casters on a clerk's chair, searching. "You know what I saw?"
"No. What?" She was getting drunk.
"It was this cartoon movie." Animation. She felt relieved. At least it wasn't one of those bad art films starring what's-her-name. "A man is asleep, having a dream about a beautiful little country full of little people." Walt sat back, looked around the room, as if that were all.
"
And
?" She was going to have to push and pull with this guy.
"And?" he repeated. He leaned forward again. "And one day the people realize that they are only creatures in this man's dream. Dream people! And if the man wakes up, they will no longer exist!"
Now she hoped he wouldn't go on. She had changed her mind a little.
"So they all get together at a town meeting and devise a plan," he continued. Perhaps the band would be back soon. "They will burst into the man's bedroom and bring him back to a padded, insulated room in the town—the town of his own dream—and there they will keep watch over him to make sure he stays asleep. And they do just that. Forever and ever, everyone guarding him carefully, but apprehensively, making sure he never wakes up." He smiled. "I forget what the name of it was."
"And he never wakes up."
"Nope." He grinned at her. She liked him. She could tell he could tell. He took a sip of his beer. He looked around the bar, then back at her. "Is this a great country or what?" he said.
She smiled at him, with longing. "Where do you live," she asked, "and how do I get there?"
"i met a man," she told Tommy on the phone. "His name is Walter."
"A forced relationship. You're in a state of stress—you're in a
syndrome
, I can tell. You're going to force this romance. What does he do?"
"Something with cars." She sighed. "I want to sleep with someone. When I'm sleeping with someone, I'm less obsessed with the mail."
"But perhaps you should just be alone, be by yourself for a while."
"Like you've ever been alone," said Sidra. "I mean, have you
ever
been alone?"
"I've been alone."
"Yeah, and for how long?"
"Hours," said Tommy. He sighed. "At least it felt like hours."
"Right," she said, "so don't go lecturing me about inner resources."
"Okay. So I sold the mineral rights to my body years ago, but, hey, at least
I
got good money for mine."
"I got some money," said Sidra. "I got some."
walter leaned her against his parked car. His mouth was slightly lopsided, paisley-shaped, his lips anneloid and full, and he kissed her hard. There was something numb and on hold in her. There were small dark pits of annihilation she discovered in her heart, in the loosening fist of it, and she threw herself into them, falling. She went home with him, slept with him. She told him who she was. A minor movie star once nominated for a major award. She told him she lived at the Days Inn. He had been there once, to the top, for a drink. But he did not seem to know her name.
"Never thought I'd sleep with a movie star," he did say. "I suppose that's every man's dream." He laughed—lightly, nervously.
"Just don't wake up," she said. Then she pulled the covers to her chin.
"Or change the dream," he added seriously. "I mean, in the movie I saw, everything is fine until the sleeping guy begins to dream about something else. I don't think he wills it or anything; it just happens."
"You didn't tell me about that part."
"That's right," he said. "You see, the guy starts dreaming about flamingos and then all the little people turn into flamingos and fly away."
"Really?" said Sidra.
"I
think
it was flamingos. I'm not too expert with birds."
"You're
not
?" She was trying to tease him, but it came out wrong, like a lizard with a little hat on.
"To tell you the truth, I really don't think I ever saw a single movie you were in."
"Good." She was drifting, indifferent, no longer paying attention.
He hitched his arm behind his head, wrist to nape. His chest heaved up and down. "I think I may of
heard
of you, though."
Django Reinhardt was on the
"No. What?" She was getting drunk.
"It was this cartoon movie." Animation. She felt relieved. At least it wasn't one of those bad art films starring what's-her-name. "A man is asleep, having a dream about a beautiful little country full of little people." Walt sat back, looked around the room, as if that were all.
"
And
?" She was going to have to push and pull with this guy.
"And?" he repeated. He leaned forward again. "And one day the people realize that they are only creatures in this man's dream. Dream people! And if the man wakes up, they will no longer exist!"
Now she hoped he wouldn't go on. She had changed her mind a little.
"So they all get together at a town meeting and devise a plan," he continued. Perhaps the band would be back soon. "They will burst into the man's bedroom and bring him back to a padded, insulated room in the town—the town of his own dream—and there they will keep watch over him to make sure he stays asleep. And they do just that. Forever and ever, everyone guarding him carefully, but apprehensively, making sure he never wakes up." He smiled. "I forget what the name of it was."
"And he never wakes up."
"Nope." He grinned at her. She liked him. She could tell he could tell. He took a sip of his beer. He looked around the bar, then back at her. "Is this a great country or what?" he said.
She smiled at him, with longing. "Where do you live," she asked, "and how do I get there?"
"i met a man," she told Tommy on the phone. "His name is Walter."
"A forced relationship. You're in a state of stress—you're in a
syndrome
, I can tell. You're going to force this romance. What does he do?"
"Something with cars." She sighed. "I want to sleep with someone. When I'm sleeping with someone, I'm less obsessed with the mail."
"But perhaps you should just be alone, be by yourself for a while."
"Like you've ever been alone," said Sidra. "I mean, have you
ever
been alone?"
"I've been alone."
"Yeah, and for how long?"
"Hours," said Tommy. He sighed. "At least it felt like hours."
"Right," she said, "so don't go lecturing me about inner resources."
"Okay. So I sold the mineral rights to my body years ago, but, hey, at least
I
got good money for mine."
"I got some money," said Sidra. "I got some."
walter leaned her against his parked car. His mouth was slightly lopsided, paisley-shaped, his lips anneloid and full, and he kissed her hard. There was something numb and on hold in her. There were small dark pits of annihilation she discovered in her heart, in the loosening fist of it, and she threw herself into them, falling. She went home with him, slept with him. She told him who she was. A minor movie star once nominated for a major award. She told him she lived at the Days Inn. He had been there once, to the top, for a drink. But he did not seem to know her name.
"Never thought I'd sleep with a movie star," he did say. "I suppose that's every man's dream." He laughed—lightly, nervously.
"Just don't wake up," she said. Then she pulled the covers to her chin.
"Or change the dream," he added seriously. "I mean, in the movie I saw, everything is fine until the sleeping guy begins to dream about something else. I don't think he wills it or anything; it just happens."
"You didn't tell me about that part."
"That's right," he said. "You see, the guy starts dreaming about flamingos and then all the little people turn into flamingos and fly away."
"Really?" said Sidra.
"I
think
it was flamingos. I'm not too expert with birds."
"You're
not
?" She was trying to tease him, but it came out wrong, like a lizard with a little hat on.
"To tell you the truth, I really don't think I ever saw a single movie you were in."
"Good." She was drifting, indifferent, no longer paying attention.
He hitched his arm behind his head, wrist to nape. His chest heaved up and down. "I think I may of
heard
of you, though."
Django Reinhardt was on the
Similar Books
