AGAIN

In time I actually started looking forward to sleeping, with the hope that I’d remember more details the next time I had a dream similar to the ones I’d been having. I’d call it falling awake, and refer to my conscious state as wide asleep, because that’s how working in the local newspaper’s art department made me feel. Maybe that’s how all jobs felt to people who didn’t like what they were doing, especially when they had to be relied upon by the people they felt compelled to lie to in order to gain trust.

I was in advertising. Well, at least that’s what I told people I did for a living. What else was there to do for an artist in that day and age? There weren’t too many famous oil painters out there anymore. Besides, having talent didn’t seem to matter any longer, as long as you got the job done as quickly as possible, and for as little money as possible.

Even though the importance of art seemed to have faded from the world by my lifetime, it was still something that had an impression upon me. I wasn’t sure where the ability came from, but with the right inspiration I could paint or draw anything. Inspiration was the key, mind you, and something that I hadn’t had since the day I joined the workforce of the world. Luckily, all of that soon started to change.

One evening I dreamt that I was in a dust-filled room which seemed to be part of a garage or barn. I found myself kneeling on a floor, looking down at a dirty black duffle bag. I could tell that I must have pulled it out from beneath an old couch that was sitting next to me, judging by the drag marks on the dusty wooden floor. Slowly I opened it to reveal a bunch of old magazines and papers. As I flipped through I could tell that they were from the late 1960’s or early ‘70’s. All of the ads were of old cars and appliances, and the hairstyles and clothing of the models definitely fit the era.

Eventually, after seeing some paintings, drawings, and other various papers in the bag, I came to the bottom, where there was a black book with gold leaf letters the words “BOSTON COLLEGE 1971” written upon the cover. I opened it up and there were papers inside that seemed to have been from a test or exam. All of the words were completely illegible. They seemed to be changing and disappearing, making it impossible for me to understand them. Although the name on these papers kept changing as well, I could somehow feel that they belonged to someone named Angela.

I suddenly looked up and saw a man with long dark hair and sunglasses standing in a corner, barely visible through the thin sheets of light created by the cracks in the window blinds and the dust-filled air.

“You ready?” he asked in a raspy smoker’s voice.

I instinctively responded, “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute, Bill,” but then woke up.

Boston College 1971, I thought to myself. It took me a while after I got up to really think about it. It wasn’t until halfway through my first cup of coffee that I realized I had answered this “Bill” with what appeared to be a woman’s voice.