James

I saw James. He was standing in a small plowed field. A road ran by the end, and an old barn with sides covered with tin flashing stood nearby. He stood squinting in the sunlight, looking all around him. He seemed surprised, but not alarmed to find himself there. He was wearing the clothes I’d seen him in when he came home from work yesterday – grey dress slacks and a blue oxford, a striped tie – but his feet were bare and sunk into the soft brown soil.

It had been day, but suddenly now it was night, and the sound of crickets chirping in cadence was filling the air, unnaturally loud. I saw an older man approach from the far end of the field. He wore work clothes – brown khakis, a plaid shirt with snap buttons, sneakers with Velcro straps, a dirty cap. He walked with a slight limp, and struggled a bit as he crossed to face James.

“Hello,” James said with a smile. He seemed to know the man. It was a pleasant greeting, but unnatural somehow.

“James,” the older man said, looking down on him. “You’re wrong.”

“Wrong? Wrong about what?” James seemed confused and concerned.

“No, that ain’t what I mean.” The old man spoke slowly, a deep southern drawl. He now stared past James, over his head. “I mean you’re at fault – guilty of wrong.”

“Why? What have I done?” I could tell the old man’s words had upset him.

“You are a good man, James. Raised to be one. But you ain’t living that way.”

James paused for a moment, thinking. His eyes began to well with tears.

“I know,” he was quiet now, with his head down. “I’m sorry.”

“You ain’t where you belong, James, and you’re worse for it. You were meant for more than this. You trust me on that.”

He placed a hand on James’ shoulder. They stood in silence. Finally, James spoke again.

“I’m so sorry,” is all he could say. He put his face in his hands and sobbed.

The old man withdrew his hand and turned to walk away. His feet were bare now, too.

“I’m so sorry.”

***


I woke with a start, and sat up in bed. I was in my apartment, eleven stories up. My heart was racing. From the window I could see the city was still.

James was beside me, still sleeping. I slid out of bed and threw on my robe – it’s always cold in my apartment. I shuffled quickly across the bedroom and into the bathroom, closing the door before I turned on the light. My hands were shaking. What a crazy fucking dream. I sat down on the toilet lid and ran my hands through my hair. Why was I crying? I stood up to the sink and splashed water on my face.

“Just a dream, Jules,” I told myself.

I looked at my puffy eyes, my thin frame, my small boobs. 3am is the perfect time to get critical. Instead, I turned my thoughts back to the dream. Seriously, what the fuck was that all about? It didn’t even make any sense. I mean, if dreams are supposed to come from somewhere in our subconscious, then where the hell did that come from?

To tell the truth, I didn’t even think all that much of James. He’s a good guy, sure, but honestly I was thinking about dumping him. He was too much of a boy scout – too boring. I mean don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have been dating him if he was a stick in the mud, and the southern charm was cute at first, but I guess what was bothering me was that there was nothing special about him. Nothing exciting or different.

He was just James – pretty good at his job, pretty funny, pretty good in bed… pretty good at everything, not great at anything. When I met him I was just glad he was decent-looking and sane, as opposed to freakishly good looking and totally batshit-fucking-loco like Brad, the guy before him. But now I was bored. “I deserve someone exceptional, not acceptable,” I would tell my friends.

So why this dream? Why the field? Why the bare feet? Why the calling to something “more.”

I stood for a few minutes more, blinking at myself in the mirror, examining my bloodshot eyes.

“That must be it.” I thought. “I wish James was something special, something more, and it manifested itself in this crazy dream, where some old man is telling him to be more.” But could that really be it? Seemed kind of simple.

Maybe it was. I came to a decision then – was going to end things with James in the morning. I felt justified in that. After all, it had come to me in a dream, hadn’t it?

I hesitated. “But what about the part about him being guilty of wrong – of not living like a ‘good man’?” I thought again. “That’s not true, James is a good man. He’s one of the best men I know.”

I dismissed the thought. Dreams don’t have to make perfect sense. It’s the general message that matters, I told myself. I flicked off the light and shuffled back to bed. As I was about to climb in I noticed something: James was shaking. His back was to me, and he was curled into a ball – not the way he usually sleeps – and his whole body was moving with small, rhythmic jerks.

I walked around to his side of the bed. I froze.

He was lying there, still asleep, sobbing with his face in his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he cried quietly. Not to me, but into his palms.

“I’m so sorry.”


***