The Girls of His Dreams

By E.R. Wytrykus

When Jack Dancer awoke on the day his fiance, Leslie, would die in a bizarre bank robbery, he had no inkling that thereafter waking up become such a challenge. Once the dreams started Jack had no idea to where--or when--they would take him. Could he learn to control his dream state adventures and save Leslie, or was she gone forever while Jack would wander endlessly in a dreamland that would threaten his very sanity

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257620012

Book preview

coincidental.

One: Rose City, California

Monday, October 1, 2007

A glass of expensive Scotch, straight up, was not going to reverse the day’s events, nor erase the memory. The entire bottle, if he drank it all, maybe killing himself in the process, wouldn’t change what had happened. At least I wouldn’t be around to think about it anymore, Jack Dancer thought, an option he harbored for only a few seconds--long enough to make him break out in goose bumps.

He poured a generous dose of the amber liquid into the glass, spilling some on his hand in the process. He knew he wouldn’t consume the entire bottle, but wondered how many drinks he’d need to help him sleep a dreamless sleep. He licked his hand.

Jack Dancer slid open the door to the patio and stepped outside into the chilly night. The sky was clear and a full moon hung peacefully above, its light and the city lights below overwhelming any stars that might otherwise dot the sky. Normally Jack would appreciate the beauty of an exceptionally bright moon against a cloudless sky. Sometimes he’d get out his binoculars and try to count the craters. But tonight the moon did Jack no good except to remind him of times he and Leslie had sat on the patio and chatted while listening to the hum of the evening--the crickets, the breeze, occasionally the more sinister yowl of a coyote. Tonight the stars and the moon were nothing more than irritants. Anything of beauty was ugly tonight. Jack went inside and slammed the door shut.

If I’d been on time for once, he said yet again, talking aloud, the words bouncing off the walls of the house he and Leslie would have shared in another month. Actually they already shared it most of the time, though Leslie hadn’t yet given up her apartment, it being more convenient to her job and the lease not due to expire for three months.

I would have been with her; I could have stopped what happened. We would have been at the restaurant, laughing and talking about each other’s day. Leslie might have been boring me with more talk of the wedding plans, but oh, to be able to be bored by her wedding chatter once again.

Jack slumped into his favorite chair, took another sip of the Scotch, realizing he was wasting it because he hadn’t paid any intention to the taste. Of course, I don’t know how I would react in a dangerous situation; maybe I would have been a coward and not been able to help Leslie. He raised his glass in a mock salute.

Eighty bucks a bottle, Jack said. My birthday present.

Jack aimed the glass at the fireplace, a memory of some melodramatic movie fluttering in his brain, where the angry, frustrated, or miserably drunk character throws the glass into the fireplace, heavy mood music accenting the moment, as if the violence against the object solved anything. Okay, so it would give me a brief outlet for my emotions; big deal. Don’t be an ass.

Instead of destroying the glass and making a mess he’d have to clean up later, Jack chugged the remaining liquor, and then set the glass down on the small table beside his chair. I’m too much of a coward to even break a damned glass.

He leaned his head back and could no longer retain the sobbing he had been sucking in for several hours. He let the tears flow; there’s no one to hear or to see them, so what do I care? Real men don’t cry, do they?

Everything Jack had done today flashed past his eyes in a whirl. Last night Leslie had stayed at her apartment so she could rush out early to meet some co-workers for a jog in the park. He watched the newsreel of his mind as he relived the day, from the time he rose out of bed until he quit working, when, glancing guiltily at his watch, he dashed off to meet Leslie. Then the pictures in his head slowed and in a trance Jack viewed them as clearly as when the events were actually occurring.

***

I’m gonna be late again. There was always this one last thing that needs doing and I always manage to convince myself that somehow I’ll be on time; that by a miracle the traffic will get out of my way, or the clocks all over the world—or at least locally—will stop, just for me, or for a unique change, Leslie wouldn’t be so goddamn prompt.

Leslie had chided Jack, nay, had given him a not-so subtle warning that his lack of punctuality was a sad habit he needed to change. Jack never took her complaint seriously; her remarks were always done in good humor. Leslie doesn’t understand; the job demanded his time, too much, he admitted, much as Jack enjoyed the work. People needed his services and expected him to be at their beck and call every hour of every day, no holidays. Well, not quite that bad, but almost.

Clemons’ Restaurant was only a few blocks away. Jack had chosen to walk from the office, calculating that it would be quicker to hoof it than to retrieve his car from the underground lot, and then fight the late afternoon traffic for the mile he needed to traverse, and then find another parking place at the restaurant. A brisk walk would give him his day’s exercise and build up an appetite, not that he need to, having worked through lunch again.

In his mind’s eye as he replayed his actions Jack tried to make himself move faster, crashing through the throng of people and leaping the cars at the intersection. But fatal reality took over.

A police siren, not an unusual sound, and the cacophony of hundreds of voices, some excited, others eager, not a few angry at the traffic or the memory of something or somebody that had been a nuisance during the day, highlighted the normal noise of a busy city. Jack could see spinning red lights and noticed that traffic was completely stalled a hundred yards ahead, across the street from the restaurant where he was to meet Leslie. Knowing she should be in this area gave Jack the slightest pause, but he shook the feeling away. How likely was it that Leslie had been in a traffic accident? How badly could someone get hurt when vehicles are only moving at five miles per hour?

Jack nervously glanced across the street hoping to see his fiancée standing in front of Clemons’ Restaurant. Maybe she would assume Jack had been delayed by the traffic snarl and he’d escape another discussion of how his tardiness might be a sub-conscious attempt to call off their relationship. God, he hated it when she went there!

Jack stepped into the street, intending to cross over to the restaurant. The police had stopped traffic and now Jack saw that there were a half dozen black and whites, an ambulance, and several uniformed officers milling about. A gurney was being loaded into the back of the ambulance and Jack watched as the back door was shut and with siren blaring the van sped away. One of the patrolmen began to command the movement of vehicles that were now backed up for blocks in each direction.

Jack shuddered suddenly when the snapshot he had just seen developed in his head. As the gurney, with what Jack presumed was a pedestrian who’d been hit by a car, was being lifted a shoe had slipped off the body and one of the paramedics had grabbed it and thrown it into the ambulance. It was a black shoe, nothing significant about that, except it was the type of shoe Leslie often wore. Jack was amazed he remembered because Leslie often chided him that he never noticed her clothes.

Again Jack looked across the street, desperate to see her face, this woman he loved and too often took for granted. Halfway across the street Jack was stopped by a police officer who held up a hand to keep people from trying to cross while official vehicles nudged through the crowd.

Please move to the crosswalk, folks, he said firmly, his pleasantry a habit, not an attempt to be polite.

Jack turned back, looked once more across at the restaurant, and then stared at the building that seemed to be the focus of the attention of the police officers and a crowd of onlookers. It was the First Bank of Rose City, one of the major financial institutions in town. Now it dawned on Jack that the excitement might have been more than a pedestrian versus car situation. This realization caused a few seconds of relief, because Leslie would not have been here; she used a small bank near her home. Jack, due to his profession as a financial consultant and family budget planner, was familiar with all the banks in the city and most of those in the county. Could it have been an attempted robbery? That seemed like an archaic crime, but southern California was the capital of bank robberies and in these times of economic stress, who knew what some frantic soul out of work and unable to pay his bills might resort to.

Relieved now that his biggest worry was what excuse he would use for being late again once he caught up with Leslie, Jack worked his way through the throng towards the crosswalk, and when allowed, strode into Clemons’ Restaurant. It was silly, sure, but those few seconds of concern were enough to make him think that he needed to concentrate more on the plans he and Leslie were making, and firm up his commitment to her and their future. Yes, I have to work, and a lot more hours than either of us likes. But I am, I really am, going to make the effort to develop a more sensitive perspective. It won’t do any good for us to get married and then have fights over my work and how much of my time it consumes. Jack searched the bar area, assuming he would find Leslie waiting for him among the gathering of happy-hour fans.

Seeing George, one of the regular bartenders, Jack waved to him and called out, Have you seen Leslie?

Outside, outside, George called back.

Unsure what that meant Jack edged closer to the bar, excusing himself as he went. What, George?

She must be outside, Jack. She came in here, oh, maybe a half hour ago, looking for you. She told me to tell you to wait for her because she had some business across the street at the bank. And then right after that there was some trouble.

God, no!

What is it, Jack? George asked, but Jack had turned and was pushing his way through the crowd that congregated at the bar and towards the exit.

Jack felt like his emotions were the flimsy ball in a ping-pong game. There had been his initial concern when he heard the siren, then relief, then the shoe, then relief again because he was positive Leslie had no need to be at the bank. Then George said she had business at the bank; that made no sense—why would Leslie need to go to that bank? Jack ran to the crosswalk where the patrolman was still controlling traffic. Jack bit his lip in his impatience to get across the street and to the bank. He could see two men in suits in front of the First Bank of Rose City, one of them writing in a notebook. Jack guessed they were detectives and as soon as the go-ahead was given he trotted across the street towards the two men. One of them walked off as Jack was arriving. The other looked at Jack with dark eyes and a piercing stare that must have come from years of dealing with lying suspects and numb victims.

Excuse me, Jack said, panting and wondering if this made him sound guilty of something.

The man in his dark blue suit, light blue shirt and blue and red striped tie looked more like a politician getting ready to make a TV appearance rather than a detective. Jack thought he’d made a mistake. Aren’t detectives supposed to be dumpy looking and wearing food-stained clothes and have a cigarette hanging on their lower lip? Didn’t they wear hats any more?

I thought you, well, I thought you might be with the police, Jack stammered.

The man continued to look Jack dead in the eyes while he put his notebook and pen away.

After a few seconds the man said, Why do you think that? His voice was pleasant, not gruff or gravelly, as Jack had expected.

Jack shuffled his feet, looked around towards where two uniformed policemen stood at the entrance to the bank, and waved his hands in a helpless gesture.

Ah, it seems something happened here, and, I saw a person being taken in the ambulance, and ah, you looked like you, ah, you look like you’re involved here.

Jack knew that if he hemmed and hawed giving a presentation to a client he’d be out of business in a day, but this was different, this was nerve-racking, this was maybe about Leslie.

I’m Detective Stan Rolson. The man stuck out his hand and Jack took it and meekly shook hands, embarrassed by the limpness of his grip. He tried to firm his grasp at the last.

Do you know something about what happened here? Detective Rolson asked.

Jack let out a long sigh, trying to regain composure and not come off as some kind of blundering idiot to the detective.

No, no, I have no idea, it’s.. his voice near to cracking, he took another breath then started over.

Look, I was supposed to meet my girl fri..my fiancée, actually, across the street, at Clemons’. Jack pointed towards the restaurant.

Rolson nodded.

"I’m, ah, late, as usual, and saw the police cars and the ambulance and for a moment I was worried that it might have been her, Leslie, you know, that maybe she was hit by a car. In fact I saw when they put..the body into the ambulance and the shoe..it looked like hers, but you know, lots of women wear the same type of shoe.

Anyway, when I realized it was something going on here I felt relieved, I mean, because Leslie doesn’t bank here. So I went to Clemons’ and George—he’s a bartender there—told me Leslie had been at the bar and told him she was going to the bank, and to tell me to wait for her. So..I can’t find her and I wondered..well, goddammit already, Detective, I want to know what happened and who was the woman they put into the ambulance!

***

She’s already been tentatively ID’d from the information in the purse found lying on the floor of the bank. Jack convinced the police that he knew the victim—the victim, they called her—gave some preliminary bio material, and was asked to identify her—the victim, they called her again.

Leslie had no close relatives that Jack knew of; her parents were deceased and if Leslie had any cousins they were scattered and Jack had never met any.

She teaches little kids, for God’s sake, explained Jack, as if that alone should have protected her from being shot in a bank robbery.

Who the hell gets shot in a bank robbery these days? Jack asked, as if Det. Rolson had all the answers.

It sounds like something out of a Jesse James movie, for God’s sake.

They were seated in a small room at the hospital that the police sometimes used when they needed to speak to family members of a victim, or to let a nervous person blabber away while waiting for a medical report on a loved one. You never know what they might say when inconsolable and confused. Of course in this case there was no question that Jack was a person who needed consoling, and who wanted answers. Like, why was Leslie at that bank in the first place?

Why the hell would anyone shoot her? Jack asked Rolson for the third or fourth time. She didn’t use that bank; she had no reason to go there.

I can’t give you an answer but it appears she was an unfortunate victim of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The daggers he received from Jack told Rolson that his explanation appeased Jack not at all. In fact, the more time Rolson spent with Jack the more he feared the man might go into shock, he seemed so bewildered, his hands shaking and his voice cracking.

We were to be married next month, Jack said. Did I tell you that already?

Rolson nodded. Yes, you did, but that’s okay. He wanted Jack to talk, maybe something would come to him that would explain why Leslie Washburn had been at that particular bank, at that precise moment, and why, according to a witness, the robbers seemed to seek her out, and why when they accosted her and ripped her briefcase from her hands, numerous wads of cash, as it had been described, spilled onto the floor.

The woman—Leslie—had screamed and between her outburst and the green money tumbling onto clean, white tile floor, the two masked robbers had seemed to lose their composure. One of them began to scoop up the money, which another witness said looked like thousand dollar bills, while the other held a gun on the bank patrons and yelled for everyone to stand still. Then he had suddenly turned to Leslie, as if irritated by her screaming, and shot her twice. The echoing gunshots set off a round of wails by others in the bank and at least one woman had fainted.

Wasn’t a silent alarm set off? Jack asked.

Rolson nodded. Sure, right away. And a squad was there in less than three minutes. But it doesn’t take long. From what we can gather, the whole episode took about thirty seconds. In, grabbed Ms. Washburn’s briefcase, shot her, and out. They had a car waiting, which we found two blocks away, then apparently they switched to another car. Far more organized than the run-of-the-mill bank robbery. Of course, witnesses often vary in describing what happened. Already we have one person who said she lay on the floor for five minutes. No way.

Why would they take Leslie’s briefcase? Why would she even have one with her? It makes no sense, Jack insisted. She never carried much cash. And why the hell would they shoot her?! Goddamn! His voice was a shriek, almost a comical variation of a scream by a bad actor in cheap monster movie

Look, Mr. Dancer, you’ve had enough for now. Why not go home—I can get you a ride—and maybe tomorrow we can talk. Yes, I need to talk to him, Rolson decided, but he’s not going to be much use until he gets a grip.

Jack raised an arm as if to say, okay, okay, I’m fine; I lost it but I’m fine. I’ll wait outside for your ride, Detective.

Carl, Rolson called over one of the uniformed patrolmen.

Take Mr. Dancer back to his home, and nowhere else. And, Carl, after you drop him off wait a few minutes to see if he comes out. If you see him leaving, call me immediately,

Yes, sir.

***

Two: Rose City, California

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

When Jack awoke it was dark. The empty glass had slid out of his hand and dropped to the carpeted floor. Jack stared at the bottle on the counter, barely visible from the glow of a night-light, and realized he’d drank a third of the bottle of Scotch before he’d dozed off. He eased himself out of the chair and went into the kitchen, where the clock on the oven showed 3:35 in bright red numbers. He’d slept for hours, a dreamless sleep. Why had he been sleeping in his recliner? Oh my God, Leslie! He cursed himself for falling asleep before he could recap in his mind the entire conversation with the detective. He cursed himself for being late to meet Leslie, and he spat out a general curse to cover anything else he was pissed about that he couldn’t think of at the moment. He cursed himself for acting weak in front of the detective, so upset over Leslie’s death that he could hardly put together a complete sentence. That cop must think I’m a real wuss. Jack dragged himself into the bedroom, took off his shoes and fell onto the bed and was asleep instantly.

This time he did dream, a dream in a dream, one in which he knew what had happened to Leslie and he knew that only in a dream could he change the horrible event. In the dream Jack tried to force his eyes open because only then would the dream, a nightmare, really, end and Leslie wouldn’t go into the bank. She would wait for him at the restaurant. Then the vision changed, as if his mind was saying, no, it’s your fault for being late, so let’s make you be on time. But as if he knew there was danger and deliberately shied away from it, he couldn’t get there until Leslie had entered the bank. Jack began to run amidst the crowd, hundreds of people eagerly exiting their office buildings as the workday ended. But his feet kept slipping backward and as Jack ran he seemed to move in slow motion while everyone around was passing him at light speed. Finally Jack reached the bank and ran in just as one of the robbers was ripping the briefcase out of Leslie’s hands. Jack dove in front of Leslie and took the bullet that was meant for her, but she paid no attention to him. She walked out of the bank without looking at Jack. Next time you won’t be late, Leslie said as she and the robbers scurried out.

A cry awoke Jack and in a sweat he jumped out of the bed, aware that it was his own cry of dismay in the dream that had awakened him. Oh yeah, if only I could dream back to then, a few hours ago, and change things. He stripped off his clothes and went into the shower, and let the hot water pour over him until it began to turn cool. Then he stood under the stream until he shivered.

***

No one expected Jack to show up for work the next day, or as he realized after his shower, this day. But now he was wide awake so he made coffee and called the receptionist’s phone to leave a voice mail for her to reschedule all appointments. By calling now Jack wouldn’t have to talk to her, and he felt like he didn’t want to talk to anyone for a long time, even though he realized people would make an effort to contact him and provide useless words of comfort.

Jack did want to talk to the detective again. Not that it would bring Leslie back, but Jack wanted to know if the police had any success tracking the killers. It still didn’t make sense. Leslie seldom had reason to go to any bank, much less this one. Her paycheck was deposited directly, and as far as Jack knew whenever Leslie needed cash she went to the ATM at the Second City Bank, which was midway between her apartment and the school at which she taught third and fourth graders. She’d learned to pay her bills on-line so she seldom wrote checks, and Jack could think of no reason for her to be at the largest bank in Rose City. Did she have an account there where she was saving money for the wedding, and was going to surprise me? But the cash, what was that all about?

Yeah, and maybe I’ll drink some coffee, really wake up, and find out that yesterday didn’t happen, that today is still Monday and after work I’ll meet Leslie, as planned, at Clemons’ Restaurant, where we’ll sip