Waking
Dreams
by Lauren Freyer
I
stumbled into some stinky liquor store at ten to two
discussing nipples really loudly. Well, it wasnt
really a nipple discussion. Ive just always
thought its really funny when they put the tiniest
little red dots over nipples on porn mags. Its
supposed to be censorship but theres nothing
left to imagine; it just draws more attention to the
breasts. So I was yelling at my friend Aston that
I would never give these magazines a second look if
it werent for these little red dots. He said
that they scream "Forbidden Nipple." I think
thats some weird film I havent seen or
book I havent read, but Astons full of
obscure titles that hes so shocked Ive
never heard of. Then Ill go out and rent the
movie or buy the paperback and be disturbed for like,
the next three days.
So, I was trying to decide which 40 Im gonna
buy, and screaming about porn mags and strip clubs,
(because the conversation had taken us there) and
I noticed this small Chinese guy who had to be, like
70 or something, stocking orange juice. He looked
sad, and disappointed, he kept looking up at me and
shaking his little head. He had a God Bless America
pin on his argyle sweater vest, and I thought to myself,
Holy Fuck! Here I am going on about naked women when
our nation is on the verge of starting the third world
war. Then I thought to myself that life is short,
so I said nipples one more time only to finish my
point and grabbed a Steel Reserve.
Something about walking around San Francisco with
an open container is so fulfilling, especially after
getting drunk at a party where no one knows who you
are. I should have started dancing weird or making
up stories about where Im from. "Yeah,
I just moved here from Amarillo, Texas!" But
then it could get awkward if the other persons
like, "Oh my God! Me Too!" Then youd
either have to agree with everything the other person
said, or give up and apologize.
I asked Aston if he had any pot while we were walking
up Hayes, past this bar hed been trying to get
me to go into. I said I was too drunk and asked him
again if he had any pot. He waved to the bartender
through the window and said that her name was Melinda
and she didnt have a clue who he was. No, he
didnt have any pot so he handed me the 40, which
I drank.
Sometimes, a girls just gotta get on a swing
set; its like a cheap high and Ive never
given up my addiction. Aston was telling me to stop
bitching about it, that we were headed towards a park
and that Id better shut up or he would give
AA my number and tell them I really needed friends.
Right at the entrance to the park there was this smooth
looking brother holding a brown paper bag like ours.
He yelled out "damn!" as I sauntered under
the streetlight, continuing to yell to Aston that
I was cute and that he should take me to Hollywood.
Aston started laughing and told the guy that Hollywood
was his beds name. I glared at both of them
and ran into the park, only to be met with the blinding
absence of light.
I felt tired and lonely all of a sudden, upset with
the fact that my red lipstick was bleeding and that
the wind had tortured my hair to a point of no return.
I stood in a dark patch of the park, clutching my
40 with homemade angora mittens that I made from an
old sweater on a rainy night. I looked around for
Aston who was peeing in a bush somewhere. A golden
retriever came out from around the corner, sniffing
the ground. I knew his owner had to be right behind
him and might be curious about some random girl standing
really still in a park by herself. I didnt care
that I had a brown paper bag in my hands; after all,
its not my fault that this country has meaningless
open container laws. I was just worried that this
guy was gonna want to talk to me, or ask me why I
was alone or something else creepy. So I turned my
back and stumbled up the path to Astons bush,
just as he was zipping up.
We walked down the grass hill further into the park,
and Aston said we were moseying. I thought of it more
as a tromp because the grass was getting my shoes
wet. I think I made some comment about Converse being
modern day moccasins, and he just had to adamantly
disagree and then say that there was a particular
smell that he attached to moccasins, and that it was
more of a funk than a smell. We talked for a while
about smell being the number one trigger of memory,
and how we could possibly write about it better.
I ranted for a minute about how smell isnt as
important as action and how most of my characters
smoke, because I smoke and it gives me a break both
in my writing and in life. Did that mean that when
Aston is reading about a character lighting a cigarette
that he automatically thinks of the smell of an ashtray?
He said no, he meant more like new car smell reminding
him of the first time he got it on in the backseat
of a car. We fell silent; both knowing it was that
French model hussy tramp Jasmine. Up until about a
week ago, I had always thought he lost his cherry
to that older punk rock guru guy who was always slapping
Astons ass and glaring at me. Then inevitably,
hed pull my hair and say something like, "Black
is soooo passe, you really should go blonde."
Aston climbed up on a gnarled tree stump and wiped
some crap off his black pea coat. I told him he looked
cute and the streetlight above us went out. In the
dark again, I decided I wanted love, so I climbed
up on the stump next to Aston and leaned over to whisper
loud somethings in his ear. The white carnation I
was wearing behind my ear fell out. I jumped down
to the ground, frantically searching for it, inconsolably
upset at the fact that it would be all dirty and somehow
Id convinced myself that I would be just like
everyone else without it. I said that last bit aloud
and the streetlight came back on. Aston shook his
head at me, drank the last of the 40, threw it in
the trash, and walked away. I lit a cigarette, wondering
how long he would go before turning back.
I stomped the filter into the ground when I saw Astons
silhouette on the horizon. When he got to the stump,
I told him I was leaving, not wanting to look him
in the eye. He pulled a carnation out from behind
his back. "For a friend." He said, and smiled,
a cheap platonic hug followed.
On the way home I decided to take a bus instead of
walking or crawling. No one is in their right mind
on a MUNI bus at 4 a.m. There were three (or maybe
only two) smelly Haight street kids sitting near the
driver. They were all dressed in black and one of
them wearing a clown mask knew my name. I freaked
out and ran past some guy that had a cardboard sign
that said "I am the messiah and I want revenge."
It looked like it had been written in pink lipstick
and I wondered how this guy came across a tube of
lipstick, or maybe I didnt want to know.
I took a seat by a sleeping paramedic, right across
from a young punk rock girl who was blasting Siouxsie
and the Banshees on her Walkman. I smiled because
she was cute, and could have been me three years ago,
but she glared at me and continued to stare out the
window. I really should have known better, thats
what I would have done when I was kinderpunk too.
That night I dreamt that Aston never came back through
the park, and I had to wait there for eternity with
some crusty kid in a clown mask, a smooth black man
from Amarillo, Texas and a paramedic who thought he
was a messiah. Later in the dream, I smoked some pot
and ended up eyeing an antique ashtray in a strip
club.
Waking up the next morning I was able to remember
aspects of my night that had transferred over into
sleep. Even silence, which seems to never exist in
dreams, was there and just as awkward as an unrequited
platonic love. Life, dreams, and the never ending
need to assess ones situation, even the subconscious.
I stumbled out of bed at half past one, peeling a
sweaty carnation from my pillowcase; careful not to
wake the pretty boy curled up in my bed. His black
pea coat was hanging on the bedpost stained with Jack
Daniels from when he found me. Quietly, I threw on
a simple black dress thinking about coffee, and why
it is that people in sweatpants only seem to exist
on Sundays.