Dreamer Easy

Bohemian

10.          Bohemian


         Getting out was a lot easier than getting in. Out from that door there was a hall, but not a gaudy, disgusting one like he’d seen before. It was blue and cheery and lit very well. People were walking by in normal clothing, chatting with each other and fiddling with papers. There were exit signs on the ceiling, too. They pointed to other exit signs which pointed to other hallways, which Jack followed, eventually ending up where he had began.

         As he stepped through the final door, Jack realized that the room he found himself in was one he had been in before. It was the lobby.

         The lobby was just as he remembered it, however long ago it had been. The walls were pale and ugly and the floors were grimy and white. The block in the wall was exactly where he remembered it, too. The small room it contained was separated by glass, and that same aged security guard sat behind it watching television. There was a coffee table and two chairs which two normal looking people were currently sitting on. There was a man and a woman. They were arguing about something. Jack thought that they must be married or engaged.

         As he reached the center of the room he realized something was different from how he remembered. He turned around towards the block in the wall. The door he had just come out of sat in plain sight directly to the right of the dreadful elevator. He wondered how he had not noticed it before.

         Normally, Jack Dresden would be curious enough to investigate. But he was mentally exhausted, and decided to let riddles rest and go home. He figured he’d never be back here again, anyway.

         Exiting the building, Jack was instantly refreshed by the cool morning breeze. He checked his watch. It was 9:35 AM. He had been in there for a long, long time.
         He walked casually down the street, greatly relieved at being able to go home. He passed the usual morning traffic, both vehicle and pedestrian. The morning was pleasant and bright—brighter than usual—and the air was crisp and clean. It seemed to be welcoming him back with its fresh air, which he breathed in and felt heavenly.

         The mind of Jack Dresden was unusually at ease. It had been tired of all of that ruckus that had buzzed around inside it while in that terrible place. It was taking a break and enjoying a pleasant early morning walk. There were things to think about, but not now. Not at that moment.

         Halfway home, a strange argument caught Jack’s attention. To his right, in the street, a cop car sat with its lights on. There was an officer in it lounging. The other cop was up and about hassling a strange looking man. The man had a brown mess of hair, circular glasses, and wore a long, rust-colored coat. He was semi-unshaven and seemed to be relentlessly arguing with the officer.

         “Get off me you buffoon!” the man said. The officer was gripping his right arm, and the strange-looking man was waving it wildly in an attempt to release it.

         “I know you!” said the officer. “You’re that slanderer!”

         “I’m no slanderer, you bastard! Let go of me!”

         “You’re that writer,” the cop said, angrily. “The one trying to give us cops a bad name!” He gripped the man harder.

         “Jesus! Lay off!” the man screamed.  “You’re the one’s being idiots. Everyone has a right to know…Ahh! Christ!” The cop was twisting his arm.

         “If I see you around here again, you’re dead meat.” the cop threatened.

         “I’ve got…Ahhh!” the man screamed. “I’ve got the bloody first amendment on my side!”

         “What? Are you threatening me?” the cop asked. He threw the man on the ground and took out his gun. “I’ve got it too, you see!”

         “That’s the second amendment, you idiot!” the man yelled from the ground.

         “Fuck, I don’t care!” the cop said. “If I could shoot you, I would, you insurgent freak!”

         “I’m an insurgent now? That’s rich.” the man responded sarcastically.

         At this point the cop in the car was exiting the vehicle and coming to see what was going on. After briefly talking to his partner, he convinced the angered cop to holster his weapon.

         “You’re lucky, you freak,” he said as he began walking back to the police car.

         “Ha! That’s right, you bloody fool! Run away, go on!” the man yelled. “You couldn’t shoot me if you tried!”

         With this remark, the angered cop turned around and ran at the man with an open first, but was quickly restrained by his partner, who apparently had more sense than he.

After calming him down, they both walked towards the car and got in.

         “And its libel, not slander, you idiot!” the man on the ground yelled as they drove off.

         Jack, confused by the occurrence, walked over to the man lying on the ground. He lent him his hand and helped him up.

         “Are you alright?” Jack asked.

         The man brushed himself off a little, adjusted his coat, and looked up at Jack. He smiled and then put out his hand.

         “Thanks,” he said. “I’m Porterman Hardy.” Jack took his hand and shook it firmly.

         “Jack Dresden. Nice to meet you.”

         “Likewise. Sorry you had to see all that,” he said.

         “Oh, it’s ok. I don’t mind.”

         “Hmmm…” Porterman said. “You look like an interesting fellow. Walk with me?”

         “Umm…I suppose,” Jack said reluctantly. “Where are you going?”

         “Hmm…well, I don’t know.” he said and began walking. Jack stepped up next to him and began walking as well.

         “Those freaking cops…Jesus,” he said. “I hate them.”

         “My father was a cop,” said Jack. Porterman stopped walking and looked towards Jack.

         “I’m sorry,” he said.

         “He’s not anymore,” Jack responded.

         “Well, that’s good. They’ve gone bad, you know.”

         “Yeah, I kinda do.”

         Porterman reached a tiled sidewalk and began walking terribly odd. He seemed to avoid cracks. Jack tried to keep pace, but discovered there was none, and eventually accepted the fact that he must have looked extremely funny following a man who was stepping rather erratically.

         “So what brings you to this side of town early in the morning?” asked Porterman.

         “An…um…” Jack swallowed. “An interview.”

         “Ah,” said Porterman. “I take it that it didn’t go so well.”

         “Eh…not really.”

         “Well that’s okay,” he said. “It’s perfectly fine to not have a job.”

         Jack turned to him confused. “It is?”

         “Yes,” he said. “I mean, I don’t have a job and look at me.” Jack noticed that he looked kind of like a drunk homeless man.

         “The point is, son…” he continued. “You don’t need a job to be successful.”

         “Hmm…I guess not,” Jack said. “Well, are you successful?”

         “Successful enough,” he said. “But there’s a fine line between being a success and being successful.”

         “Well what’s the difference?” Jack asked.

         “Being a success is objective,” he said.

         Jack thought about this a little while they walked. They passed large buildings and fields. Little children were playing in them.

         “Well, what do you do?” Jack asked.

         “You mean like, for money?”

         “Yeah. What do you do for money?”

         “Hmm…well,” Porterman began. “Anything I want to, I suppose. I write a lot. And think. Thinking is my favorite.”

         “You’re paid to think?”

         “Sometimes,” he said.

         “Can any one do that?” Jack asked.

         “Only if they can think,” Hardy said, “You know, properly.”

         “Hmm, yes,” Porterman looked forward and nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.”

         “Are you a thinker, Jack?”

         “Yes,” he responded.

         “That’s good,” said Porterman. “We need more thinkers in this world.”

         “I suppose we do,” said Jack. “I suppose we do.”

         That evening, Jack was invited to Porterman’s house for supper, which he happily attended, not even stopping by his own apartment to pick anything up. The time between their first meeting and supper was occupied by walking about discussing random bits of insight Hardy came up with while watching people pass by. Jack was very intrigued by the man, who spoke his mind honestly every time, never fearing contempt or disagreement. Jack didn’t understand or agree with everything Hardy said, but he definitely listened. Jack respected a man that had the courage to say whatever he wanted to.
         
         Porterman Hardy had an apartment in the developing part of town, although it had been there forever. It was nice and big, and he had apparently lived there for many, many years. He had told Jack earlier that he was in his mid forties, and had lived in the same apartment for almost two decades.

         The place was uniformly brown. A scholarly color, it accentuated the simple furniture quite nicely. Some could say the apartment was drab, but Jack found it to be cozy and somewhat enchanting. The whole apartment looked something like a study, although it lacked a fireplace. The living room had no television, one leather reclining chair, a lamp, and a small square footrest. Almost every wall in the house had a bookshelf on it filled with books. The only two exceptions were the wall which housed the refrigerator and the sink, and one of the walls in the laundry room that were occupied by the washer and dryer. There were also books lying about on random parts of the floor, stacked almost waist high, and some more half-open on the dully brown dining table.

         Upon entering the apartment Jack’s first question pertained to the numerous amounts of books. This question began with “Wow…” and ended with “Have you read all these?”

         The answer, obviously, was no, but Porterman declared that if he had no obligations and all the time in the world he would have.

         Jack’s next question was also about the books. It was about the ordering.
         “Are these organized in any particular way?” Jack asked. Hardy had apparently been ready for this question as well.

         “No, there isn’t any particular order to the books, as there isn’t any particular order to which I read them.” Jack thought that was an interesting response.

         “I must confess, though,” he continued. “The ones lying upon my bed have…how shall I say…approached something of an order, as I do prefer fiction before bed. Namely, mystery.”

         “Hmm…” he started again. “And the ones in the commode are mostly poetry as well, simply because they can be read in one sitting.”

         Porterman seemed to be babbling to himself, looking down at his hands and counting on his fingers.

         “Yes, I suppose that’s correct,” he said. “So I guess you could say that an order has emerged.”

         Dinner was an interesting affair as well. Porterman made grilled cheese and soup, which Jack didn’t object to, but thought was odd for an evening meal. Porterman explained that he had had the same meal every night since he was thirty-five. He told Jack that it hadn’t yet gotten old.

         Mid-way through the meal, Porterman, whose chat was incessant, began to speak yet again, this time about an even less-significant matter. Jack noticed that almost everything Hardy said was non-sequitur, with almost nothing relating back to his previous commentary.

         “People have told me many times over dinner,” he began. “That Porterman is more of a last name…and Hardy more of a first.”

         Jack didn’t know how to respond and said: “Well, I have been wondering about that…”

         “You know, many people have told me that I should switch the ordering. Like, Hardy Porterman. You know what I say to them, eh?”

         Jack looked up from slurping his soup. It was chicken noodle.

         “Hmm?” he asked with a mouthful of broth.

         “I say that order doesn’t matter.”

         Hardy took a bite out of his sandwich. It had been cut into four triangles, while Jack’s was still a whole square.

         “I suppose…” Jack said.

         Porterman Hardy looked up. He took a sip of his water while he waved his free hand about. After swallowing, he started again.

         “It’s true,” he said. “I mean, I believe it. If you see a movie backwards it still makes sense, right?”

         “Not really,” Jack replied.

         “Well, it does to me,” he said as he began spooning his soup. There was a momentary silence, so Jack continued eating.

         “As far as I’m concerned,” Porterman said. “Whether or not I make sense to other people doesn’t matter, what matters is whether or not I make sense to myself.”

         Jack looked up from his grilled cheese. “You mean like being honest with yourself?” he asked.

         “Hmm? Yes, something like that,” responded Porterman.
         There was an awkward silence for a while at the table. Both Jack and Porterman finished their meals peacefully. Jack took a sip of his water, and then sighed deeply.
         “Being honest with myself is, well…” he began. “It’s a bit hard today.”

         Porterman got up with his plate and silverware and walked over to the sink. He turned on the faucet and began rinsing dishes.

         “Why is it difficult?” he asked while still facing away from the table.

         “Well,” Jack began. “I’ve had a very strange couple of days.”
         
         Jack Dresden had obviously trusted Porterman Hardy, having had spent most of the day chatting with him, as he relayed most of his intriguing story over to his surprisingly quiet listener. He included most of the interesting bits, too, and even the dream with Zoe. Porterman had moved around a bit throughout the story, and at the end found himself sitting on his leather recliner with his hands folded. Jack sat on the footrest.

         “Hmm…” Hardy began. “An interesting tale.”

         Jack grew uneasy, and quickly realized how insane his story must have sounded. He hoped that Porterman wouldn’t respond by recommending a mental health professional.

         “Well, I don’t have a great background in psychoanalysis, but,” Hardy began. “I am, however, reminded of a quote by C.G. Jung...one of my favorites.”

         Porterman began speaking slowly and heavily.

         “Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens.”

         Jack contemplated this quote for a little while. The two men were sitting opposite each other in the living room. Porterman turned the lamp on and began flipping through one of his books. It was The Brothers Karamazov, hardback Classic Edition. The spine’s covering was flayed.

         “Do you think I should go back there?” Jack finally asked.

         Porterman peered up from the book, his glasses reflecting light from the lamp.
         “If you feel you should…” he said. “I mean, it’s ultimately your choice. But if you feel that’s where you need to go, then you should.”

         “But they think there’s something wrong with me there,” Jack said.

         “Listen, Jack. I’ll tell you a little secret,” Porterman said, closing his book. Jack leaned closer to listen in.

         “There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with anybody, there are just people who don’t fit into society’s current shape as well as others. And you, my boy, are a square peg in a round hole.”

         “Hmm…” Jack started. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

         Porterman placed his book on one of the piles.

         “You’re obviously conflicted with something right now,” he began. “If you have to confront the enemy to find yourself, then that’s just something you’ve got to do.”

         Jack nodded in agreement.

         “But don’t let me shape your thought, do what you want. Thinking isn’t illegal yet,” Hardy said.

         Jack took a deep breath and looked at the floor in thought. The past two days had been mind-bending, and he hated to think that he would go back to that wretched place tomorrow, but he felt deep within himself that there was something there unresolved.

         “Mr. Hardy…” Jack said slowly.

         “Call me Porterman, please.”

         “Alright, well, Porterman…” Jack began. “How do you remain yourself in a world like this?”

         “Hmm…” Hardy began. “If you’re asking me what I think you are, then you’re a lot more interesting than I thought.”

         “What I mean is…How can you be your own person when the rest of the world’s moving everyone else towards commonality? You know, how can you remain who you are while still functioning just as well as everyone else? How can you defend your true nature while not surrendering to mass—I dunno—convention?”

         Porterman smiled, for this had been the question he had hoped for.

         “Mr. Dresden,” he began. “This is the single most paradoxical question one can ask in this day and age. You see, there is and always will be a pull towards being ‘not you’, and you may believe it to be easier, and at some times, it will be easier. But the most important thing of our existence is that we must exist uniquely—influenced by no-one but ourselves and our experience—and that we somehow must balance the world’s confining, self-consuming sameness that society pushes everyone towards with what we have and always will be. Mr. Dresden, you must ask yourself one question and one question alone in order to cross the gap from hapless wanderer to self-empowering god, and that question is simple: ‘How are you not yourself?’

         And after answering this question, Mr. Dresden, you don’t have to worry any longer, because you have found out who and what you are, and you can finally be at peace with the rest of the universe.”

         Right?