Enlarging a dream fragment

By ShevlinSebastian

When I awokeon a recent morning, I saw an image of me standing on a sidewalk and staring ata movie hall on the opposite side.

I expandedon the image later in the day.

This waswhat I wrote:

I am standing ona pavement. Opposite me, there is a huge billboard which is advertising a film.The movie hall is behind it. I stare at the board. People are walking past,left to right, right to left. Cars are also going past.

A man walks downthe street. He wears a white suit and white shoes. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Hestops in front of me.

I say, “Who areyou?” 

He turns to lookat me. Slight stubble on his upper lip. 

“I am the heroof this film,” he says, pointing at the billboard. 

“And your name?”I ask. 

“Chris Jones,”he replies. 

“You came to seethe audience's reaction?” I say. 

“Exactly,” hesays. “Do you want to see it?”

“Sure, why not,if you are buying the ticket?” I say. 

Chris grins andsays, “Sure, of course.” 

We cross thestreet. He buys the tickets at the counter. We enter the foyer and climb thesteps to the first floor. 

As we standoutside the door of the hall, I say, “Is there time for a chat?” 

Chris looks athis watch. Then he nods and says, “About two minutes.” 

I ask about hislife.

Chris isoriginally from Burbank, California. His father was a chef, his mother ateacher. They did not discourage him when he said he wanted to be anactor. 

“Just see thatyou have a talent for acting,” his father Eddie said. 

“And do you?” Isay. 

Chrissmiles. 

“Not majorleague,” he says. “So far, it’s second tier.” 

“Very honest,” Isay, as I pat his arm in appreciation and add, “Why have you come into mydream?”

Chris narrows hiseyes and says, “I didn’t know I am in a dream.”

“Yes, you are,”I say. “Mine.” 

Chris stares atme.

“I don’t knowwhy I have come,” he says.  

“Maybe yourepresent an archetype,” I say. 

“What does thatmean?” he says. 

“Never mind,” Isay. “Let’s enjoy the movie.” 

When Chris sits,his knees almost hit the head of the person sitting in front of him. ‘Wow, longlegs,’ I think. 

We watchsilently. There is not much of a crowd. Or a crowd reaction. People remainquiet throughout. No claps or standing ovations. Occasionally, Chris looksaround. Then he rubs his hand through his hair in slow motion. I know he is notfeeling good. I see him look once or twice at the ceiling. 

When the moviegets over, we walk out silently. 

On the road, heturns to look at me and said, “So what do you think?”

I know I have tobe diplomatic.

“It’s okay,” Isaid. 

He knows I havebeen polite. 

“Let’s havesomething,” he said.

We walk into acafe.

He orders a caféau lait and cookies. I do the same. 

We look at eachother. 

“I am sorry,” Isaid. 

“Yeah, the filmis not doing well,” he said. “They will yank it after the last show onThursday.” 

I nod. 

“Hits andmisses,” he said. “That’s what life is all about. You may have a hit by meetingthe right woman who becomes your wife, but your film can be a flop.”

We laughspontaneously. 

“Well said,” Ireply. 

“Thank you,” hesaid, as he takes a sip of his coffee. I also sip from my cup. 

I reach out andshake his hand. 

“Look, it’s timefor me to get up,” I said. “I have to bring this dream to an end. Morningchores await me. Buying milk, reading the newspaper, making breakfast.” 

He nods, “Okay,it was nice to have met you.” 

We shake hands.

I open my eyesand get out of bed.