Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares (6 page)

Chapter Six

“I
f you don't mind me
getting to
the point, Mr. Anderson,” the manager said as they entered the grand lobby, “where the hell have you been for the past two weeks? If I'd have gotten any other applications, I would have filled the position.”

He spun on the marble floors and faced Jonas, who'd completely lost track of the conversation, instead astounded by the beauty of the hotel itself.

The front desk was to his left, a small mahogany station with two petite women, both beautiful with coifed blond hair and dark red lipstick. Their dark eyes followed Jonas before they flashed him nearly identical, pleasant smiles. Jonas looked up at the tray ceiling where a mural had been painted, soft white clouds with dots of silver stars in the background. It seemed familiar, and it only took a moment for him to realize he remembered it from his childhood. The entire place smelled of old money—paper and sawdust and the lingering hint of expensive perfume.

“Mr. Anderson. Alan,” the manager snapped. Jonas turned to him quickly and apologized. “Where have you been?”

“Oh…” Jonas felt the handle of the plastic bag cutting into his left wrist. “I'm actually not Alan. I'm his brother, Jonas. I was hoping I could step in for him. You see, he's—”

Marshall laughed loudly, startling the women at the desk into busying themselves. The sound bordered on malicious and Jonas felt his muscles tighten for an impending argument.

“You're not even the right Anderson?” the man called out. “Now that's just hilarious.” Marshall continued laughing, but it only succeeded in making Jonas more determined. This wasn't a joke to him. This was his only shot at keeping him and Alan afloat.

“I'm Jonas Anderson,” he said. “My brother Alan and I were on our way here from Portland. But coming over the mountain, we were in an accident.”

The smile faded from Marshall's face.

“And my brother…” Jonas absently brushed his hand through his hair, messing up the slicked style he'd tried for at the hospital. “Well, Alan's at University Hospital in a coma. But if he were awake, he'd be here. And he'd be the best damn doorman you've ever seen. That's what he does,” Jonas said, feeling the blood rushing to his face. “He impresses people. But now it's just me and I need a job. I'll fill in for him. I'll wash dishes. I'll take whatever job you have. And I'll be fucking great at it.” He looked up and saw Marshall's stern expression. “Sir,” Jonas added, smiling weakly.

“Alan Anderson is in a coma?” Marshall asked. His eyes were concerned, and it caught Jonas off guard.

“Yes, sir,” Jonas said. “But he's going to wake up. In fact, he's seeing a specialist today. They expect him to make a full recovery.” Jonas didn't even count this as a lie. It was the reality he chose to live in.

Marshall slipped his hands in the pockets of his suit as if thinking things over. He looked at Jonas again, narrowing his eyes. “Aren't you still in high school?” he asked. Jonas nodded, resisting the urge to say “Unfortunately.” “I won't encourage you to leave school,” Marshall said. “That means you'd have to work the ten to two a.m. shift.”

Jonas's spirits brightened. Was he about to get the job? “I'm totally fine with that.” He pulled out the box under his arm. “I even brought the hat and the umbrella. I just need a suit.”

“Hm…” Marshall said glancing over Jonas's outfit and then at the bag of clothes at his side. “That's a certainty.” He took a breath and exhaled heavily, apparently not totally convinced. “Fine,” Marshall said after a long moment. “You can train tonight. I'll send my assistant, Molly, down with your uniform. Meet Hillenbrand at six at the staff entrance so he can show you around. The girls,” he motioned to the front desk, “will give you directions. See you tonight, Mr. Anderson.”

Jonas smiled and watched as the manager started to walk away. It struck him then that he didn't know his pay rate or where he'd be staying tonight. “Sir?” he called.

The manager turned around. “Yes?” he responded gruffly.

“Room and board?”

Mr. Marshall closed his eyes and motioned for Jonas to follow him. Without missing a beat, Jonas fell into step at his side and walked with him onto the elevators. The manager pushed the button for the basement and Jonas felt his heart dip.

“You keep suites in the basement?” he asked.

The manager laughed, glancing over at him like he was crazy. “You're not getting a suite,” he said definitively. “There's a renovated custodian's closet down there. It has a bed and a tub—the basics.”

Jonas clenched his teeth and shook his head. “Alan said you were giving him a suite.”

“Yes, well you're not Alan, are you?” Marshall replied coldly. “You're lucky I have anything at all.”

Jonas wanted to argue, but he knew he was powerless in the situation.
Great
, he thought.
I'm going from living in a hospital room to sleeping in a janitor's closet. Some new life we've got, Alan
.

The elevator doors slid open, and Jonas followed behind the manager, noting the faded green wallpaper in the hallway, the threadbare carpet. Marshall stopped at a wooden door and pulled a metal key from the key ring hooked onto his belt. He unlocked the door and then worked the key off the ring before holding it out to Jonas. He must have sensed Jonas's disappointment because his expression softened slightly.

“I really hope to see your brother soon,” he said. “But in the meantime, you work for me. You show up on time, act professionally, and don't cause any trouble. Staff meals are prepared and held in the kitchen.” He pointed down the hall toward a metal door. “Through there, to your left.”

Jonas's emotions were a mixture of gratitude and regret. He hated being underestimated, but more than anything, he hated that he was the one here instead of Alan.

“Yes, sir,” Jonas said. He took the key, surprised to find how heavy it was. “I'll see you tonight.”

“No, you won't,” Marshall said, clapping him on the shoulder. “My shift ends at six. Don't talk to me after that.” He chuckled to himself and started back toward the elevator.

Jonas waited for him to go, thinking it would be more polite, and once the elevator doors slid closed, he turned and pushed his way inside the old room.

It was dark, and Jonas felt along the wall until he found the switch and turned on the light. His mouth fell open. It was no surprise this place had been a custodial closet. The room still smelled of cleaning products, which he guessed was better than most things it could have smelled like. The plaster walls were a dingy white with several rows of tile near the sink near the back. An old clawfoot tub looked unfit to wash in, and there was a twin bed with a rusty iron frame.

Jonas stared so long, he lost track of time and jumped when there was a knock on the door behind him. He turned and opened it, still holding his hatbox and a trash bag filled with clothes. On the other side stood a girl dressed in a crisp white shirt and black dress pants. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she blushed when she saw Jonas.

“When Marshall told me he was sticking a poor soul in here,” she said, “I didn't believe him.” She smiled, unable to hold Jonas's eyes. “I'm his assistant, Molly.” The girl was small and mousy, not much older than Jonas, but her shyness was endearing.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, shifting the weight of the items in his hands. “I'm Jonas.”

“I know,” she said. “And of course, I'm terribly sorry about your brother. The weather on the coast can be unpredictable.”

Jonas flinched. “What? How did you…yeah…”

Molly's gaze darted to his, and then flitted away. “Sorry. I was the one who selected Alan for the job and contacted him. Marshall just told me he's in the hospital. Anyway,” she smoothed her hands down the thighs of her pants, looking nervous, “dinner's at five if you'll be around. If not, we keep the leftovers in the walk-in. They're labeled. And I've sent your uniform to housekeeping for pressing. You can pick it up before your shift.”

“Great. Thanks,” Jonas said, leaning against the doorframe. “Anything else I should know about this place?”

Molly looked up at him, pausing long enough to make Jonas straighten. “Sure,” she said, smiling politely. “It's an old building and the sound tends to travel. So don't be too wary of things you might hear in the night.”

“Uh…” He pulled together his eyebrows, waiting for her to laugh. But Molly nodded politely, and turned to rush down the hallway. Jonas stuck his head out of the doorway and watched after her. Once she was gone, he closed the door and laughed to himself.

“Weird.” He set the hatbox on the nightstand and dropped the clothes in the corner. He took the time to check over the room, glad to see it wasn't exactly dirty, just old. He went to pause in front of the small glass mirror that had been attached above the sink. His hair had fallen over his eyes and the circles under them had only deepened. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept a full night. It seemed like it could have been years.

But he was exhausted now. Jonas kicked off his sneakers and fell onto the bed, greeted by the creaking of the wire springs. He lay there, staring up at the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. He slid his fingers into his back pocket and plucked out the business card to study it.

“Doctor Moss,” he read aloud. Jonas felt his eyes growing heavy as sleep rushed up on him. “I hope you can help us.” Jonas set the card next to his pillow before curling up on his side to face it. “I hope you can help Alan.”

This time, when Jonas fell asleep, he was too tired to tell himself to search for Alan, a routine he'd gone through every night since the accident. That was how he and Alan would set up for lucid dreaming, focusing on a single thought or place to make it come true. But his bones ached and his mind drifted, and next thing he knew, Poet was sitting on a subway car.

“And there he is,” Sketch said, hanging onto the pole as Gunner smiled from behind his shoulder. Around them the subway car swayed. “Poet, my man,” Sketch continued. “You have missed the best night. Gunner swears he saw a city last time, back when that old dude kidnapped you.”

Poet pursed his lips, slowly recalling his last dream. “He didn't kidnap me,” he said before he knew if it were true. “He…” The image of a monster flashed through Poet's head, and he spun quickly to check over the car. It was mostly empty except for a couple toward the back and a man sitting alone, mumbling to himself as he watched them, his eyes wide and curious. After a moment, the man turned to look out the window, smiling.

Although the creature—the Night Terror—wasn't here, Poet felt its presence, could still hear the sound of its claws digging into the metal. “The guy was a Dream Walker,” Poet told his friends. “He saved me. And he wasn't old.”

“Whatever,” Sketch said, swinging himself into the seat and knocking his shoulder into Poet's. “All I know is one second you were behind us, and the next…well, I sure as shit wasn't here.” Gunner laughed, and Sketch gave Poet a pointed look to remind him that Gunner didn't know he was dreaming. “Anyway,” Sketch said. “Tonight we showed up and got on a different train.”

He motioned around, and Poet realized he was right. The quote that Alan had once spray-painted on the wall was gone.

“And then Gunner asked that couple over there,” Sketch continued, “where we were heading.”

“They were making out,” Gunner interrupted. “It was getting pretty serious, so I thought I should ask before I had to shield my eyes.”

“Anyway,” Sketch said loudly to let him know he was still talking. “Gunner asked them where the train was going and they said, ‘the city.' Well as you can imagine, Gunner nearly pissed himself.”

Poet turned back to Gunner. “There is a city,” Poet said. “I saw it last time.”

Sketch's mouth fell open, but Gunner just smiled broadly and shook his head. “I knew it,” he said. “Fuck you guys. I totally knew it.”

“So what's the plan?” Sketch asked, sitting back against the chair and resting one of his unlaced sneakers on the pole. “Follow the lovers around until we find it? Because I've never seen—”

Lights danced cross Sketch's cheeks, golds and reds against his skin. His eyes widened, reflecting the shimmer, and both Poet and Gunner turned toward the window across the train. The subway car continued to race forward and they were surrounded by the glowing lights of the city.

Chapter Seven

G
unner was spinning around as
they walked the city streets, looking up at the tall buildings and tricked-out cars zooming past a hundred feet in the sky. Poet couldn't blame him for being distracted. It was completely overwhelming in scale—unreal in a science fiction sort of way. Horns from low-hovering cars blared, and people on the sidewalks shouted at each other, boisterous and loud.

Poet noticed that some of the people seemed to flick in and out of focus, changing like chameleons. He was reminded of a story Alan told him after he'd read about it in one of the sleep studies. He said that dreams were alive, and sometimes, they became grounded here—living on in this reality, independent of the dreamer.

This was the Dream World: a solid reality with its own natural laws and people—almost like another dimension. And
this
was Genesis. The city mentioned in the study that Alan took as gospel.

Poet's lips flinched with a smile—he couldn't believe it was real. Alan had been right. “This is Genesis,” he told his friends.

“You know, I always thought you were full of shit,” Sketch said, glancing at Poet. “When you first told us about this, got Gunner all excited about “the city”; wouldn't shut up about it. I thought you were just messing around, but I have to admit, I'm glad I'm wrong. This place is fucking awesome!”

Maybe Poet was clinging to blind hope, but as he looked around, he truly believed this was where he'd find Alan. His brother was asleep, and when he slept, he dreamed. They dreamed together. The fact that Alan had disappeared from his dreams told Poet he'd gone somewhere else.
This
was the only explanation. A coma is a deep sleep, and Alan had always told him they needed to go deeper if they hoped to find the city. Alan was here. Poet just knew it.

Poet darted his eyes from high-rise to high-rise, face to face. Moving billboards were on giant telescreens, and cars rocketed along tracks painted across the black sky. Lights and people were everywhere. Even the people who weren't quite natural, those who seemed to be made from dreams, went about their business like they had important places to go. This world was their reality. And now that Poet was here, it was his reality, too.

Poet, Sketch, and Gunner got to the end of the block where the road split into a night-club version of Times Square. There were flashing lights, music videos on the giant telescreens. At that corner the world went up so high, Poet couldn't even find the sky anymore.

The image changed on one of the largest of the building-screens, and Poet had to squint against the brightness to see, lifting his palm to shade his eyes. And then there he was, Poet Anderson—standing in the middle of Genesis, staring up at the screen.

Gunner shouted and ran over, pointing up at the image. “That's us!” he yelled. Sketch laughed and huddled into the picture too, but Poet felt unsettled. They were being watched, and that was certainly not a sign of good things to come.

“I told ya,” Sketch said, throwing his arm around Poet's neck, and pulled him in before letting him go. “Everyone loves Poet Anderson,” he said. “A fucking legend.”

Poet wasn't sure how true that was, although he had met people on the train before who had said they'd heard of him. He felt as if he'd been on that train forever.

That was the thing about dreams: there was no sense of time—everything was infinite. You could be running late forever, never catching up. You could become best friends in an instant. So when Poet first met Sketch and Gunner on that train, it was like he'd always known them. When he told them about his brother, they agreed to help him search for the city. And now they'd finally found it.

Poet turned away from the screen and, almost as if in response, the screen went back to shots of the city intermixed with a music video. Poet turned around found his friends across the street at a vendor stand. The writing on the sign was unintelligible, impossible for him to read. Sketch and Gunner were laughing, sipping bottles of purple fizz and biting wiggling creatures off of skewer sticks. They were having the time of their lives, it seemed.

Poet smiled, but there was something lurking in his consciousness, a worry he couldn't place. He waited for a break in traffic and then jogged across the street to meet his friends.

“This is so good,” Gunner said, picking up another stick of what didn't look like chicken. “Poet, you've gotta—”

A girl zigzagged between them on the sidewalk, holding up her shopping bags as she murmured an annoyed, “Excuse me.” She was walking quickly, and Sketch snorted and continued to block the walkway so that other people had to go around. But Poet straightened, watching after the girl, sure that he recognized her.

“Sketch, I'll be—” But Poet was already moving, jogging to catch up with the girl. From behind him he heard Sketch laugh, and Poet turned to wave at him, but Sketch was gone. He and Gunner had already crossed the street and were talking to a group of girls with blue hair.

Poet turned back, completely caught up in the idea of recognizing someone, especially in the Dream World. Especially her.

The girl must have sensed him because she glanced over her shoulder at Poet, a flash of fire in her green eyes before she turned and continued down the street.

It was Samantha Birnam-Wood.

Poet smiled and darted after her.

“Hey,” he said, catching up to walk backwards at her side. She didn't acknowledge him, and Poet stepped in front of her, holding up his hands apologetically. Samantha staggered to a stop, her shopping bags banging against her legs. “I know you,” Poet said.

Samantha widened her eyes. “Good for you, dude,” she said, and stepped around him to continue down the busy sidewalk. Poet laughed, thrilled at recognizing somebody, especially since it was the hot girl from his English class.

“Wait up,” he said, falling into step next to her. He looked down at the bags. “So is that why you come here?” he asked. “To shop?”

She glanced at him, and then down at her bags, almost surprised to see them in her hands. She furrowed her brow. “I've never been here before, but yeah,” she said. “I guess.”

Poet was sure she didn't recognize him, and honestly, he was glad. He could be whoever he wanted here. “Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit?” he asked her.

Samantha shrugged like she didn't care, and then she started walking again, slowing her pace so he could join her. Her bags swung at her side as she and Poet turned down one of the streets where small shops were crammed in-between sky-high buildings. The storefronts looked old, and some had small creatures hanging in the front windows—spiked, scaly monsters the likes Poet had never seen before. Another store had floating discs for sale, small children gathered around them as if they were toys. Samantha didn't seem to care about shopping, though, her agenda forgotten now that Poet was with her.

“You know I wasn't even sure this place existed until now,” Poet told her. Samantha looked over at him curiously, but Poet kept talking, afraid the silence would make her remember she was completely out of his league—even in the Dream World.

“And I still can't believe you're here,” he added. “I just hope neither of us ends up somewhere else. Don't you hate that?” he asked. “When you're in the middle of a really cool dream and a new one just takes over?”

“I guess,” Samantha said, smiling.

“I'm Poet, by the way,” he told her. “Poet Anderson.”

“Samantha,” she replied.

More stars began to twinkle above them the further they got from the telescreens, and the moons shone brightly, casting them in soft light. The street crowd thinned, and soon, Poet and Samantha found themselves all alone on the street.

“Wow,” Samantha said, looking up at the sky. “It's so pretty tonight, isn't it?”

Poet watched her, so taken that he didn't respond. He wanted to impress her, and he wondered if he could create things here the way he and Alan used to in their dreams.

Poet closed his eyes for a moment and tried to conjure up a rose. He imagined it from stem to petal, but when he held out his hand, it was empty. It didn't work. He lowered his arm to his side, wondering again about the Dream World and its possibilities.

Samantha stopped at the end of the street, and turned to Poet, her dark hair swinging over her shoulder. The space beyond was hidden behind a forest, thick and overgrown. Untouched.

“Well,” she said. “Now what? I'm assuming you have ideas?”

“And why would you assume that?” Poet asked, taking a step closer to her and noting the fresh scent of flowers in the air.

She smiled and lifted one shoulder. “Because you look like fun.”

Poet laughed, and ran his fingers through his hair, quickly trying to come up with an idea on the spot to prove her right. “I'm so much fun,” he agreed, still thinking. “Like, the most fun you'll ever—” He noticed a small restaurant across the street. “Let's go there,” he said as if he'd meant to say it all along. Samantha turned to follow his line of vision.

The small restaurant was crammed between two darkened buildings. Through the window, the interior looked deeply romantic: low-hanging red lamp shades, the white light of a flickering candle on the tabletop. It was perfect.

“See,” Samantha said, walking by him, close enough to graze his arm. “I knew you'd have an idea,
Poet
.” She said his name as if it was ridiculous, but also endearing.

Poet watched her walk across the street, his breath caught in his chest. He looked around the empty block, and then he smiled and jogged ahead to catch up with Samantha.

The inside of the
restaurant was empty with the exception of the host, a small woman with cat-like eyes—literally, pupil-slit cat eyes. Samantha didn't seem to notice, but Poet found himself staring as they were seated by the window. Once the woman was gone, Poet sipped calmly from his cup of tea, watching Samantha. He was drawn to her in the most inexplicable way. Not just attraction—something else. Something more.

Samantha ran her index finger along the lip of her cup, and after a moment, she leaned her elbows on the white linen tablecloth and stared at Poet. “Why did you come up to me tonight?” she asked. “Who are you really?”

Poet didn't want to answer her question. Would he want her to know that he was the guy in class who didn't even have a pen, the one living in the basement of a hotel? He was a doorman by night, broke and alone and so far beneath her social class she probably wouldn't want to be seen with him by day.

“I told you,” he said. “I'm Poet Anderson.”

Samantha settled back in the chair, pulling her lips to the side as she examined him. Tried to figure him out. After a moment, she sighed. “This is a dream, isn't it? You're too perfect.” She waved her hand. “Too smooth. And besides,” she smiled and picked up her tea cup, “I hate shopping.”

Poet laughed, leaning in. “So you think I'm smooth?” he asked, his heart beating faster. She nodded.

“You're also adorable,” she said with a laugh. “And I think I might know you, but I can't remember from where. I'm hoping to figure it out before I take off your clothes later.”

Poet's jaw fell open, and he sat back in his seat, uncrossing his legs and utterly speechless. Samantha lowered her eyes, fighting back her smile as she took a sip from her tea.

“Am I shocking you, Poet?” she asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It's just that I'm already madly in love with you.” Samantha laughed and he shrugged. “Things move fast in the Dream World,” he added.

“I've noticed,” she said vaguely, and looked down at the menu, still smiling.

Poet placed his hand over his heart and sat back in his chair, completely outmatched and totally charmed by her. “Maybe we should get out of here,” he suggested, earning a look from Samantha. “Explore the Dream World. See what it's about.”

“You have more ideas?” she asked. “Can I try this first?” She pointed to an item on the menu, but Poet was sure neither of them could read the writing—not in a dream.

“We can do whatever you want, Miss Birnam-Wood,” he said. Samantha knitted her brows together, setting down her teacup with a clink.

“How'd you know my last name?” she asked.

Poet scrunched his nose, realizing it was time to fess up. He was about to admit being the kid from her English class when there was a knock, soft and distant. Poet glanced around the empty restaurant, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. When he turned back to Samantha, she was talking, but her voice was on mute, her lips moving without sound.

The knock came again, louder. The smell of cleaning products seeped in around Poet, stinging his nose. Poet jumped up, bumping the table and knocking over their teacups.

“No,” he said. Samantha stared at him wide-eyed, and Poet reached for her. But before his hand touched hers, he was pulled backwards through the restaurant, his shoes dragging along the carpet. He was across the street, and into the sky. And then Jonas Anderson woke up.