Mr. Jenks

A sleeping man's reminiscing.

Mr. Jenks 

                      A.J. Powell

   Mr. Jenks was dreaming. He was dreaming about himself. And in the dream, he was a younger man. He knew he was dreaming, and smiled. He occasionally wondered while awake, if people in dreams were aware that they were not real. He didn’t believe so. People in dreams, he felt sure, feel as real to themselves, as we do to ourselves. He could never wrap his brain around conceptualizing what dreams actually were. He also puzzled over the idea that his dreams were frequently not obedient to the same physical laws as his waking world. Sometimes, he dreamed he was flying. He didn't see himself flying, but could see the ground speeding by beneath him, as a flying bird might. And sometimes, he conversed with people who had died. Afterward, he would wake up rarely remembering what the conversation was about. Also, the dimension of time in dreams, is different. For all he knew, the waking world could be the dream; though his waking world had become a nightmare. He was happy to be asleep. He didn’t much enjoy being awake anymore. Mr. Jenks was not considered old. He was just 51 years old. But, his choices in life had reduced him to a shell, while his dream-self stood tall, vibrant, and strong. 

    Seeing his dream-self rise from the bed, Mr. Jenks saw what seemed to be a thin layer of smoke churning about his younger self. There was an orange-red, or maybe amber coloration to it; curious. It quickly faded, as the dreamer watched his 'other' move about the room, fanning his hand in front of his frowning face, as if swatting away a bad smell. The dreamer wanted to ponder this, but behavior in dreams, disjointed and inexplicable as they sometimes are, always have an air of normalcy. Dreams have no rules, and sometimes lack logic. They even had a way of making the dreamer abandon his own logic, and perceive as perfectly normal, anything that occurred in the dream realm. We often don't ponder how powerful dreams are, and the influence they have on us. We give little thought to how connected to, and how influenced by dreams we really are. 

    The dreamer observed that he could not recognize the furniture. He knew it all belonged to him at some point, but they were foreign somehow. He did however, feel a familiar attachment to the electric guitar in the corner. He didn't question the fact that this particular guitar burned up in a fire, in a club on Halloween night, some years prior. The sleeping man's thoughts instantly recalled that night. How well the band performed, and how well received they were. It was the very first night of what promised to be a successful string of engagements. He remembered his dislike for the comedian who preceded them that night, because he continually badgered this one particular woman seated by herself. He wondered if other members of the audience felt as uncomfortable as he did, laughing at this clown profiting at the expense of this woman. He wondered if she would have been the target of this nincompoop, had she been escorted. 

   The following morning, the band learned that the club had burned down; with all of their equipment inside. They never knew the exact cause of fire, but got wind that it was caused by a faulty electrical something or other. Somehow, that explanation seemed a bit thin. Arson was more like it. Maybe, it was a woman who didn't appreciate being made the butt of a particular comedians jokes. 

    Just then, reeled back to the present, the sleeper's ex-wife Gladys came to mind. He grinned inwardly as he remembered how she pretended not to like it when he jokingly called her 'Glad-a*s' instead of Gladys. They really liked each other. He couldn't remember why they didn't make it. He was sure he would remember at some point, but he thought he would have to wake up for that. He would write a note to himself, he decided, and then read it later when he woke up. A note pad and pen appeared from nowhere, and script magically appeared on the page. It hadn't occurred to the sleeping Jenks then, that he had to be in the dream to read the note, and the note, with the dream, would vanish when he woke up.

    Hearing voices, the dreamer becomes aware that the television is on in the young Jenks apartment. To the observer's amusement, it is the same program that he fell asleep on, the night before. Maybe he never went to sleep, he decided, and this is one of those inexplicable déjà vu moments. He puzzled over that for a few seconds, and then realized he was still sleeping, and still dreaming. He was glad there were no snakes. Still, he was afraid to look down. The last time he had looked down while dreaming, he found himself standing in a room up to his knees in water. And in the water, there were snakes. Don't look down, he warned himself mentally. The thought of snakes spiraling around his ankles made him shudder inwardly.

    Bursting into laughter, the dreaming Mr. Jenks recalled the time he, and a classmate, Ishmael, were playing chess in Jenks parent's apartment. They lived in what was known as “the Projects”, on Amsterdam Avenue, between 102^nd and 103^rd streets, in Manhattan. Ishmael sipped on a Coke just after a cockroach had sought refuge in the can. One of those rocket shaped cockroaches that you see a lot of in the city. They weren’t shaped like rockets for nothing, he mused. After all these years, recalling the look on Ishmael's face, spitting out that cockroach, is still the funniest thing that he’d ever seen in his life. After being expelled, and landing on the chess board, that roach took off like a canon shot. It raced to the edge of the chess board, and dived off onto the floor like a cliff diver. It was fast alright, but Ishmael was faster. Just inches away from a clean getaway, Ishmael flipped off his shoe, and bam! bam! bam! bam! bam!, pounded that coke poacher into the next life, all the while screaming obscenities. Jenks was in hysterics, falling to the floor laughing, as tears streaked his face. It was one of his favorite memories. He had to suppress a laugh every time he recalled it.

   Mr. Jenks becomes aware of his dream self strolling down Broadway, approaching 96^th street, about half a block's distance from the entrance to a subway station. Young Jenks stops in front an old, boarded up movie theater. It's the Symphony Theatre. They remember a time when 1^st run movies were shown there, but ended up showing soft-core porn before finally going out of business. They remembered a time when Olga, one of the neighborhood girls, had taken he, Mike and Eddie to see Russ Meyer's 'Vixen' there, one afternoon. They were probably 14 or 15 years old, and were required the accompaniment of an adult, as Russ Meyer films were notorious for adult themes, and extremely top heavy women. Olga was in her early 20’s. She was Puerto Rican, and married with kids. Afterward, I don't know about Mike and Eddie, but old Jenks remembered praying to heaven that the theatre stayed dark through the closing credits, so as not to reveal the 'tent' in his pants. His prayers were not answered however, but Olga graciously pretended not to notice, as they silently exited the theatre, walking slightly sideways, hands in their pockets. 

    The dreaming Mr. Jenks watched himself cross 96^th Street, and noticed a man standing by the newspaper stand at the southwest entrance to the IRT subway station. He noted a similar cloud-like apparition like the one he'd seen about his younger self that morning. It appeared slightly pale gray this time. At least, that's the color that he perceived before it took on an orange hue, and dissipated. The man also seemed to be swatting, or waving something away. Rarely do we dream, and not come away puzzled. He wondered if the younger Mr. Jenks was aware of him.

    Young Jenks continued on toward 95^th street, when the dreamer saw the same vaporous apparition trailing a pretty young lady; a different color, again. It was lavender, but not quite so. It seems that colors in dreams are not always easily described. And as the cloud dissipated, so did the curious 'cat that ate the canary' look on her face. This puzzled the sleeper all the more, but it quickly became an afterthought, like the fading colors.

    As young Jenks continued on, he found himself stopping in front of a familiar variety store. It was the kind of establishment that sold baseball gloves, model airplanes, school supplies, books, magazines, candy, cigarettes, and other 'you name its'. Looking into this store window, he was reminded of when Mr. Breck, his 7^th grade Social Studies teacher, took his class on a trip to the 1965-66 Worlds Fair. It was in Flushing, N. Y. near where the New York Mets Shea Stadium now stands. The class had walked down this same street. He remembered he, Robert, and some of the other boys, had gathered at this same store window waiting for their female classmates, who were chatting together in their own little group about a half block behind, to catch up. Robert points out a paperback book cover showing a fabulously naked woman diving into a swimming pool. And as we stared at the woman on the paperback, Robert reads the title of the book aloud, "The Lust Queen." When the girls caught up, we never looked at them the same again. We puzzled at the puzzled looks they gave us.

    Sleeping Jenks was trying to remember something, but he couldn’t seem to pick up the thread. He inexplicably began to feel mournful over what he felt was so much time wasted in his life. It’s always the things that you don’t see coming that get you, he concluded. He was sure that's how it was with him, and equally sure that everyone's 'been there' in some way, whether they realized it or not. He recalls a television commercial that he saw, when he was very young. In it, a young man is standing at a bar. He’s handsome, and nicely groomed. He’s wearing a suit, his appearance projecting a nonchalant air of confidence; of success. As he leans/poses against the bar, without looking down, he reaches into his suit pocket, and produces a pack of cigarettes. He taps the pack against his opposing wrist; the one with a bar drink in hand; and removes one. He takes it between his lips, and lights it. He takes a short drag, his attention on something off camera. Sleeping Jenks remembers how this man impressed him, and how he wanted to be that man. This is what being the ‘center of attention’ looked like to his innocent eyes, and yearning soul. Growing up with 5 siblings in a household of working parents left much to be desired when it came to attention. In his mind, he becomes that man. The man takes another drag, exhaling triumphantly, a look of carnal satisfaction on his face. The camera pans to an attractive woman, the same brand of cigarette between her index and middle fingers, her hand poised just inches from her lips. She’s waiting for him/me to give her a light. He never forgot the come-hither look in her eyes, though knew nothing of the sexual, or exploitive connection at the time. It’s a cigarette commercial. 

    There’s little we humans wouldn’t do to satisfy the yearnings, or fill the voids within us. They are bigger and stronger than we are. They call us, and squeeze us. And, demand of us. Advertising pros know all about this. They understand the yearning, and they understand the vulnerability. Preying on ignorance and innocence is a practice going back a long time. And man, didn't I just know I was the coolest thing, being the guy in that ad. I was pretty cool until I didn't want to drink anymore, and couldn't stop. And. didn't want to smoke anymore, but couldn't stop. That's why I'm so sick now, Jenks dreaming awareness reflected.  

    Young Jenks found himself at 90^th St and Riverside Drive, and entered the park. He observed a middle-aged man power walking north, along the path near the wall separating the street from the park's lower regions. And there was that apparition again, seeming to come off of him. And again, sleeping Jenks couldn't make sense of it. It dissipated quickly, as the man continued his exercise. His cloud was sort of peach orange, fading into another indescribable color before disappearing, like the others. Sleeping Jenks wondered again what they were, and why they kept happening. 

    There’s not that many people in the park today, sleeping Jenks observed, as he watched young Jenks pause a moment to look west toward the river below, and New Jersey beyond. Not many people at all. That's kind of odd on a nice day like today. Young Jenks decided to sit on the walkway wall a while, and enjoy the view. The Hudson River below, the George Washington Bridge to the North, the Manhattan skyline to the south, and New Jersey across the river. Such a splendid view both Jenks' observed. Hey, here comes a real sweetie; nice lookin’ in those Spandex exercise pants. Don't be too obvious when she jogs by, sleeping Jenks wants to warn his other. Behind her another cloud appears, and billows. It looked sort of blue, but not exactly. He searches his mind for an explanation, but the clouds remain a mystery. Sleeping Jenks laughs to himself at the idea that maybe everyone is farting in color, and he's the only ones who sees them. He inwardly shakes his head at the preposterousness of such a perfectly reasonable notion. 

It occurred to the sleeping Jenks that he couldn’t remember where Young Jenks was going, or why. Maybe, he should just wake up and go to the bathroom, or something. He wondered if he'd set the clock. It was interesting, he observed, that there was a breeze, and he couldn’t feel it. The trees were swaying playfully with a ghostly life of there own, but all was still about him. Come to think of it, he didn't feel the heat from the sun, either. And even in dreams, you felt things. He could hear inarticulate voices, but couldn't tell where they were coming from. And, what was that sound; beep, beep, beep, beep … ?

Something blocked out the sun, and it became suddenly dark to old Mr. Jenks. The dream faded, but he could hear voices.

"Ok, let's wrap this up; there's nothing more we can do here” sleeping Jenks heard someone say, conscious of the continuous high pitched beeping sound emanating from somewhere. “His heart just gave out, and the remaining lung was just too damaged. Confirming time of death, 10:17AM. Thank you everyone, a good effort” the voice added. “Turn it off, please. And Carol, ask Martin to call the guys from downstairs" sleeping Jenks heard the voice say, as if through a tunnel from a great distance. "Yes, doctor" replied a female voice, the words bouncing around Jenks' head, sounding muffled, trailing off to silence, as a sheet was pulled over his lifeless body, covering his face.

    The young Mr. Jenks found himself on a bench in Washington Square Park, down by New York University. He was watching the people play chess. He'd always enjoyed chess, but rarely played. And, as he watched, he knew who was going to win, by their first 3 or 4 moves, and the speed by which those moves were made. Somewhere in the distance he could hear music. It sounded like hip hop, but it was not unpleasant. "Hi Mr. Brown, how are you?" said Jenks, as Mr. Brown approached, smiling. “How are you, son?” replied Mr. Brown. Jenks and Brown conversed for a long time. There was so much to catch up on. Mr. Brown had been like a father to him. He passed away 19 years ago. It was so wonderful to see him again. "Hey, I see you got your leg back,” said Jenks. Mr. Brown nodded, and smiled. “He's about to lose his queen, declared Jenks. "What'd I tell you?", a moment later.

"Hey, is that Gladys coming this way?”, inquired Mr. Brown.

                                                                    End ♪

Author's Note

I find that I am not a very good editor.