Aftermath of Dreaming(51)
“Well, where I’m from, it’s ‘nekked.’ Of course, growing up, I thought they were two different words. ‘Naked’ was when you were about to or just finished having sex, and ‘nekked’ was not having any clothes on, but for no particular reason really, like for running through the sprinklers or something.”
“So, this guy’s nekked and wishes he was naked.”
“Michael.” I wish he wouldn’t try to be funny at a time like this.
The man is moving around, pulling out imaginary drawers, pantomiming brushing his teeth in his private-illusion bedroom-cum-bath, living in a master suite that only exists in the gap between his memory and time. “We need to call the police. Not that I think he’s a criminal for doing his ablutions in a parking lot, but they could take him somewhere, get him off the street before someone comes along and…I don’t know. He needs protection.”
“Yvette, the only place the police take anyone is jail; this guy shouldn’t go there. Wait here.”
Before I can ask where he’s going, Michael hurries away from me and, darting between cars, crosses diagonally through the parking lot. He stops near an SUV and watches the man from a short distance.
The man is now on his knees and looks to be praying. I can practically see the four-poster mahogany bed he thinks he is saying his nightly devotion next to. The Guardian Angel prayer that Suzanne and I said as children every night before bed is suddenly triggered in my mind. “Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom with love, commit me here, ever this day, be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide. Amen.”
The man makes the sign of the cross; I hope he said that intercession, too, and that his guardian angel isn’t too old to hear. God only knows the dangers that this poor man has to be frightened of since he is sleeping outside, and yet he looks so calm as he lies down for sleep. I think about how nervous I am every night going to bed, never knowing if I’ll awaken to a scream about something that isn’t even there. In the real world, at least. Maybe I’ll start saying a prayer before going to bed, too. Like the reverse of when I was a kid and, waking up from a bad dream, would say Hail Marys to feel safe while I got back to sleep.
Michael slowly walks around the SUV and disappears from my view for a moment, then reappears, and walks back. His jacket is no longer on him, and he looks over his shoulder a couple of times before he reaches me.
“That was so sweet of you. Did you put it over him?”
“No, I didn’t want to get in his space and scare him. I just draped it nearby where he’ll see it and hopefully figure out to put it on. I didn’t see any other clothes around, but it’s something, at least. He probably ran out of his medication.”
“What medication?”
“He’s a paranoid schizophrenic, delusional. He’s clearly not living in the reality that we all see.”
And for a moment, thinking of my Andrew memories, I understand the attraction.
When Michael and I leave Canter’s at the end of our meal—towering pastrami sandwich for him, tuna salad on rye for me—we try to find Nekked Man to give him the half of my sandwich I didn’t touch, or Michael does as I wait on the sidewalk while he goes to the far corner of the parking lot and looks around, but Nekked Man is nowhere in sight. Nor is Michael’s jacket, which we hope is a good sign.
Driving away from Fairfax on Beverly Boulevard, we head east to my apartment in the Saturday night traffic’s expectant rush. I am perched on the passenger seat in Michael’s car, his late eighties BMW, which from the outside looks great, cream paint job still good, no dings anywhere, but inside it’s a whole different world. The seat I am on rocks side to side whenever he accelerates, changes lanes, or stops, and putting my feet firmly on the floor is out of the question because it is covered with easily breakable CDs, partly filled soda cans, and a backpack that Michael explains is set and ready to go if he gets the urge to go hiking. The passenger door can’t be opened from the outside, requiring that Michael never open it for me, as if the car intuited his feelings about chivalry and adopted a defect to match. His radio station is playing on the expensive and confusing-looking stereo that he takes out of the trunk and slides into a slot in the dashboard every time we get in. The stereo is much better situated in this car for an accident, or even just a drive, than I am. For the first time in my life, I long for a shoulder strap.
“So, I’m just going to do it. I sent them a check for the whole thing today,” I say as I check the traffic to make sure there are no major obstacles that Michael needs all his attention for. “I’ve been wanting to do a Buddhist retreat for years.”
“That could work.”
“Yeah, and this one is for Catholics. Well, Christians. ‘Zen for Christians,’ that’s what they’re calling it. Some Jesuit priest who happens to be a Zen master is leading it. Three full days of silence. I think it sounds fun. Like running a marathon is fun. You get purged and excellent all at the same time. It’s at the beginning of August, right after Suzanne’s wedding that we’re going to together, right?”
“Right.”
Michael’s head is completely turned to the left looking at a restaurant with lots of tables outside. The exterior is a deep bright yellow, making the profusion of black-clad patrons look like cross-walk safety sign figures come to life.