocks, letting the sun and air soak that wonder into my body as the world sees what I feel inside.
When I need to think, to clear my head, to daydream, I look there, and see her standing, offering her dreams to the sky. I see those vibrant ethereal colors, the puffy clouds of dreams, the whisper of winds and the sense of security that everything, ANYTHING, is possible if you believe in it enough.
If Maxfield Parrish were alive and well, I’d slap one big juicy kiss on his face for painting this.
That is the power of art. No matter the medium, the artist, the style. Something for everyone, always. Go find yours.
Photo courtesy of Maxfield Parrish and the interwebs.
This is mine.
Ecstasy by Maxfield Parrish, 1929
There’s a cheap calendar print of it over my desk and the image graces the cover of a journal I have propped on a shelf next to my bed so I see it at night before bed and in the morning after I open my eyes. After the glasses get shoved on my face of course, because there is no vision without the specs.
There are other images that pull me in, move me somewhat - photos, paintings, statues and the like. But this one? This one always makes me feel better, always.
I feel her, you see, up there on those rocks. Wind blowing through her hair, billowing her dress around her. That caress of wind and sun on her skin. It is liberating, that cleanse of air, the warmth of sunshine. I can feel it. The stretch of bone and sinew as arms reach up and over, reveling in the freedom and power of myself while standing alone in the breeze.
I’ve stood up on a mountain top, perched upon an outcropping of rocks as they jut away and left me standing on the precipice of air and stone with a vista of water and green below. And have felt the cares and worries and everyday fears slip away as easily as a cloud slides by the sun. Because that is beauty and perfect and wonder.
Whenever I’m having a crappy moment at work, feeling stressed or just wallowing in my head, I look up and there she is. Calling to me, telling me to breathe in the air, absorb the warmth and remember who I am. To remember how it feels to be perched on the top of the world with clouds and sky and finding my peace.
There are moments when I’m grooving on a project, when I’m writing or am just happy, I look up and there she is, celebrating with me in the ecstasy of that moment, reveling in the emotions as they surge through me and I can be, for a few moments, standing on those rocks, letting the sun and air soak that wonder into my body as the world sees what I feel inside.
When I need to think, to clear my head, to daydream, I look there, and see her standing, offering her dreams to the sky. I see those vibrant ethereal colors, the puffy clouds of dreams, the whisper of winds and the sense of security that everything, ANYTHING, is possible if you believe in it enough.
If Maxfield Parrish were alive and well, I’d slap one big juicy kiss on his face for painting this.
That is the power of art. No matter the medium, the artist, the style. Something for everyone, always. Go find yours.
Photo courtesy of Maxfield Parrish and the interwebs.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
when fantasy takes wing
A week ago tomorrow I was strolling along a sunlit dappled wooded path near a mountain lake, chatting with my daughter about the high-epic fantasy daydreams I used to engage in during the hours I spent roaming the woods near my house when I was her age, which just goes to prove what a complete dork I used to be, envisioning (hoping, really, since high school was such a boring place to be) faeries, elves, dwarves and dragons cavorting in the wooded hills of northern New Jersey. I mean seriously, everyone knows the Fey live in Ireland, Elves have taken over the forests of New Zealand, dwarves really prefer the Himalayas and since the dragons were banned from snacking on stray humans, they've sulkily retired to the Caucasus Mountains, sustaining themselves on mountain goats and the occasional rock climber.
A week ago tomorrow my daughter and I emerged from a shadowy stand of pines into a bright meadow that was clearly an abandoned farm as it was full of rogue corn stalks, sunflowers, milkweed, cattails and wildflowers. Tall stalks of plants swayed together as a gentle wind teased them and the colors gleamed green and gold and yellow in the bright sunlight. Dragonflies and butterflies flitted among the flower heads, delirious in their bounty.
It was an enchanted place, filled with the sounds of crickets and birds and rustling leaves.
For a few moments we stood there, amazed at the unexpected surprise. A farm gone wild.
As we began walking on the over grown path, our steps in the tall grass disturbed the silence and suddenly dozens of monarch butterflies lifted from their hidden perches among the stalks to circle and dance around our heads. With every step we took, dozens more, along with other colorful butterfly friends that had been hidden in the foliage, took wing.
We giggled and twirled around, drinking in the wonder of the flashing colors, as butterflies and dragonflies danced on the air.
Fantasy may be hard to find these days but sometimes, if you're lucky, it finds you.
A week ago tomorrow my daughter and I emerged from a shadowy stand of pines into a bright meadow that was clearly an abandoned farm as it was full of rogue corn stalks, sunflowers, milkweed, cattails and wildflowers. Tall stalks of plants swayed together as a gentle wind teased them and the colors gleamed green and gold and yellow in the bright sunlight. Dragonflies and butterflies flitted among the flower heads, delirious in their bounty.
It was an enchanted place, filled with the sounds of crickets and birds and rustling leaves.
For a few moments we stood there, amazed at the unexpected surprise. A farm gone wild.
As we began walking on the over grown path, our steps in the tall grass disturbed the silence and suddenly dozens of monarch butterflies lifted from their hidden perches among the stalks to circle and dance around our heads. With every step we took, dozens more, along with other colorful butterfly friends that had been hidden in the foliage, took wing.
We giggled and twirled around, drinking in the wonder of the flashing colors, as butterflies and dragonflies danced on the air.
Fantasy may be hard to find these days but sometimes, if you're lucky, it finds you.
Monday, March 22, 2010
darkly dreaming deliveryman
It’s probably the Flagyl I’m sucking down twice a day to combat the bacteria farm that sprouted spontaneously last week in my lady parts, but holy freaking hell did I have the weirdest creepiest dream ever the other night. Either that or divine intervention just soft-tossed me the best opening scene to a novel I had yet to even think about writing.
Until now.
Because of the dream.
You decide.
I’m in the shower (don’t all good creepy tales have at least one shower scene?) getting ready for something. The dream was sort of vague on that detail, so we’ll just go and assume I am a lady of leisure preparing for my day of domestic bliss while delicately nibbling on dark chocolate and watching Mark Harmon NCIS reruns. Because that is so what I would do.
As I step out of the shower, water cascading over my firm svelte body (Hey! My dream, my fantasy. ’K??) I hear a strange man’s voice drift in from the living room. I wrap my luxurious towel around me and move swiftly down the hall to the living room. (My dream did not decide to place me in my dream house, alas, so that walk was about five steps.)
My daughter is standing at the door, holding it open while a deliveryman has one foot inside the door, clipboard in hand. He’s about 5’ 9”, almost military short black hair, liberally streaked with grey (dream details can be do fucking intense. I could pick this guy out of a line-up, I swear), with pale blue eyes behind simple black framed glasses, smiling at my daughter. His face is long, tanned and craggy, plain really, not one to stand out in a crowd. This guy? He’s Mr. Everyman. His uniform is that slate blue color, the logo Excel007 Package Delivery in yellow but there is no nametag.
He looks my way and his eyes change, just a bit and my skin prickles. My son is lounging on the sofa, reading his book, paying minimal attention now that I’ve come into the room. My daughter excitedly announces that thiis man has a package for us. I pull my towel a little tighter to my body and move closer to her, asking what delivery company.
He smiles widely, friendly, waving the clipboard over his shoulder toward the door, “Excel007. Got a Delivery for you, Ma’am” he says, with a smiling wink at my daughter. I peer over his shoulder out the door and there is a dark blue panel truck backed into my in my driveway, the same Excel007 Package Delivery name sprawled across the side.
During this exchange, he has somehow gotten both feet in the door and is now level with the edge of the front door my daughter is holding. I realize that and something inside me goes on alert. I put my free hand on my daughter’s shoulder, pulling her back a bit. I stare hard at this man, this plain stranger who is now in my home. “I’m not expecting any packages. Please step outside.”
He waves the clipboard a bit more, “Just need you to sign this for me, got your package right outside.” He looks around a bit, glancing toward the hall, the kitchen, his eyes taking in the rooms, I think. He leans a little further forward, as if he’s about to take another step.
My voice firming even more, I ask him again to please step outside. My son looks up at this exchange, maybe sensing the tension in my voice, puts his book down and comes over to my side. I don’t like the way this feels, this man, in our house.
Deliveryman’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks at me, glances to my son. For a few quiet seconds, nobody moves, there is only eye contact. “I’ll need someone to come out and sign for the package.” He insists as he takes a slow step back from me.
“We’re not expecting any packages.” I say again, moving forward to push him back through the door. “Please leave the information, and I’ll call your company when it is more convenient for me. Can you leave a card?”
We’re both standing still, not more than two feet away from each other. I know how vulnerable I am, standing there in a towel, and my children at my side. I refuse to let him know just how vulnerable I feel at this minute. I glare, unsmiling, at him, memorizing his features, letting him know I am doing so.
He pulls a card from his pocket, holding it out for me. I gesture to the table next to the door, clearly indicating he should put the card there. This forces him back another step closer to the door. He’s staring at me, all pretense of a smile gone from his non-descript everyman face. “Sure. Just contact the number there.”
He steps fully out of the house now, and I swiftly close the storm door, a barrier between him and my children, the lock making a solid click as I engage it. He turns and walks down the stairs. Before he rounds the back corner of his truck, he looks back over his shoulder at me, his eyes now cold, his face hard and set. I stand, shivering in the warm air, as he disappears from my sight and the truck pulls out of my driveway.
I pick up the card with shaking fingers and know with gut wrenching certainty that the number printed in black does not exist, nor does Excel007 Package Delivery. My dream self knew without a doubt that we had narrowly avoided a very bad experience and was shaken to the core.
As dreams are wont to do, the next sequence was a jump that found me detailing what had happened that morning to my husband, that I had called the police, told them what happened and upon their investigation they confirmed that the company didn’t exist and the truck had not been seen in town that day.
When I woke up from this dream, every bit of it was so still so clear; the water drops on my skin from the shower, the light background noise from the television, the sound of cars passing our house. It was like any day at home, except our dog wasn’t in the dream, which was odd.
It’s been a couple of days and that sense of dread, of menace, lingers every time the dream resurfaces in my mind, which is frequently. There will be further discussions with my kid’s on how to answer doors in our future, that’s for certain, just to remind them again. Because Mommy’s dream paranoia takes a little while to overcome.
When the more creative side of my brain kicks in, that scene ends a bit tragically for the poor unfortunate fictitious family I am now creating, and opens up a whole sorrowful story of loss, redemption and revenge.
Until now.
Because of the dream.
You decide.
I’m in the shower (don’t all good creepy tales have at least one shower scene?) getting ready for something. The dream was sort of vague on that detail, so we’ll just go and assume I am a lady of leisure preparing for my day of domestic bliss while delicately nibbling on dark chocolate and watching Mark Harmon NCIS reruns. Because that is so what I would do.
As I step out of the shower, water cascading over my firm svelte body (Hey! My dream, my fantasy. ’K??) I hear a strange man’s voice drift in from the living room. I wrap my luxurious towel around me and move swiftly down the hall to the living room. (My dream did not decide to place me in my dream house, alas, so that walk was about five steps.)
My daughter is standing at the door, holding it open while a deliveryman has one foot inside the door, clipboard in hand. He’s about 5’ 9”, almost military short black hair, liberally streaked with grey (dream details can be do fucking intense. I could pick this guy out of a line-up, I swear), with pale blue eyes behind simple black framed glasses, smiling at my daughter. His face is long, tanned and craggy, plain really, not one to stand out in a crowd. This guy? He’s Mr. Everyman. His uniform is that slate blue color, the logo Excel007 Package Delivery in yellow but there is no nametag.
He looks my way and his eyes change, just a bit and my skin prickles. My son is lounging on the sofa, reading his book, paying minimal attention now that I’ve come into the room. My daughter excitedly announces that thiis man has a package for us. I pull my towel a little tighter to my body and move closer to her, asking what delivery company.
He smiles widely, friendly, waving the clipboard over his shoulder toward the door, “Excel007. Got a Delivery for you, Ma’am” he says, with a smiling wink at my daughter. I peer over his shoulder out the door and there is a dark blue panel truck backed into my in my driveway, the same Excel007 Package Delivery name sprawled across the side.
During this exchange, he has somehow gotten both feet in the door and is now level with the edge of the front door my daughter is holding. I realize that and something inside me goes on alert. I put my free hand on my daughter’s shoulder, pulling her back a bit. I stare hard at this man, this plain stranger who is now in my home. “I’m not expecting any packages. Please step outside.”
He waves the clipboard a bit more, “Just need you to sign this for me, got your package right outside.” He looks around a bit, glancing toward the hall, the kitchen, his eyes taking in the rooms, I think. He leans a little further forward, as if he’s about to take another step.
My voice firming even more, I ask him again to please step outside. My son looks up at this exchange, maybe sensing the tension in my voice, puts his book down and comes over to my side. I don’t like the way this feels, this man, in our house.
Deliveryman’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks at me, glances to my son. For a few quiet seconds, nobody moves, there is only eye contact. “I’ll need someone to come out and sign for the package.” He insists as he takes a slow step back from me.
“We’re not expecting any packages.” I say again, moving forward to push him back through the door. “Please leave the information, and I’ll call your company when it is more convenient for me. Can you leave a card?”
We’re both standing still, not more than two feet away from each other. I know how vulnerable I am, standing there in a towel, and my children at my side. I refuse to let him know just how vulnerable I feel at this minute. I glare, unsmiling, at him, memorizing his features, letting him know I am doing so.
He pulls a card from his pocket, holding it out for me. I gesture to the table next to the door, clearly indicating he should put the card there. This forces him back another step closer to the door. He’s staring at me, all pretense of a smile gone from his non-descript everyman face. “Sure. Just contact the number there.”
He steps fully out of the house now, and I swiftly close the storm door, a barrier between him and my children, the lock making a solid click as I engage it. He turns and walks down the stairs. Before he rounds the back corner of his truck, he looks back over his shoulder at me, his eyes now cold, his face hard and set. I stand, shivering in the warm air, as he disappears from my sight and the truck pulls out of my driveway.
I pick up the card with shaking fingers and know with gut wrenching certainty that the number printed in black does not exist, nor does Excel007 Package Delivery. My dream self knew without a doubt that we had narrowly avoided a very bad experience and was shaken to the core.
As dreams are wont to do, the next sequence was a jump that found me detailing what had happened that morning to my husband, that I had called the police, told them what happened and upon their investigation they confirmed that the company didn’t exist and the truck had not been seen in town that day.
When I woke up from this dream, every bit of it was so still so clear; the water drops on my skin from the shower, the light background noise from the television, the sound of cars passing our house. It was like any day at home, except our dog wasn’t in the dream, which was odd.
It’s been a couple of days and that sense of dread, of menace, lingers every time the dream resurfaces in my mind, which is frequently. There will be further discussions with my kid’s on how to answer doors in our future, that’s for certain, just to remind them again. Because Mommy’s dream paranoia takes a little while to overcome.
When the more creative side of my brain kicks in, that scene ends a bit tragically for the poor unfortunate fictitious family I am now creating, and opens up a whole sorrowful story of loss, redemption and revenge.
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