DREAM ON

I remember sitting at a very large wooden desk, being interviewed for a job by a beautiful, green -eyed, blonde, the head-honcho of an ad agency looking for a writer to handle a new account she and her bunch had just pitched for and won.

She struck me at first as a tough bitch - the introduction was sterile and almost unfriendly - but redeemed herself , a little later.

I had suddenly stood up and walked across the room to study a large picture hanging on the wall to the right of me, which had caught my attention.

I stood before the picture, it must have been 4 x 3 meters in size at least; a sort of collage of maps and other obscure pictures and little portraits mounted in an impressive frame.

I was completely - and unintentionally - ignoring her.

I turned to look at her. She was smiling.

“Do you like that picture?”

“I think it's interesting”

“If you go down the passage, right at the end is a little room, you can't miss it, just open and enter and you'll see a few more interesting pictures”

Her smile now beamed at me with a little glee in it.

It was her redemption.

I nodded and found myself opening the door to this little room at the end of the passage.

I felt queasy as I stepped in.

Immediately, I noticed two large portraits hanging about a meter apart on the wall facing me as I opened the door. To the left of them - that is, my left from my standing position - on the adjoining wall, I noticed one other.

I took them in, in one swift glance.

The one on the right was a portrait of Christopher Columbus.

A dark, stern portrait of the man who had discovered the Americas, with arms crossed, hands clasping his shoulders, and a frightening scowl - almost a growl - on his face, against an embattled background of smoke and fire, ships and dismembered sailors. I could faintly hear the screams of the sailors and the terrifying din of cannons.

I wanted to study the painting to see whether it had been done in oils or acrylic.

I stepped within touching distance of the portrait, when, out of nowhere, Christopher Columbus threw a backhand that brushed my cheek.

Startled, I stepped back - a very large step - and stared at him in horror; his face now redder and blazing with anger.

I remember exclaiming “fucking arsehole”, as I moved across to the other picture, keeping my eyes on him; not taking any chances.

Like, what if he steps right out of the frame and takes me out?

The portrait hanging alongside was bright and cheery, with vibrant, though soft, calm colours: pinks, whites, creams, blended with subtle touches of greens and blues.

It was the late Liberace, the popular pianist, dripping with jewels, as usual. And with a warm, smiling face.

I could hear the light tinkling of piano keys and a melody softly resonating around me.

I was hesitant to take a closer look, when - from where I stood - I clearly saw him wink at me.

I stared in disbelief.

He winked again. I muttered to myself, “Some people never change”, and turned left to face the adjacent wall.

There hung a picture of Elvis Presley.

Thinking, “...now, Elvis... that's a really cool guy!”, I instantly - and unafraid for some reason - stepped right up to the picture to touch it. I noticed that it was mounted behind glass.

I looked closer and saw that it was a print.

Sort of like those Hollywood movie posters.

Elvis didn't move.

I thought about that - I mean, Columbus tried to slap me and Liberace winked provocatively at me - and concluded that it must have been because it was a print and not an “original”.

I was disappointed.

And even more so, intrigued and confused.

I was also relieved that Columbus' backhand didn't connect, and, on leaving the room, warily stepped backwards out the door, closing it quietly behind me.

I never got to see the blonde again. Interview over.

When I awoke from this dream, I was confused, though calm.

Intrigued, yet content; as if there were a mighty revelation awaiting me.

I got out of bed.

Did the usual ablutions and went to work.

It was only a few days later - at the office, during an important presentation to a major client - I began to reflect on the dream.

The interview. The blonde. The three portraits.

And why Elvis, the only print, was expressionless.

And then it hit me; striking with such clarity.

Listening to the all the bullshit being thrown around the room - egos bursting at their already inflated, stretched-to-the limit-seams - I concluded that the “symbol” of Elvis was plastic, hollywood shit; and that the others were for real.

After all that portrait of Elvis - bless his soul - was just a lifeless, cheap print.

“Its all so damn plastic!”

The dream repeated itself, over and over again. Fast-forward. Rewind. Forward, back.

It was pure repetition, by then.

And repetition is a definite clue.

I thought about the contrasts.

The blood and guts of conquest, war, destruction, agony and mayhem, however violent and disturbing, surrounding Columbus, were, despite all the horrors, very real and human.

The same went for the culture and softness of music, poetry and art; however effeminate the aura of Liberace. It too was real.

Gentle, slightly sexy; even sweetly decadent.

As for Elvis, he just didn't perform his old magic; trapped as he was.

I sighed. “Fuck, Elvis, they sure got to you! ”.

Short Story by Mario d'Offizi. (c) 2004

Published as “Read of the Month, October 2004 on www.jhblive.com