The Reality of a Dream

Four o’clock in the morning. Andrew Thompson did not have to be awake for more than two hours. Yet here he sat on the faded tan sofa his parents had bought him as a housewarming gift just last year, with a half-empty glass of water in one hand and an empty bottle of Tylenol in the other. Andrew would have preferred to have taken two capsules, but there had only been one in the bottle, and after twenty minutes he was yet to feel the effects.

From his place on the couch he gazed through the living room window on the front of the house…well, attempted to gaze would be more accurate. Though the sky seemed clear now, there was obvious evidence that rain had come to town while Andrew had slept. The streets and driveways of the neighborhood were littered with glistening puddles, small and large. The most apparent sign was the cause of Andrew’s difficulty seeing through the windows: tiny droplets of water stuck to the glass that distorted the lights of the street lamps beyond. From the looks of things it had rained hard. Andrew wished he had been woken up by the falling waters or a clap of thunder rather than what had him sitting on the sofa with an empty bottle of painkillers.

Andrew did not usually receive headaches in his sleep, and he was not known for having nightmares. But this night he had woken from a very unusual and very real dream. So real in fact, that when he had awoken it took him a few moments to realize why he was laying in bed in some dark room rather than on the sunlit fields of paradise. His headache and incredible exhaustion brought on by a rough night’s sleep were obscuring some of the finer details of his dream, but he remembered sitting in the most beautiful landscape he had ever seen, and he was pretty sure he had not been human. But the part of the dream that drew his attention even more than his lack of humanity was that at the very end he felt like he had been hit in the head, hard. He blamed this rude awakening as the cause of his current migraine, which centered just behind his left temple; the exact same place where he felt he had been struck in the dream.

But the dream was gone, and what mattered to Andrew now was the here and now, the real world. What mattered here was getting past the pain in his head, which still felt like it had a stampede running the left side of his skull, and figuring out what to do for the next two hours. Of course, he could try to go back to sleep, but he knew that if he did that he would wake up more tired for work than he already was. He could make something to eat, but he was not even close to hungry; his massive headache also causing him bouts of nausea. An idea had come to him once to call in sick for work, but he had tried to convince himself he would be fine and that once he arrived at the warehouse this migraine would be a thing of the past. But deep down the decision to go to work or not had already been made for him.

Some small part of Andrew had selfishly convinced him that he deserved a day off, and that a day where he might be incapable of giving it his all was the perfect day to take. But Andrew refused to let a simple headache defeat him, and promised himself that as soon as his ailment was gone—surely as soon as it had come—he would prepare himself to take on the day and head in to work early, no matter the time.

An hour passed…Andrew did not feel better.

With a growing feeling of guilt he gave in to the little voice in his head, and decided he would not be leaving the house today. He reached for the black telephone that sat on the small square table beside the couch, nearly knocking it to floor in the process. Finally, with the phone secured in his hands he pulled the number for the warehouse from his mental list of contacts, and proceeded to dial. The phone rang once, twice, three times and still no answer; any supervisor would have labeled this unacceptable, but that was not Andrew’s job, nor was answering the phones, so he did not concern himself with it. But someone had to answer eventually. Five in the morning may have been early, but there was always someone at the warehouse. Finally, halfway through the fourth ring Andrew heard the phone be answered.

“Smith and Xavier Furnishing Warehouse, how can I help you?”

“Royce? Is that you?” Andrew asked in an obviously exhausted voice which betrayed the slightest hint of surprise.

“Andrew? What are you doing calling the warehouse at five in the morning?” Royce Macintyre. Andrew’s only remaining friend from school, and probably his best.

“What are you doing working at the warehouse at five in the morning?”

“I took an early shift today, remember? Early to get to work, early to go home.”

“Well, listen…” Andrew hadn’t called to discuss the work hours of his colleagues, but to ensure he wouldn’t have to join them today, “I’ve been up for over an hour feeling like crap. My head feels like someone threw it in to oncoming traffic. You see where I’m going with this?”

“Oh yeah, I see exactly what you’re getting at.” Andrew could practically hear Royce winking; obviously his best friend did not believe him. “Don’t worry Andy, I’ll cover for you. You just stay in bed and don’t stress yourself.” Royce said in a motherly tone.

“Thanks, mom. And don’t call me Andy” Andrew said with a smile. People had made a joke of calling him Andy almost his whole life because they knew he hated being called that. Truth be told, he didn’t hate it, he just preferred his real name against the shortened version of it, and he always played along by saying ‘don’t call me Andy.’

“Yeah, yeah I got you. And don’t call me Roy.” Royce said in a mocking tone.

“I never do.” Andrew hung up and let out a long contented sigh. Most exchanges with Royce ended that way, with the long-standing inside joke between the two friends of ‘don’t call me by my nickname.’ This custom had been a point in their friendship almost since the day they met in eighth grade. It was not the usual scenario with one of them being the new student and they hit it off and become best friends immediately. In fact, they had been going to the same school for several years, but they had never officially met until the day when a different kid—Jared—became the new student.

Andrew had seen Jared the moment he walked through the doors on his first day, and did what every student does when a new kid shows up: observe. Jared’s dirty-blond hair had curled down over his ears, and nearly covered his eyebrows. He was average height, about the same as Andrew was, but looked a little skinnier than most. Andrew had only ever really spoken to Jared once in his life, and that was when he met Royce Macintyre. Royce was African-American, and this had never been a problem for anyone he met in his life. The community he and Andrew had grown up in did not have families with those sorts of issues…except Jared’s.

The moment Jared laid eyes on Royce in the halls during lunch hour, he lit a fire that would form the bonds of friendship between two thirteen year-olds who had never spoken to each other, and ensure that he himself would not experience many of the same bonds at his new school. Jared walked up to Royce and without provocation let out an endless string of unthinkable insults and curses that could have only been influenced by his parents’ behavior. Having never been in this position before, Royce was at first unsure how to react. But as Jared continued Royce became more and more sure he wanted to punch this kid dead in the face. He would have too, if another student hadn’t been walking by and done the job for him.

Jared went home with a bloody nose his first day at his new school, and no one cared what his parents said or did, or felt any sympathy for him as word spread about what had happened.

Sometimes Andrew wondered how his life would be different if he had not punched out the new kid's lights in eighth grade. He wondered if he and Royce would have ever become friends or even acquaintances if it hadn’t been for Jared. There could even be a chance that it would not have been Royce Macintyre and Andrew Thompson that had just spoken on the phone moments ago about the latter’s headache. But now that that call had been made, Andrew Thompson had the rest of the day to himself, and he knew exactly how he wanted to start it.

He leaned over the arm of the couch to grab a maroon colored silk blanket that sat on the floor—also a gift from his parents—and wrap himself up in a cocoon of his own body heat. Facing the window—clearer now than it had been when he arrived here—he let his eyelids close over his eyes to accept nature’s remedy to sickness: sleep.

Hopefully this time he wouldn’t dream of being kicked in the head.