Money on dreamsharing is big, especially with clients with more money than god. Especially if you’re discreet, meticulous, and good at your job, which I am. I may not be as good as those who supposedly pulled off inception, but good enough to earn money I can live off of until I die. So, I decide to take a break from dreamshare.
—
“So where are you headed after this?” Clay, the architect, asks me while walking down the airport, waiting for our respective flights to be called. We’re not close, but he’s one of the very few people I can stand in the dreamshare community.
“Places, you know how it is,” I answer.
“Another job?”
“No. I’m not taking jobs for the foreseeable future. God knows I can live off without working just with this job’s pay.”
Clay nods. “True that. A break’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll take one after this next job. Ah, that’s my flight. See you around. Hit me up if you wanna drink somewhere!”
“Sure. See you,” I say, a half-lie.
My flight is called half an hour later after Clay’s, thankfully. Rio de Janeiro’s gorgeous, but it’s too hot and muggy. I miss New York.
—
I land in Newark and manage to hail a cab soon enough. I-95 is a stretch of concrete, steel, and water. Nothing new. I close my eyes until the driver says we’ve arrived. I pay them, and the car pulls away from the curb as soon as I close the door. I almost wish I went straight back to my apartment in Brooklyn. But the image of my mother going to my house and asking a million questions and snooping through my things makes me shudder. So I suck it up and knock on her door.
She opens her door, eyes widening when she sees me. I brace myself for a hug. She gives me a once-over and pulls me straight to the kitchen.
“Sit. You look like you haven’t eaten,” she commands. Her eyes are like a hawk’s, looking for the signs.
I know my mother thinks I’m an addict because of the needle marks. Not that she knows that it’s from using the PASIV. She looks at me with worry, all but begging me to move in back with her whenever I answer her calls. Of course I won’t, because why would I? It’s not like I’m actually an addict.
Or maybe I am, not just of substances she’s suspecting.
I endure hours of my mother hovering over me and making insinuations of me moving back with her before I go back to Brooklyn.
I set down my bags near the door and head straight to the couch. Fuck unpacking. I want to sleep off the irritation that built up when I was in my mother’s house.
—
A shrill ringing is blaring. I’m confused for a moment—that’s not Piaf, that’s not what PASIV kicks sound like. I open my eyes to the white walls of my apartment and the persistent ringing. It’s my phone with a number that only my mother has.
I ignore it. Once the phone is done ringing, I text my mother the usual excuse when I’m on a job. I turn it off after.
I take my bags from the hallway and take them to my room. I unpack. The things I can’t live without—my totem, clothes, laptop, some books, an assortment of guns and knives, and the PASIV. I put the clothes in the dresser. The weapons I put in the safe, aside from my favorite gun, that goes to the nightstand with the laptop and the books. I look at the PASIV, hesitating. Where should I put it? In the safe? Or the dresser?
Sighing, I decide to put the briefcase under the bed.
Fuck. I truly am an addict.
—
A few weeks into my new life—my civilian, non-criminal, not dreaming life—I can feel the restlessness in my veins. I’ve established a routine. I wake up, get dressed, have breakfast, take a walk, and watch TV. Nights mean I just eat takeout in front of the TV.
The problem about working in dreamshare is that you get used to exciting heists and creating things with just your mind. The break I took is voluntary and a well-deserved one after years of working non-stop. But I’m bored. Insomnia doesn’t help either. Somnacin removes your ability to have natural dreams. Most of the time your body won’t want to sleep either.
Boredom and insomnia is never a good combination. So I decide that I’ll go out and explore the city. I figure New York, sleepless as it is, won’t run out of distractions.
—
I am a good point because of my organizational and research skills and the fact that I can quickly sift through information to get what I need. So I make a list of things I want to do and visit. Museums, bars, restaurants, movies, concerts, plays, food trucks. I have enough money to burn, might as well burn it to the fullest.
I look through the ‘top 10s’ and the ‘best in NYCs’ and the ‘underrated gems’. I go through forums and subreddits. I consolidate and consider. Then I make a schedule.
Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings are restaurants and food trucks. Tuesday and Thursday mornings are museums and galleries. Fridays and Saturdays are for movies. I just follow the schedule of whatever play or concert that interests me. Sundays are for eating takeout in front of the TV. Consider that as me going to Sunday service. The nights are for going to bars and clubs.
I make reservations for places that need it and buy tickets. Once I finalize the schedule for the month, I feel more tethered, more settled. The feeling rushing through me is not unlike the one I get whenever I successfully get all the information for a job. Look at that. My point skills are being used on hedonistic pursuits. Clay will have a field day when he hears about this.
—
So my month consists of tasting food from different corners of the world, listening to music from different genres, watching a shit ton of movies and plays. It also consists of the burn of alcohol down my throat. Much later, it consists of naked bodies, sweat, and pleasure.
—
The month passes and I’m bored again. Boredom makes me want to reach for the briefcase under the bed.
I try to avoid it – why will I use the PASIV outside of work in the first place? I’m the one who wanted to take a break from dreamshare. But days pass and the urge is getting stronger. I get closer and closer to using the PASIV.
Instead of fearing the monster under the bed, I crave it.
The night I finally give in, I can’t sleep, which isn’t anything new. What’s new is the urge to talk to someone, anyone. Just to tell them about the food I’ve tasted, shows I’ve watched, all the new things I’ve experienced.
My co-workers in dreamshare are out of the question; I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them. Clay, maybe, but I don’t feel like talking to him right now. Not so soon after a job. I think about calling my mother for a second before cutting off that train of thought. Opening up to my mother about anything will be opening up to questions I don’t want to answer and memories I don’t want to recall.
With that, I get the briefcase under the bed. I dust it off and open it. I still have a fair amount of Somnacin; I set the timer for ten minutes, stick the IV to my arm, and push the plunger.
I stand at a ballroom, people dressed in formalwear milling around. Soft piano music can be heard in the background. I realize this is a good time to hone other skills; maybe I should start with forging.
To be a good forger, you must know how to read people, imitate them down to their most minute mannerisms, and know what they hold dear. That’s how you’ll make them believable to the mark. There’s no one to judge whether I make a good forge or not, but why not get some practice in the meantime?
A forger I worked with said that it’s not unlike acting. The only difference is that you’ll actually look like the person you’re imitating. That’s the most complicated part, she said. So, I’ll start with that.
I visualize myself wearing an all-white ensemble, down to the shoes. I visualize myself in Clay’s body; tanned skin, blue eyes, strawberry blonde hair slicked back to match the outfit. I visualize as much detail as I can remember—a scar on the left cheek, hairy knuckles, crooked nose, a sapphire signet ring worn on the left ring finger.
I think up a whole body mirror in the middle of the ballroom. It’s not as if my projections will care. I see Clay, missing his trademark smirk. There. Passable for a first attempt.
I hold my Clay forge the whole time.
I use the PASIV almost every day. It replaces the routine I’ve had the past month. Once I felt like I’ve done all I could with forging so far, I move on to architect stuff.
Dream architecture is tricky. It’s not just creating a whole new place. You need to know it from the first level to the last; every nook and cranny so that there are no surprises. You need to create escapes and fail safes on each level.
My drawing skills are okay, since I help architects with their plans, but I can’t do elaborate dreamscapes yet.
So I cave and call Clay and see if he’s in the area.
—
“So, how’s the break going?” he asks. I can’t help myself from looking at him more closely. His hair is more reddish; the stone in his signet ring is a ruby, not a sapphire. Of course, he notices this.
“What? You noticed how hot I am? About time,” he jeers, his eyebrows wiggling.
I roll my eyes. “My break’s fine. I got around New York. Practiced forging. That’s why I was looking at you, don’t be gross.”
“What? Forging? I thought you were done with dreamshare?” Clay’s voice and posture become serious.
“Just with jobs, not dreamshare entirely.” I hesitate before deciding to spill my guts to him. Fuck it. He’s the only person I can stand; why not talk to him about this shit as well?
Clay sighs heavily after I finish talking. “It’s cool that you’re practicing new skills. But please, be careful. Creating dreamscapes with a group is already dangerous, what more when you’re alone?”
“I am careful. Don’t worry too much, Clay,” I assure him.
“Yeah, you are careful now. What if you enjoy it so much you end up in limbo? Look at what happened to the Cobbs. Smart individuals, a power couple at the top of their game, but still ended up the way they did because they didn’t know when to stop. I don’t want that to happen to you. I don’t want you to be a cautionary tale like them.” He sighs. He doesn’t speak after that. I let the silence fill the room.
It’s not like he’s wrong, and it’s not like I don’t share his concerns, after all.
We move on to lighter topics soon enough. At the end of the night, Clay says, “I know you don’t trust me and I understand. But I consider you my friend. You can talk to me anytime. See you soon! Drinks are on me!”
—
Clay’s words won’t leave my mind. He has a point. So, I research and schedule two month’s worth of activities. I expand my search to the whole Tristate area and Philadelphia. I add gym workouts—sex doesn’t seem like enough exercise with all the food and alcohol I consume.
A week into the second month, I go to a bar in Philadelphia. Typical dive bar stuff—cheap food and drink, rundown interior, packed to the gills with patrons. But I remembered one architect I worked with saying that this bar has the best old fashioned in the US, so I want to see if it’s true.
Or that fucker just wants me to die of poisoning. You just never know, when you work in dreamshare.
The old-fashioned is mediocre, but the food is great. Over the cacophony of patrons talking, I hear guitar and a girl singing. I look up.
She’s singing a The Smiths song, her dark eyes sweeping the crowd. I’m transfixed. There’s something about her voice. The way she stands. The way she holds her guitar.
I’ve heard people sing all the time – buskers, in concerts, on TV – but she’s something different. I feel like her clear voice is weaving some spell through me. The rush of a dream heist well done, the feeling of anticipation and satisfaction — it’s in her voice. I want her to sing more. I want more.
I tried to approach her after her set, but she left immediately. I ask the server about her while paying.
“Oh, Noelle? She plays here every Tuesday. She’s good, eh?”
So Tuesdays find me in this dive bar in Philadelphia, sipping on mediocre old fashioned, listening to her sing. Sometimes Clay joins me, when he’s in the area. I never get the chance to talk to her after her sets, but hearing her sing is enough.
The days go fast that way. Filled with so many activities, I don’t feel the urge to use the PASIV again. Talking with Clay more often, making acquaintances, one night stands, seeing Noelle—they fill up the days, nights, the hollowness of my life without my job. I’m thankful for it.
—
I go back to the Met on a Tuesday morning, as per the schedule I made. Imagine my surprise when I see Noelle there, looking at a painting. All those times I watched her shows, and I just run into her here.
I gather my courage and approach her. “Hi. Can I accompany you?”
“Sure,” she says with a smile. Her smile looks more beautiful up close.
We go for coffee after, when our feet start to hurt. We talk about the art pieces we’ve seen and our favorites. Then we just start talking about almost everything — our lives, hobbies, passions, dreams. I blurt out that I’ve seen her play many times.
“Am I any good?” she asks me with a teasing smile.
“The best,” I reply.
And that starts it all.
The years pass by like it’s nothing. The life Noelle and I built together isn’t perfect, but it’s better than I can ever imagine.
After that first meeting, we went on dates—museums, bars, arcades, Coney Island, you name it. I come to gigs with her, sometimes with Clay if he’s in town. I’m not just admiring her from afar anymore.
She meets my mother a year into our relationship. My mother’s so ecstatic about our relationship that she cries.
“I’m so happy that you finally found someone that makes you so happy. I know we haven’t had the best relationship, but I’m glad you introduced Noelle to me,” my mother tells me as we’re saying our goodbyes.
Those words aren’t enough to fix decades of discord and neglect, and especially our relationship as mother and child. But it’s okay. I can see that she’s trying.
Four years find us in a two-storey house in New England, with two dogs and a cat. We have a greenhouse for flowers and a vegetable garden. I essentially became Noelle’s manager when she got more offers for shows. But most of the time, we’re at home, puttering around the house and garden and playing with our pets.
Our lives just melded together so easily it feels like a dream. A dream I never want to wake up from.
“Hey, babe?” Noelle calls me while we’re having breakfast.
“Yeah?”
“Is there any reason why we’re not married yet?” she asks.
“I mean…” is all I can say.
There are just things you want so badly that you can’t exactly verbalize how much you want them. For me, having that assurance—binding Noelle with me for the rest of my life—is one of those things.
“So, what do you say? Let’s get married?” she asks with a smile.
We buy rings and go to the city hall after breakfast. After signing the marriage certificate with a bored clerk as the witness, we go back home and straight to bed. We spend a whole week there, only getting up to go to the bathroom, fetch food, or to feed the pets. That week I soak up her moans and her love.
Time passes by so quickly when you’re with the person you love. One day, you look around the life you’ve built together and get this fierce urge to protect it.
I go to bed that night, with my arms around Noelle. My last thought as I fall into slumber is that I will not let anything ruin this.
—
I hear the blaring of an alarm clock. My head pounds at the sound. My body throbs in pain in time with every shriek of that sound. I open my eyes and see the PASIV open, connected to me and Clay. I look around and see my Brooklyn apartment – bare, cold, silent. I don’t know how or when Clay got into my house.
I don’t understand what’s happening.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask as I watch him sit up and detach the IV line from his arm. I sit up and remove the IV line as well, the pounding in my head intensifying.
“Me? What the fuck are you doing? Going into limbo? What were you thinking!? You’re not answering your phone, so I thought someone from dreamshare got to you! But no! I had to trick you and that girl we watched at that bar to get you out of there!”
He stalks to me and shakes me. “I’ve told you again and again,” Clay hisses, “to be careful when you go under!”
My ears are ringing and Clay’s shouting and shaking doesn’t help. I don’t want him here. What gives him the right to invade my space?
I go to my room and get my gun. I attach a silencer. I don’t want to disturb the neighbors.
“Get out of here, Clay. Now,” I say, pointing the gun at his head, “before I put a bullet in you.”
He does, but not before shouting “CHECK WHERE YOUR TOTEM IS FOR FUCKS SAKE!” and slamming the door.
I lower the gun, taking deep breaths. My eyes sweep the room. In the rush and taking advantage of my confusion, Clay managed to steal the PASIV. That fucker.
—
I never go anywhere without my totem. Even though I’m not working, the weight of my dad’s lighter in my pocket is grounding.
I take it out of my pocket and stare at it. Its silver cover is dull with age and wear. Engraved in it is my father’s initials. I vividly remember the day he gave it to me. I was twelve and hung on to his every word.
“Take care of it, eh? That was your grandfather’s,” he said as he handed the lighter to me. I nod enthusiastically.
My mother scolded him for his trouble and took the lighter out of my hands. She promised to give it back when “I’m old enough.” She never did, because my father died a month after that. I had to nick it from the safe after his funeral. She never found out. She didn’t care.
I open the cap. I light it up. No spark, just the faint smell of lighter fluid. I never refilled it after it ran out years later. It was never the same, after all.
That makes this lighter a perfect totem as well. It never lights up in reality. But in dreamscapes, the resulting flame is bright blue.
I play with the lighter, flipping the cap and striking the sparkwheel again and again.
Click. Snick. Smell of lighter fluid.
A flash of memory—our old house in New England—me tending to plants—a faceless woman playing with cats and dogs—me in bed, beside that woman—
Snick. Smell of lighter fluid.
Sounds—dogs barking, raindrops, guitar strumming, a shovel hitting the soil, a voice—
Noelle’s voice. Her voice, saying, “Dear, please keep the lighter away? At least from the animals.”
Click. Snick. Smell of lighter fluid. I am playing with the lighter, staring at the brilliant blue flame appear and disappear. I look up at her and say, “Of course.”
I hide it in a safe in our bedroom.
Click. Click. Click.
I close my eyes at the onslaught of sensations.
Looking at empty Somnacin vials. Calling up a chemist, who offers me an experimental batch, for more vivid and stable dreams. Her saying temporary memory loss may be a side effect, have someone with you when you use it. Knowing the risks, buying it anyway.
Click. Snick. Smell of lighter fluid.
Using the experimental Somnacin to practice forging, architecture—until I start to recreate New York, Philadelphia, New Jersey.
The house of my childhood in New England.
Snick. Smell of lighter fluid. Deep blue flames.
Falling, falling, falling.
Limbo.
The Met. Noelle.
Limbo.
A seedy bar in Philadelphia. Noelle.
L i m b o.
New England. A good life. Noelle.
Noelle.
N o e l l e.
At the name, a fierce surge of affectionwarmthbelongingprotectivenesslove arises. Days in bed. Laughter. Her body against mine. The cold silver band on my finger.
Snick. Smell of lighter fluid. No flame.
I can’t take it anymore. I get out of the house.
—
My body goes on autopilot. Walking. Getting on the subway. Getting off. Walking again.
I find myself at my mother’s door. I ring the doorbell. She looks shocked when she sees me. She takes stock of my face and lets me in without a word. She makes coffee.
I stare at her while she gets cups and turns the coffee maker on. “Mom, I brought someone here to meet you, right? A year ago?”
Her movements stop. Her face is very pale. “What are you talking about?” she asks with a tremor in her voice.
“You don’t remember Noelle? My long-time girlfriend? Dark hair, dark eyes, pretty face?” I rattle off. My mother’s hands are shaking, and her eyes fill with tears.
What’s happening to her? Why doesn’t she remember?
She stares at me for a long time. Her face shows devastation. “Sweetheart, you haven’t introduced anyone to me in years. What’s really happening? Please, tell me.”
I see red. “You ask me that now? You’re twenty years late. You should’ve asked me when I got kicked out of school, instead of making me live with your shitty relatives. You should’ve asked me that when your child is getting more and more miserable every single fucking day! But no, you were fucking high as a kite, so how could you? You only cared about your pain. Ooh, poor me, my husband died. Ooh, woe is me, I should drown this with drugs and alcohol. Ooh, I don’t give a fuck about my only child, who only has me to depend on.
“You’ve had so many chances to ask me what’s happening, to care, but you didn’t! Now that I don’t give a fuck about what you think, you ask this? No. No. I shouldn’t have come here in the first place. I don’t know why I still do, to be honest.”
I stand and head straight to the door. “This is the last time you’ll see me. So goodbye. Find someone else to pretend to care about,” I say before I slam the door.
Fuck.
—
The night finds me in Philadelphia. The bar is packed. Noelle is already on stage singing. I go to the bartender.
“Hey, haven’t seen you in a while. The usual?” the bartender asks.
“Yeah, thanks.”
He hands me an old fashioned. I pick it up absentmindedly.
“This last song,” I hear Noelle say from the stage, “is one of my favorites. This is the first song I learned to play on the guitar. Anyway, here it is.”
She starts to play an incredibly familiar tune. She sings.
Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
Noelle and I are on the couch. It’s raining, and we don’t have anything else to do today. My head is pillowed on her thighs. She’s humming along to the song while running her fingers through my head.
Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait
Ni le mal
Tout ça m’est bien égal
I look up at Noelle. “Dance with me, sweetheart?” I ask her, smiling.
“You’re a rascal that doesn’t ask properly, but because I love you, of course,” she replies with a teasing wink. We both get up and dance slowly, closely. Noelle sings along softly.
Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
C’est payé, balayé, oublié
Je me fous du passé
With Noelle this close, I can feel her heartbeat against mine. Her heavenly voice is in my ear. I am suffused with warmth. My heart feels content, having Noelle with me. The life we built is full of love and comfort. I haven’t felt this peaceful since my father died. We continue to dance, our pets sleeping, with the rain and Piaf in the background.
.
.
.
I hear applause. Noelle thanks the audience and gets off the stage. I finish my drink and pay. I look around. I can’t see Noelle anymore. Maybe she went to her next gig. There’s nothing for me to do but wait for her at home.
—
The house is dark and silent when I arrive.
I get my keys and open the door. Everything is in its place, but the house is dull and lifeless. It’s like nobody lives here.
I call for the pets. No dog or cat runs to me. No wagging tails, no whining for treats and ear scritches. I explore the house—my childhood home that I bought back when I earned enough through dreamshare, the house where I built my life with Noelle—and find no traces of anyone living here.
I go back to the living room. What the fuck is happening? Why is this happening to me?
I want Noelle back. I want our life back. I want to feel warmth and love and comfort. Is that too much to ask?
I take out my lighter. Click. Snick. Smell of lighter fluid. No flame.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!” I throw the nearest thing to me. A lamp.
Click. Snick. Smell of lighter fluid. No flame. I punch the wall.
Click. Snick. Smell of lighter fluid. I scream Noelle’s name, again and again and again.
Click. Snick. A spark. I’ve trashed the whole living room by now.
I spark the lighter until my fingers bleed. The flame is bright blue. It flickers.
Click. Snick. Spark. Orange flame. My eyes burn from the lighter fluid.
The next thing I know, there is warmth, heat. I lie on the living room floor. Sirens are blaring outside for some reason. Noelle is softly singing. I wish the sirens would shut up.
Warmth. Noelle’s fingers running through my hair. Her sweet voice in my ear. I ignore the blaring noise in order to hear her better.
I close my eyes.
Jo Galvez has been writing even before she knew what she wanted to write. She has published a collection of short stories through a publishing grant in June 2022 and other work in various literary magazines. If she’s not working or writing, she’s listening to music, playing with her cats, or watching videos on YouTube. See more of what she’s up to in her blog: blueescaperooms.wordpress.com. You can also follow her on Twitter and Instagram: @blueescaperooms.