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Page 6.
Chapter 5. Interlude: On the Rocks with a Twist
 The next moment (probably a day or two later, in the next dream), I was fully modest (even elegant) in a sugar dress with matching little vesty jacket (rounded corners, two walnut colored buttons) and a wonderful cream blouse with tiny red roses in full bloom. I sat beside Fanna at a bar. We were alone except for the bartender, an elderly man, sort of stout without being fat. He wore a merlot vest, white shirt, and black pants with suspenders dark blue as the last wink of evening in the tropics.
"Did you have fun?" Fanna asked. She used one strong hand (now caramel, not pale or blue) with glossy red nails to squeeze a twist of lemon around the rim of her Dubonnet glass. The rest of her (both of us, I saw in the mirrors) had a bluish-white glow in the bar light. She wore a loose-fitting, gathered skirt that generously extended down her long, crossed legs to mid-calf. Her upper torso peeked out in V-shapes from the black cottony top, with crossed halter straps looped over bare, bony shoulders. Her arms were long and bare, smooth like caramel but tinged icy blue with reflections from the bar lights and mirrors.
While the bartender kept to himself, moving bottles, stirring ice cubes (rattling), wiping steel counters, we were alone after hours, it seemed. There were mirror walls behind the bar. The rest of the place was empty. Most tables had chairs upside down on them. Sliding glass doors, closed or locked, looked out over a great lawn under a half moon. In the distance loomed the million tiny checker lights of a city with great buildings wrapped in a bluish haze or marine layer while stars glittered peacefully high above. Distant piano music came from a lounge nearby. Plunk, plunk. Restful, contemplative. Time for bed, and I just got up. Or no, just fell asleep and here I am again.
"What happened?" I asked.
"You apparently woke up."
"Oh. And?"
She shrugged, sucking on her little green plastic drink stirrer. "How do I know? What happens in dreams stays in dreams. The opposite is true when we are awake."
"So my dream ended when I woke up for some reason."
"Yes, and in this state you don't know why. But you feel okay, don't you?" For an instant, she looked worried. She froze in the act of lifting a cocktail olive on a toothpick. Her ripe red lips stayed barely open.
"I'm feeling great."
She looked relieved. "Then it's working. The healing, I mean."
I fanned myself, thinking of Ramon. "Oh baby. Is it ever. Working, I mean."
She popped the olive in, made full-moompy mouth, and nodded as she tossed the toothpick basketball style into an ashtray a few feet down the bar. "Mboob," she said, which I translated as a happy Good.
"Is my name really Rosemary?"
She shrugged again. Olive gone, her mouth was clear to speak. "Is my name Fanna? What kind of name is that anyway?"
"Exotic."
"Like a parrot," she said with a crazy laugh. We were going to be giggly, I could see.
"You sound like a parrot," I said, and she took it with a good laugh. We were going to be friends, I could see. "Ramon fucks like a parrot."
"Is that his name? I thought it was José."
"Maybe you were with a different stud." I was guessing. She must enjoy it here too. Was she still healing? Whatever my problems in the real world were that required this much therapy—had she needed this just as much? I surmised that you really never get enough. Once you drink from these healing waters, your thirst never goes away. It just loses its desperation and dark yesterday. It's just here and now. For once, I am in a place where I don't need to look over my shoulder.
She shrugged. She was in a shrug Gish mood. Lightly so. "Let's talk about you. Are you getting what you need?"
I told her honestly after a moment's reflection: "It has been a long time since I didn't feel that sick dread in the well of my guts."
Her eyes flicked upward in recognition. "Oh yeah. That." She sipped her drink and made a happy face. "The twist is just right."
We clinked glasses.
I said: "Is there more?"
"Oh yeah. I'm just supposed to be with you—interview you—between adventures to make sure you are on the right path."
"So, how old am I, Fanna?"
She shrugged. "I have no idea how old I am, much less you. But they say you are as old as you feel. How old do you feel?"
I thought about my tearful, trembling entry into this wonderful world of calm and intrigue. "I'd say about thirty, maybe a little more. Not much more."
"Thirty three?"
I nodded.
She made that shoulder snuggle again, a shrug of acceptance. "That’s what I figure. We have the sort of background energy of a young mother, I'd say, with a bastard in our life. I really don't know. I don't want to know. I'll deal with it on the other side. In here, Rosemary, we are free spirits."
We hunkered over our Debones, playing with our little lemon twists, while the bartender fussed over his glittering, starkly clean liquors and a wall clock ticked out a blurry image of something between about nine p.m. and midnight. We heard explosions of laughter and clapping from some distant party, maybe a magic show, or a strip tease—who knows? Who cares in here? I also caught the faint thunder of a passenger jet cruising among the light-squares of sky scrapers on its way to a landing. I heard the rush of distant highway traffic, or was it surf on a sandy beach under moonlight? This is such an amazing place or state of mind, whatever you want to call it.
"How did you find your way into this business?" I asked.
"I'll never know or care."
I regarded her for a moment. She seemed fortress-like, pent up. "It's a secret," I stated uncertainly.
She nodded. "So, Rosemary, I have to tell you." She found another toothpick, and stabbed it into the dark water of a little bowl of olives nearby. "I am told you are exceptionally talented for this."
"Meaning? Who says?"
"Management says. Meaning you have some of the best espish qualities they have seen in a long time. Since me, in fact."
"Espish?"
"Yes, that's a general catch term meaning nothing specific, really, but it's Extra Sensory Perception." She added: "-ish."
I mulled that over. "Espish, eh? Learn something new every dream."
She chewed another olive, looking as if she was savoring every second. These are the green olives with bite, that have a little red pimiento slice in the heart where the stone was removed. I usually go for the sweeter, more nuanced dark olives with or without pits. I copied her, and stabbed myself a small handful of the olive-drabs floating in what looked like (but wasn't) sea water.
"We hope you will stay with us and go on missions for us later on, when you have mastered the program."
I drew a blank. "I don't see why not. Should I be cautious? Is there danger?"
She sat hunched over her drink, totally relaxed. I think she was relieved that I wasn't going to be a problem, despite my high energy and talent for this sort of thing. Not to mention (after Ramon) how I realized the extent of my passion. I was going to be a gourmet dreamer, the way some people indulge in exotic dishes cooked in weird tile kitchens with steel-framed lights and bare wooden trestle beams, you know, someplace like Berlin or Paris. No, make it a little more exotic—Brussels, or New Orleans, or maybe just to be different, Seoul. Like, add strangely pungent eel dishes or something, only we were not going to gain weight.
"Hey, Fanna."
"Yo, Rosie."
"Can I lose weight having sex in this place?"
She almost choked on her olive, breaking up laughing. "I never thought about it. Come to think of it, you can eat all you want here and not gain an ounce. But I haven't lost any weight, so the answer is probably no."
"Too bad."
"You look fine."
"I don't like my ass too much." I had not yet reached the point where I was happy with myself. It takes time, even in the dream world.
She waved a slender hand. "Don't worry. No matter what kind of ass you have, some guy will go nuts over it."
"You think? Only will it be a hot guy?"
She extended her forearms to either side, with her palms up and fingers wriggling as if she were checking for rain—or to see how dumb I am. "Is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear shit in the woods? Rosemary, you dope. You're a fine looking chick. And this is dreamland, remember? Here we look good and feel positive about ourselves. We're into sexual healing like the old Marvin Gaye song."
I remembered about him, and felt a little bad, but not enough to spoil my evening.
"Are you ready for another little adventure?"
"Yeah," I said, glad to take my mind off poor Marvin.
"You want to take a trip on the sexiest airliner in the world?"
"I'm game," I said, intrigued. What's the worst thing that can happen? And then I woke up, right?
"Ready?" Fanna said. She snapped her fingers in rhythm: "One, two, three."
Poof.
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