Just Like Heaven (19 page)

Again, this struck Nick like a shock to the system. It felt true. But he didn’t want to focus on it. He’d never been religious, and he could only accept so much faith-based rhetoric at any given time. He needed to change the subject. “You said the last time you were on
e
arth
was during the early part of the 20
th
Century. Why was it so long ago?”

“Time has a different meaning on
e
arth
than here. In your dimension
, you are bound by physics. For every
second that ticks by on
e
arth
, years – in your sense of the word – could pass
on our side.”

“You don’t even know how much time passes in your make believe world?”

“
Only God knows. And we don’t question the Lord. Besides, do
n’t you mean ‘your’ made up world? According to you, I’m just a guest in your head.”

Nick conceded that point. Perhaps he
was
beginning to believe Roland…a little bit, anyway.
“But I
had to give you a solid backstory, right? Because my vision of heaven is that we could
kick back with a
beer and hang with some buddies. But
work? Why would you
do that
? You waste
enough time on
e
arth
working. Isn’t heaven a place of complete happiness?
The term ‘work’ shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary.”

“Oh, Nicholas. You have so much to learn. Do you consider art…work?”

“No. It’s who I am.” He couldn’t explain it any better than that.

“Why do you think that? What about art speaks to you?”

“I don’t know.
It’s how I see the world.
It’s how I understand the world.”

“It’s how you live.”

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“So why would the
need to work change once you pass from one dimension to the next?”

“Good point.
So
what are we doing in this place, wherever it is?
”

Roland glanced around. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Nick laughed. “Beautiful? Are you blind? There’s nothing here. There’s no colors, no shapes, nothing.”

“What you see is what you believe.”

“Stop with the riddles. Just tell me; where are we?”

“You’re trapped, Nicholas – by your own disbelief. You visited a restaurant earlier. It sprouted out of nowhere, didn’t it? How did that happen? You willed it into existence. How? Because you believed. When you went dancing with Nina, you entered a small shack, but when you got inside it was an enormous dance club. How is that possible? Because you didn’t question what you saw. You let yourself go. You allowed yourself to experience, to feel your surroundings and the people inside it without second-guessing yourself.”

“So you’re
saying all I have to do is
think – or believe – my way out of this place?”

Roland nodded.

Nick clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Okay, I got this. No problem.” He took a few breaths. “Oh, right. No air in this place.”

Roland shook his head. “Always making a production out of even the most elementary affairs. Just open
yourself to every
possibility.”

He nodded. And closed his eyes. He imagined a place of chirping
birds in trees and green grass, where children played and laughed at a
playground. He focused more on the backgr
ound and discovered that families
sat on blankets and picnicked, that further off a group of men and women played softball, that in the other direction a man flung a Frisbee and a dog raced after it,
that a young woman waved at a toddler, encouraging him to walk toward her,
as well as countless other details that could describe a beautiful day at a park. Then he opened his eyes.

Although the void had vanished, reality looked nothing like it appeared
in
his head. He found plenty of people walking around a metropolis of buildings. “What the hell? I thought up a whole movie in my
head, and I get city buildings?
What a rip-off.”
He looked down
.
Roland
was
clasping his upper arm. “Hey, what’s the idea?”

Roland smirked. “You’ve stated again and again that this is your dream. If you truly believed that, and you could control your dreams,
why would you arrive at
a place like this? So I thwarted your efforts and
took you to
a
setting that was the complete opposite.” Seeing Nick about to respond, he
released his arm and
said, “Now then…off we go
.
”

A moment later, they
appeared in the environment that Nick had expected to visit: public grounds where hundreds, if not thousands, of peop
le inhabited the park. Roland said, “Is this more to your liking?”

Nick stared in awe at the scene unfolding before him: he didn’t spot a building or a sidewalk but found a beach where people lay on lawn chairs or blankets while reading or playing tic-tac-toe in the sand, building
enormous, decadent
sand castles,
playing volleyball as well as
walking or jogging near water that didn’t seem to have a current (since there was no moon in sight). In the water,
people
swam and
snorkeled
, while off to the right, others
kayaked or
fished in rowboats
. Beyond them,
off in the distance, others jet-skied, water-skied, and parasailed. Yet, even further beyond these groups,
past those engaged in yacht races, others surfed on mighty waves. Which begged the question, if there was no moon and no current, what created the gigantic waves?

And spread out before Nick, people gathered in clumps, talking and laughing. Others played tag
football or
soccer. Off to the left, beyond those bird-watching and hiking, he spotted
a dozen people
playing golf. I
n closer proximity, he noticed a couple hundred people
watching a group chip
away
on a magnificent ice sculpture that hadn’t
yet
become recognizable.

“What do you think?” Roland asked.

“It’s amazing.” Every time he looked in any given direction he saw even more that stunned him
in its
sheer scope: hundreds of men dressed in military uniforms, brandishing rifles and
pistols while re-enacting the American Civil War, yet without firing their weapons or resorting to hand-to hand combat. Even more bizarre; hundreds of people examined the beautiful
flower gardens
set beside the
group of history buffs.
Behind the flower beds was a dense forest where people hiked and children played hide-and-seek.

“I thought you’d like it here,” Roland said. “But for a different reason. Turn around, Nicholas.”

Nick did. He spotted a crowd of hundreds circling a man who stood before an easel, his hand
sweeping a paintbrush across a
canvas. Two other individuals did the same on either side of him along canvases of their own. Yet, a final easel and canvas did not have an artist rendering a painting. “What’s going on?” he asked, drawn in by t
he activity and heading in that
direction. “Is it a competition? To find out which man completes his work the quickest?”

Roland joined him at his side. “Let’s go find out.”

Nearing the edges of the crowd, Nick could swear the man facing him looked like…Pablo Picasso. And the man beside him resembled Claude Monet
. Opposite him stood Salvador Dali. Nick blinked and rubbed his eyes, attempting to clear away what had to be his imagination. But, of course, it was his imagination. This whole world only existed in his mind. “This can’t be,” he said, cracking into a disbelieving smile.

“Oh, no? Why not?”

Nick stopped outside the circular crowd. He pointed to three of the greatest artists in history. “All of them here together? At the same time? Working side-by-side?” He shook his head at Roland. “
I didn’t think this up.” His subconscious must have taken on a life of its own.

“Roland,” shouted a man, breaking the silence around them.

Nick followed the voice to find
Picasso
, wearing a white shirt with thick black bars stretching horizontally across it,
waving at him and Roland. “You know him?
” asked Nick.
“
You know Pablo Picasso?”

Roland met Nick’s doubtful expression with a shrug. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Are you kidding?
Let’s go check this out.” He didn’t want to look at Picasso, Monet, or Dali, because doing so would no doubt make him nervous. And at this moment, a time where he sh
ould have felt completely intimidat
ed, he didn’t feel the least bit apprehensive. But why should he? These men were figments of his imagination. They didn’t exist outside of his own mind, so why should he feel anxious? They were in his world, not the other way around. He took that attitude as he followed Roland through the aisle the crowd had made
for them
.

Walking beside the spectators, Nick glanced at their faces. Each person examined him with a skepticism that he didn’t understand. It shook his nerves, but he
refused to let their inquisitive
glances rattle him. He looked up
and saw
Dali
fingering his waxy mustache as he cocked an
appraising
eye at Nick,
gaz
ing
at
him with suspicion.
He wore a black suit and a red tie.

For a moment, Nick almost shied
away from this artistic
master, but he refused to let his imagination get the better of him. He held Dali’s gaze, challenging him, even though doing so somehow felt…wrong. Regardless, he remained steadfast until he joined their inner circle.

Picasso
lowered his paintbrush and
pushed both hands through the thicket of hair on either side of his head, his fingers swiping across the baldness at its peak. “Roland, my friend. Great to see you.” They shook hands.

Nick stood there watching the exchange with a strange sense of discomfor
t.

Picasso gestured toward Nick, but he still looked at Roland. “This is him? Your friend?”

Roland nodded.

Picasso turned to Nick.
“You’re an artist, are you?”

Nick
watched Dali’s intense eyes open
wide
,
unable to look away from the thin, curling black m
ustache points that rose toward his nostrils. Nick
cocked his head in Picasso
’s direction and nodded
, unable to respond.

“He better be an artist
,” Picasso said. “H
e seems to have a difficult time talking.”

Monet, wearing a white coat with the first few buttons clasped while the rest lay open,
revealing a thick chest and burgeoning stomach, stroked the puffy white be
ard that got lost in his jacket. He
chuckled
without humor
,
but his eyes glimmer
ed with excitement.

“I can hold my own,” Nick said to Picasso. “My name’s Nick Malloy.”

Picasso smirked at him. He turned to Monet. “He thinks he can hold his own.” He glanced at Dali. “Should we give him a shot?” Receiving a nod from Dali, Picasso grinned as he spun toward the crowd. “Would you welcome Nick Malloy into our inner circle?”

The crowd roared with approval: clapping, whistling, and hollering.

Picasso nodded at their consent. “It seems they expect a lot from you, Mr. Malloy. I hope you don’t let them down. Feel free to set up shop.
We just got started.
” He motioned toward a variety of brushes, paint, and a palette.

As the gentlemen went back to work, Nick
refused to check out their
progress
;
although he’d never liked Picasso’s artwork, he’d admired his skill, technique, and his ability to co-create an entirely different style of art: Cubism. Even if he didn’t enjoy Picasso’s artwork, each time he walked through Daley Plaza in downtown Chicago, he passed by
The Picasso
, a fifty foot tall
steel monumental sculpture that Picasso had designed, which had become a local landmark. Nick had no illusions that he would ever create an actual landmark in one of the most famous cities in the world.

As for Claude Monet, how could Nick not extol the virtues of the pioneer of impressionism? When he’d first started creating landscapes, he’d analyzed Monet’s works for inspiration and direction. And while Nick had quickly outgrown Monet’s unique way of viewing nature, he couldn’t disguise his awe for someone who had created one of the most loved artistic movements in history.