The Dreamseller: The Calling (7 page)

“If chance is our god and accidents our demons, we will be as children,” he said finally.

I was startled to look around me and realize how society had damaged all of us. Quite a few people consumed a lot but were like robots, living without purpose, without meaning, without goals. They were experts at following orders and not at thinking. I asked myself, as an educator, “Had I trained servants or leaders at the university? Robots or thinkers?” But before answering these questions, I started to feel uneasy about my own situation. I wondered, “Does being critical free me of servitude?” I knew it didn’t. I was a servant to my negativity, to my false independence. Unless I changed, I would take my troubles to my grave.

“Victory without risk is a dream without value. Our defeats, our challenges help nurture our dreams.”

In studying the history of the wealth of nations, I understood the sociological meaning of this latest thought. Many who received inheritances without working for their success could not value their parents’ struggles. They squandered their family fortunes as if the money were unlimited. Inheritance bred empty, superficial lives. They were people who lived for the moment, trying to suck the maximum pleasure from the present with no regard for the future.

While I criticized people for not being masters of their own destinies, I suddenly realized I was no different from them. I didn’t understand why such simple thoughts were so true. I dreamed of being a happy person but became miserable. I dreamed of living a better life than my father but replicated what I most despised in him. I dreamed of being more sociable than my mother but inherited her bitterness.

I hadn’t learned what my struggles had to teach about reaching my dreams. I hadn’t dared reach for my dreams if it ever meant risking my reputation, my so-called brilliant academic career. I was barren inside and gave birth to no new ideas. I forgot that great thinkers were also risk-takers. They were called lunatics and heretics, and often became the subject of public scorn.

Even students defending their masters and doctoral theses weren’t encouraged to take risks. Some of my colleagues tried to encourage them, but I held them back. Only after meeting the dreamseller did I come to understand that it was often our youth who brought about our greatest discoveries.

A
MAN ABOUT THIRTY-FIVE YEARS OLD, WEARING A BEIGE
polo shirt, with well-trimmed black hair and a frown, bluntly told the dreamseller, “My great dream is to strangle my wife.”

He wasn’t joking. He actually seemed ready to kill. The dreamseller didn’t answer right away, waiting for the man to continue venting his anger. “Who deserves a wife who betrays her husband?” the man said.

Instead of calming the man down, the dreamseller added fuel to the fire. “Are you a betrayer, too?”

The man reared back and hit the dreamseller so hard that he knocked him to the ground and bloodied his lip.

Several onlookers came at the man, but the dreamseller quickly calmed them: “No, don’t hurt him!”

The dreamseller dusted himself off and explained to the man, “We may not betray with our sexual organs, but we betray in thought, in action. If we don’t betray those we love, we betray ourselves. We betray our health, our dreams, our peace of mind. You mean to say you’ve never betrayed another or betrayed yourself?”

The man silently nodded his head, confirming that, yes, he, too, was a betrayer. He betrayed himself daily with thousands
of morbid thoughts. His aggressive nature was only the tip of the iceberg. The dreamseller continued:

“Is your wife your property? If not, why do you want to destroy her or destroy yourself because of her? Who said that because she betrayed you she is no longer a human being, a person who has cried, loved, been angered, known frustration? If you’re incapable of forgiving her and winning her back, why don’t you simply say, ‘I’m sorry, it’s over’?”

The man walked away dazed. It was hard to tell if he would manage to win his wife back or allow himself to be won back by her, but he would no longer kill her. I was impressed by the dreamseller’s approach. It seemed like he provoked the man, so, in hitting the dreamseller, the man would get just a glimpse of what his murderous rage could do. And maybe that opened the man up to considering another alternative. The people nearby stared at the dreamseller as if watching an action film.

As if that incident weren’t enough, the dreamseller turned to Bartholomew and asked him what his greatest dream was. I thought it was a bad time to open up such a question. Honeymouth had a way of turning any serious situation into a joke.

He looked at the dreamseller and spoke so enthusiastically that he almost fell to the ground:

“My great dream, chief? Russian vodka! Oh, oh, and to take a bath—” Everyone appeared heartened at this desire, because he certainly needed it. That is, until he finished. “—to take a bath in a vat of Scotch whiskey.” Then he fell into a sitting position. He was penniless and seemed in ecstasy at the thought of that singular bath.

I couldn’t hold back. I started laughing at the sight of that poor clown and the dreamseller. But I was surprised at my sarcasm, and that deep down, I found pleasure in another’s misfortune. I thought to myself, “Let’s see how the dreamseller handles this one.”

Before the dreamseller could answer, Jurema appeared with her cane and threatened to give Bartholomew another whack. She had overheard his dream and was indignant. This time she didn’t call him a pervert but a host of other names. “You inveterate alcoholic! Dreg of society! Insolent wastrel!”

Honeymouth, who apparently had little schooling, thought they were compliments. “Thanks for the kind words, but a barrel of Brazilian rum or Mexican tequila would also be fine,” he said.

The man was incorrigible. His drinking had been out of control for twenty years. For the last ten he had wandered from bar to bar, street to street, lost in the drink. I was certain that the dreamseller would never be able to teach that drunk anything. I was sure the dreamseller would dismiss him and quickly be done with him. But, to my surprise, he praised the man’s sincerity.

“Well, congratulations on your honesty.”

I cleared my ears to make sure I was hearing right. There’s no way the dreamseller was praising this drunk. Between the alcohol swimming in Bartholomew’s brain and the dreamseller’s praise, the man was euphoric. Feeling a self-esteem that he hadn’t known in years, he looked around at the mob that was jeering him just minutes earlier and yelled, “Aha! You see! I’m environmentally friendly. I run on alcohol.”

Then he crossed his fingers and said, “I’m like
that
with this guy. He’s
the man
. Hey, can I take a ride in your spaceship, E.T.?” Then he tripped against a couple of people and almost fell again.

I, who had always been intolerant, thought, “Ship the guy off to the loony bin.” The dreamseller looked at me, and for a second, I thought he was reading my mind and taking my advice. But, to my amazement, he said something that almost made me fall over. He touched Bartholomew’s shoulder and told
him in a firm voice, “Come, follow me. And I’ll inebriate you with a drink unlike any you have ever known.”

I was horrified. I shook my head to see if I understood what I’d heard. The drunk, who was weak both from dancing and from years of running on alcohol, immediately replied, “You say there’s a drink I don’t know about? I doubt it. Is it high-proof vodka?”

I was embarrassed by the alcoholic’s naïve irreverence. But the dreamseller, finding it humorous, smiled. He was always able to relax in these tense situations. He looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, I specialize in the complicated ones.”

I thought about running right then and there. Following this social outcast was one thing. Following him side by side with a witless drunk was too much. Who knew what risks lay ahead?

T
HE DREAMSELLER, BARTHOLOMEW AND I TURNED TO BEGIN
our journey. As we were leaving, the crowd applauded. Some people even took photos. I had hoped for a discreet escape, but that idiot Honeymouth posed for pictures. I tried to lead him away without causing more of a scene. The last thing I wanted was to babysit a drunk. A few nearby reporters looked on and took notes.

We hadn’t walked three blocks before I started wondering, “What am I doing here? Where are we going?” But my new companion wasn’t thinking at all. He was just happy to be part of our merry band of men. Me? I was worried.

I looked ahead and tried to relax. The dreamseller watched me with a half-smile; he seemed to hear my doubts. I imagined we were heading to his humble home. Judging by his clothes, he seemed to be poor, but surely he must have a rented house or apartment. Maybe it wasn’t much to look at, but he was so insistent that we join him, I figured there must be enough room for his guests, Bartholomew and me. The thought of sleeping in the same room with that drunkard turned my stomach.

Maybe the room where I’d sleep would be simple but comfortable. Maybe the mattress would be worn but decent. Maybe the sheets would be old, but at least they’d be clean. Maybe
his refrigerator wasn’t packed, but I imagined there would be something healthy to eat. After all, I was hungry and exhausted. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . . I thought, but I wasn’t sure of anything.

Along the way, he waved at children and adults, helped a few people carry heavy bags. Bartholomew said hi to everyone, even trees and lampposts. I waved, too, but only not to seem out of place.

Most people responded with a smile. I wondered how the dreamseller knew all of them. But, of course, he didn’t know them. It was just his way. He treated any stranger as an equal. And, in fact, to him, no person was a stranger. He greeted them because it made him happy. I had never seen such a lively, good-natured, sociable person. He didn’t just sell dreams, he lived them.

We walked for blocks, then for miles, but never seemed to be any closer to his home. A long while later, when I couldn’t walk any further, he stopped at an intersection and I let out a sigh of relief. We’re here, I thought to myself. Yes, he said, we had arrived.

I looked to the left and saw a row of identical, white, low-income homes with small porches. I scratched my head and thought, “The houses look really small. They can’t have three bedrooms.”

Then the dreamseller looked down the other street. Behind a bridge was a tall apartment building that looked to have about eight rooms per floor, like a pigeon coop for people. It looked even more cramped than the row houses.

Remembering my own students, I said to myself, “I’m not going to complain. It’ll just be a tough night and that’s that.” The dreamseller saw the look on my face and said, “Don’t worry. There’s plenty of room.”

Trying to disguise my worry, I asked calmly, “So what floor is your apartment on?”

“My apartment? My apartment is the world,” he said calmly.

“I like that apartment,” Bartholomew said.

Confused, I asked, “What do you mean?”

He explained:

“Foxes have their dens, the birds of the sky their nests, but the dreamseller has no fixed address to lay his head.”

If I was nervous before, I really worried when he started quoting Jesus Christ. Did this man think he was the Messiah? Could he be having a psychotic break? Or would he have one later? I mean, he seemed highly intelligent. And he speaks of God in a secular way. But I couldn’t help wonder who this man was. And what I was getting myself into.

“Don’t worry,” the dreamseller said, “I’m not Him. I only try to understand Him.”

“You’re not who?” I asked, not following.

“I’m not Jesus Christ. Like I said, I’m just the least of his brethren. I just try to understand him,” he replied calmly.

“But who are you?” I repeated anxiously, seeking a fuller explanation that never seemed to come.

He said emphatically, “I’ve already told you who I am. Don’t you believe in me?”

Bartholomew should have kept quiet just then, but he didn’t have it in him. He tried to correct me by saying, “You don’t believe he’s the alien commander.”