Another short story. I think I’ll add it to an already-existing collection (Prophet Amidst Losses)—one of the great things about self-published books is that a writer can always add—or subtract—content whenever one likes.
Sorry, “content” is an ugly word for whatever it is that creative people do—it sounds like the product of one’s mind (or soul, if that’s the way one thinks of such matters) is just another widget. Or commodity.
Maybe I’m just feeling a tad depressed after writing this:
The Girl of His Dreams
“My god… how I hate these humongous gatherings!”
Ralph had spoken these words, aloud—despite there being no one there to hear him—while he adjusted his tie in a mirror. Re-evaluating his spoken words, he thought that it really made no difference if the dreaded gatherings were for business, family, or even one of his charity events.
They were all the same. An endless herd of dull people to whom he was expected to be, at minimum, civil. Fortunately, no one who knew him, at all, expected anything more than that. At least he hoped they didn’t. The prospect of several hours of meaningless small talk was more than he could bear.
And yet, a few hours later, there he was—adrift in a sea of business-suited nonentities and their dowdy wives (or, worse, their flashily-mindless trophy paramours). He desperately needed a drink, but something like a thousand bodies blocked the way to the bar. Someone must have seen the haunted look on his face, because he heard a voice ask, “Can I get you a beer?”
“Anything but Tree Frog!” He was thinking of an imaginary beer that first appeared in Zap Comix, back in the sixties (S. Clay Wilson used to draw it for the likes of the Checkered Demon and Ruby—of the Dyke Pirates motorcycle gang).
There were blank looks all around him—no one within hearing distance (which was not very far considering the room’s noise level) was old enough to remember Zap Comix. Those outrageous publications had disappeared over fifty years ago.
“Tree frog?’
Looking up to see who had asked, he saw something he never expected to see at one of these bland and boring events: a bright, round face surrounded by a short fringe of blond hair. Her pale blue eyes were outlined by more mascara than which he would normally approve—but, on her face, it worked. He hadn’t found anyone, in decades, to be attractive—but he was definitely attracted now. The big question was what he should do about it.
He briefly considered rhapsodizing about Zap—and Flakey Foont, Mr. Natural, not-to-mention The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers—but realized that the lovely young thing before him would have no idea why he was blathering on about things that meant nothing to her. Instead, he said, “Tree Frog was originally a joke, but now several companies have frogs on their logos and in their brand names.”
“Really?”
He was stunned. This beautiful young thing was actually speaking to him! Desperate for something to say, he told her that he had photos of many frog beers on his phone.
“Really? Can I see?”
He fumbled through his pockets for his phone, and managed to dig it out—but couldn’t get the photos to display. She offered to help, but couldn’t open the photos either. “I have an app that might help,” she said, “but I need to get the phone from my bag in the coatroom.” He winced as he watched her disappear into the crowd of boring business-types.
Time, without her, dragged on interminably. After a while, he gave up waiting. He moved to the edge of the head-bobbing herd of small-talking bores, and found a place to sit. He leaned back and closed his eyes—just to keep the vision of the young woman alive in his mind. The muttering crowd faded away and he dozed lightly. Some people would be embarrassed by sitting alone in a highly social environment, let alone napping, but Ralph was well-past such concerns. As he sat back, his head drooped and his hands rested palms up, on his knees. He didn’t know how long he had dozed, but emerged from sleep after The Girl leaned over him to lightly kiss his forehead. He jerked awake, but she had already moved away.
“I feel like Prince Charming, with a disappearing Cinderella,” he thought. “An aging, very unlikely Prince Charming,” he self-corrected, half laughing. Now that he was fully awake, he began to suspect that the whole thing had been a dream, that there had been no girl—and certainly no kiss.
And yet there was something familiar about The Girl. He suspected they might have met, somewhere—but he couldn’t remember where or when. It felt like he had always known her, but quickly ruled that out; he certainly would have remembered her. “Besides,” he thought, “don’t infatuated people usually claim that they’ve always known each other? It’s such a cliché!”
It was embarrassing to be so ordinary; he expected more of himself. And yet, there was something about her… he resolved to research the matter further. The next day, at his office, he wandered around various rarely-visited departments, thinking he might have seen her there.
No luck.
At lunch, he went to his usual spot and stared intensely at every waitress, hostess—and even customers—making several women feel distinctly uncomfortable. The manager whispered a vaguely threatening warning about his behavior. The Girl wasn’t among them, anyway, so he gave up the search.
For now.
On his way home, he stopped at his usual grocery store and liquor store (he was beginning to feel the need for a stiff drink.
The Girl wasn’t at either of those places, either.
He ate his usual solitary dinner, and sipped his usual cocktail, on the couch in front of the usual TV. Everything was as usual, but—today—the shows were one-dimensional, predictable, and unsatisfying. None of them featured The Girl.
He decided to knock off early, and just go to bed. “To sleep,” he thought, “perchance to dream—of The Girl.” After an hour or two of restless repositioning himself under the covers, he finally drifted off to dreamless sleep. He woke, the next morning, to crippling disappointment.
The Girl never showed up.
Night after night, his routine was the same. Lie alone in the dark, trying to keep an image of The Girl in mind—in the hope that he could encourage her to visit him in dreamland. While it never worked, Ralph was getting a lot more sleep than he had been accustomed to.
Night after night, the mental image of The Girl grew less detailed, until all that remained were her mascaraed eyes, peering through the darkness, his heart aching at the sight of a tiny tear welling below one china-blue iris.
Paid subscribers to these substack pages get access to complete editions of two of my novellas. Noirvella is a modern story of revenge, told in the style of film noir. Unbelievable is a kind of rom-com that forms around a pompous guy who is conceited, misinformed, and undeservedly successful. Both books are sold by Amazon, but paid subscribers get to read them for free. Also, substack pages (older than eight months) automatically slip behind a paywall—where only paid subscribers can read them. If you’re interested in reading any of them, you can subscribe (giving you free access to them), or buy them in book form should you prefer the feel of a physical book. Meanwhile, it is easy to become a paying subscriber (just like supporting your favorite NPR station). It’s entirely optional, and—even if you choose not to do so—you’ll still get my regular substack posts—and I’ll still be happy to have you as a reader.
so sad