Slumberland Read online

  Clayton Fritz, a close friend of mine. He chews his gum and smiles bright, excited to see me as much as I’m excited to see him.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he says.

  He tells me to turn around and pull into the alley, to the other side of the building.

  Thanking him, I blow a kiss. He pats Mark’s door twice and jogs back toward the building.

  Mark and I were told we’d be interviewing the manager, not one of the two owners. I don’t know why I didn’t put two and two together, but it’s a pleasant surprise to see Clayton. Mark, however, doesn’t seem impressed. He doesn’t share my giddiness. Maybe it’s because he’s still grumpy.

  “Maybe,” says Mark, as if he can read my thoughts, “it’s because he spoke to you like I didn’t exist.”

  "Oh, I doubt Clayton meant anything by it.”

  Clayton stands behind the building, waiting to greet us. He and I meet in the middle of the alley and greet each other with a hug. He seems warm, like home.

  The original owners of Dotty’s Tavern retired and handed the business to their children, Clayton and his younger sister, Melanie. The children see the facility to be more profitable if they can attract more of the limelight party types. To honor their parents, they want to theme the new club with a time they remember growing up… the 1980s. Clayton is ecstatic to give me a tour of what’s to come. From the SUV, Mark staggers behind with camera equipment.

  Clayton says Dotty’s Matrix is a reference to older style computer printers.

  The new club decor will feature eighties pop culture.

  The original rooms will smell brand new. New paint. New drywall. New everything. There will be a bar upstairs with tables overlooking the balcony.

  Down below, a second bar with tables surrounding a dance floor. The dance floor will stretch across the entire room. The walls will be painted with pastel colors. The lights will move and flash to the music. There’s a DJ booth with both vinyl turntables and CD players. Decorating the walls will be posters of 1980s movies and other memorabilia. There will be a small arcade in another room with old games: Pac Man, Asteroids, and a few others I’ve only heard of.

  “It’s the 1980s meets today,” Clayton explains.

  "If it’s anything close to the way I imagine,” I say, “it will be amazing.”

  Unfortunately, Mark doesn’t share the same vision. He’s not in the room. He didn’t come along.

  Back in the old part of the tavern, Mark slides the legs of a tripod to the floor and tightens a camera to the top. To each side, a bright light illuminates the bar. In front, a single barstool pulled from the rest.

  Other than ourselves, construction crews, and management, there’s no one else here. No bartenders. No waitresses. No patrons.

  “Jermaine will be right out,” says Clayton. “He has more personality for TV. I like to work in the background.”

  He tells me Jermaine Hudson is the bar management. He tells me Jermaine has been here for years and knows this place inside and out. He tells me Jermaine is the life of the party and the party happens every night.

  “Any plans for your birthday?” asks Clayton.

  “No idea yet. Last year was fun. Maybe the same thing again.”

  “Last year will be hard to top,” he replies.

  From behind his shoulder, Mark pretends to be busy.

  Clayton hugs me. He tells me to keep him posted. In the time it takes for him to fetch his bar manager, I can tease Mark.

  He keeps focused, realigning his camera for the right shot.

  “You’ve already set everything up,” I say. “How many times do you need to aim at a barstool to get it right?”

  “You know me,” he replies. “I like to work in the background too.”

  “That’s the first sign of jealousy, Mark, attacking those with more advantage.

  “Jealous of that playboy? he asks.

  One of the lights needs adjusting to prevent too many shadows.

  “Dude’s a nightclub owner. Better yet, the owner of a nightclub given to him by mommy and daddy. I’m sure he’s not a one girl kind of guy.”

  Clayton has always been a friend, nothing more.

  Teasing with Mark always makes me giggle a bit.

  “Believe me,” he says, “you’re one person I’d never get jealous over.”

  My face straightens. I don’t know if I should toss back a response. I can’t tell when he’s being serious or playfully insulting. When it comes to grumpy Mark, sometimes, I don’t know.

  QUE SERÁ, SERÁ

  3

  At the end of each workday, which is to say the lunch hour for most others, there’s nothing I look forward to more than unwinding in a different kind of studio. Everyone needs something to relieve stress. The thing I do is also my passion— yoga.

  It’s the best way to alleviate the pressures from every day life. Yoga also improves your overall health, manages stress, increases flexibility, strength, and balance.

  Balance is important.

  My best friend Annie joins me every day. We encourage each other to stay focused and catch up on the latest gossip. Years ago, my tool to unwind was a tanning bed. But Annie’s a redhead. Her skin doesn’t tan at all. And you can’t catch up with your friends when you’re alone in separate rooms with a whirring fan beside your head. Yoga is a better fit. A good session followed by meditation is a great way to clear your thoughts.

  Annie’s also a yoga instructor. This is her full time job. Every day I’m here at the same time, 12:00 p.m. Not a minute too early or too late. You could set your watch by the second I walk through the doors. Annie’s last student of the morning sometimes causes her to run behind.

  We both like meditating after a session. Once the body relaxes, it’s much easier to do the same with the mind. But when Annie’s going to be late, I do my meditation first without her.

  My dark blue mat rolls across the hardwood stained floor. The faintest sound of it touching the ground, echoes in this room. This room, open-spaced and empty, seems to have own its own persona that welcomes you in. The bare white walls reflect the sun’s natural light. The windows are raised high enough from the floor to avoid sight of the cityscape.

  From in here, the only thing visible of the outside world are the power lines stretched between the telephone poles.

  It wasn’t the fallen cables that killed my dog, Bart. It wasn’t the electrified puddles surrounding them. The wind was so strong that day, a swaying tree branch snapped and fell, covering a stop sign at the intersection. The two older kids, the ones who rode their bicycles, they were speeding through the streets to get home. But when they saw my struggle to keep up with Bart, they sped toward me to help.

  The rain drops covered the boy’s thin framed glasses, making it hard for him to see through the lenses. His jeans and gray shirt darkened from the water. The white strings from his gray tennis shoes dripped wet and flung loose and close to being caught in the pedals. The girl’s long dark hair was soaked black and her eyes squinted to see through the showering downpour. My dog, panting and running along the sidewalk, headed toward them as if he were trying to warn them to stop.

  Flashing yellow lights from a utility truck blinked across sides of the houses. The roar of the truck’s engine grew louder as Bart raced closer to the road. It wasn’t until the kids saw him, their brakes squealed, stopping their tires on the edge of the curb.

  The teen girl, she lost balance and fell forward, scraping her left arm against the concrete. I ran fast, barely keeping up with Bart. I could feel the leash slipping from my fingers no matter how hard I clutched my fist. Bart wouldn’t stop no matter how much I shouted for him to. He raced toward the streets, dragging me behind. He didn’t see the utility truck and the driver never saw him. Fortunately, getting hit by a utility truck isn’t what killed him.

  In this yoga studio, the loud hum of the outside world is silenced.

  Sitting in Padmasana—the Lotus Position—my back is straight and legs folded so ea
ch foot rests on the opposite thigh. The back of my forearms rest on each knee and my eyes close.

  Focus on breathing.

  Inhale and be aware of that breath.

  Focus on how it feels.

  Exhale and be aware of it.

  Focus on how that feels.

  Cycling through the pattern like tranquil waves flowing in from the ocean and back out to sea.

  Concentrate on that alone.

  “There’s the weather girl,” says Annie’s voice.

  Watching Annie roll out her mat, I tell her I started less than a minute ago. Annie checks her watch. It’s a quarter ’til one, she tells me.

  There’s a Yoga pose Annie has been helping me with. The one advanced stage I’ve been working hard to master for months.

  Eka Hasta Vrksasana—The One Handed Tree.

  This requires balance of my entire body weight on one hand.

  Spreading my feet apart, I bend forward and press both hands flat against the floor.

  Annie stands to my side in case I need help.

  She asks me if I’ve decided where I plan to celebrate my birthday this year.

  She knows I’m open to anything.

  I tell her I’ve been thinking about the place we went last year. The Japanese fusion restaurant in the heart of downtown. They have the best chirashi. Fresh rice. Generous bites of salmon and tuna. Tasty vegetables. I especially like how they cut carrots in the shape of flowers.

  Slowly, my feet lift from the floor, and I ease my weight into a handstand. Annie keeps her hands ready in case I lose balance.

  She wishes our schedules didn’t conflict. She knows my job is important but hinders time spent with friends.

  I tell her patience is a virtue, that a primetime spot will be available and Doug may put in a word for me.

  “Que será, será."

  My body is perfectly aligned in a handstand.

  Both my feet point toward the ceiling and my arms are straight and tight.

  Annie observes my posture and balance and tells me to take my time. She asks me if I’ve met anyone lately. She knows I get a lot of inquiries from men since I’m on television five days a week. I tell her they lose interest when they realize they don’t have all my time and attention. Maybe I can give it more thought if I get the primetime spot.

  “Positive thinking."

  Slowly, my right leg drifts outward to help shift the weight to my right arm.

  Annie steps closer, trying to leave me room but she her hands apart, ready to catch me if something goes wrong.

  She tells me I’ve got this. She asks me if there’s anyone I’m bringing along for my birthday. She knows my coworkers are the only people I’m able to associate with. I tell her Doug is antsy-in-his-pants to give me a special birthday present, but he’s married. I tell her I ran into Clayton this morning and he’ll be there. The only other person I can think of would be Mark. But I don’t think he would have much fun. I don’t think he’s the social type.

  The fingers of my left hand are hesitant to separate from the floor but they do.

  My right arm supports all my weight.

  All I need to do is lift my hand to rest at my hip.

  Annie is ready to catch me if I fall. She tells me not to rush. She says I’ve almost got it. She asks me if I’m referring to the same ‘Mark’ who was at my party last year.

  But my right arm feels weak and begins to wobble.

  My weight shifts.

  Annie catches my legs and guides my feet to the floor.

  Had she not been there, I for sure would have dropped on my head.

  That’s the closest I’ve come to pulling it off. She’s proud of me. I’m proud of myself. I didn’t hold the pose long enough like I’d hoped. But by golly, I’m going to get it down whether it’s tomorrow or next week.

  “Practice makes perfect.”

  once like you

  4

  Most days I shop or run errands, anything to fill the hours before going home. It’s a rare occasion Annie gets away to have lunch with me. Still, I ask each time I see her. Today is the one day she has the early afternoon available but unfortunately, I can’t go because I have an appointment.

  As predicted in my earlier forecast, the sun is warming things up.

  Each space in the parking lot is filled, so I park in the street. A short walk on a warm day is good for anyone. Having to walk a few extra yards is no inconvenience.

  A few steps from the entrance, just as my hand touches the door handle, everything turns an odd shade of gray. My shadow fades to nothing. Colors of buildings and cars, the leaves of the trees lose their vibrance. An eerie dark tint covers the sky.

  A lone cloud passes over the sun and there’s a soft rumbling thunder. A few specks of rain fall and land on my sunglasses. Behind this cloud, surrounding the sun, is a halo of rainbow colors. This circular prism is from cirrostratus clouds that suspend high in the stratosphere. They’re made from ice crystals that reflect sunlight. It creates an illusion of a ring around the sun. A perfect circle. Folklore says a halo warns of an upcoming rain or snow storm.

  This lone cloud, it moves slowly with no purpose other than to get my attention.

  This wasn’t in my forecast.

  A soft breeze caresses my face. My hair dances behind my shoulders. Everything comes back to life with color and the lone cloud, it floats away.

  As a public figure, I can never forget people see me more than I see them. Not only on television, but billboards and websites, the weather apps on their phones. On the streets, people recognize me and smile. They wave. These days, people want more proof than just an autograph; they want selfies. They want to record video to show friends and family. Just a face they know from the morning news. Their friendly local forecaster.

  A young woman, she wants a picture with me. I kneel down to pet her dog, a pug. Scratching behind its ears, I’m reminded of Bart.

  It wasn’t the power lines or the utility truck that killed him.

  Racing toward the street that day, another kid, the cute one, the one closer to my age, saw what was happening and started chasing after Bart. Just before my pug dog pulled me into the street, this curly brown haired boy lunged toward Bart, knocking me down. I landed in the grass without a scratch, but this boy, he fell flat on his stomach and skidded across the wet pavement. His fingers had slipped under Bart’s collar but just as he gripped tight to pull my dog back, the collar broke loose.

  At the last second, just as Bart’s four paws reached the curb, the driver slammed his brakes causing the tires to skid with what little traction they had, spinning the back of the truck into the older woman’s front lawn.

  Bart stopped in the middle of the street. The rains showering around him. He looked at me with his cute pug face. The older girl who fell from her bicycle, she stood and watched from the sidewalk. Her left arm scraped and bleeding and covered with mud. Her friend, he stood next to her and pulled his glasses from his face. His lashes fluttering with each drop of rain. The woman stood on her porch, her fingers spread out over her chest and her jaw hanging open. The utility truck driver, after opening his door, stood cautious. The rain smacking his reflective hard hat.

  As the cute boy and I stood to our feet, a hum seemed to come from the ground. When the rain subsided, the hum fell silent with it. Not a bird chirped. Not one of us said a word. It was total silence. We all looked to each other and then to my pug dog, Bart, alone in the very center of the road. He barked once and just as my foot made its first step toward him… A light flashed so bright it blinded me. Shadows vanished. A thunderous boom rattled the ground and deafened my ears. As both light and sound faded away, I uncovered my eyes and saw Bart standing alone. His fur burned black. His big eyes widened as he fell to his side…dead.

  The doors of the doctor’s office close behind me, leaving the rest of the world outside.

  The waiting room is like a garden, bright with white textured wallpaper. Wood finished chairs with beige cushions
. Floor lamps in each corner even though the daylight fills the room from the open window blinds.

  Waiting room people are like plants, plucked one-by-one by the nurses who come from behind a closed door. The waiting room people all sit together, yet are total strangers.

  A single mom with her kindergarten daughter on her lap, showing her how to play a cellphone video game. The kid’s tiny face, hot with fever, having to miss recess with the other kids at school.

  A man with his paint stained overalls and ball cap, pulling a magazine to his face since his neck can’t bend with his cervical collar.

  A newlywed husband and his pregnant wife, holding hands with their eyes glued to the television. They wait for the results from the paternity test talk show on the TV, with the soap opera drama.

  The sound of a nurse opening the door distracts them. All of their faces turn to the front of the room. It’s that moment when another name is about to be called. The name they call, the feverish little girl, she and her mom follow the nurse through a hallway to the exam rooms.

  Those left waiting turn back to whatever it is that keeps them entertained.

  To the bored and waiting people, with their heavy eyes staring at the carpet, the shoes passing by are unfamiliar. Unrecognizable. Not shoes that would raise people’s heads to see who was wearing them. Chuck Taylor sneakers, on the feet of just another scheduled appointment. Shoes they don’t see on television.

  The receptionist greets me from behind a sliding glass window and hands me a clipboard. New forms to fill out. Any changes from my last visit. Any changes to my insurance policy. Updates to my emergency contacts.

  There’s nothing to change. Everything remains the same. A quick signature on the bottom line and the receptionist hands me a copy.

  She tells me a nurse will call my name shortly.

  There are plenty of open seats. Plenty of chairs without people planted in them. Plenty of magazines on the corner tables. Pamphlets with questions regarding your sleeping habits. Facts of how your health can be affected by insomnia. How sleep is important. Talk to your doctor if you’re getting less than the required amount.