The Dreamjumper and The Dreamcatcher

Chapter 1: The man on the bus lurking in my dreams

Alora

I think it's time to admit to myself that I have feelings for the man in my dreams. I don't know his name. Don't know a thing about who he is or what he does. But for the past month he has been there, an interloper, watching me in the world of my imagination. The place in which I am at my most vulnerable.

I first noticed him on the bus about six weeks ago. Every day he gets on at the stop at 43rd street. Usually he stands or sits nonchalantly near the front in casual clothing, seeking no attention. What he doesn't know is that from the very first day I noticed him he has caught my attention. I can't pinpoint exactly what draws me to him. We've never spoken to each other. I always watch him from afar, hoping that he doesn't notice me but at the same time wishing one day we would talk. I didn't think it would be possible to fall for someone I don't know. All this time I've been trying to brush off the image of him as a silly fantasy crush. But after all of this time of dreaming about him, I think it's time for me to reconsider whether my feelings are more than just mere physical attraction. I have to know more about him. Anything to give me a reason for why he should haunt my dreams every night.

He is lithe and tall, which is already in his favor because I have a thing for tall men. They make my knees go in a way I can't explain. His almond hazel eyes stand out from his olive skin, always surveying the world with keen curiosity. The chocolate curls over his head are slightly tousled and invite my fingers to intertwine themselves in them. He is indeed a handsome man, but perhaps what draws me the most to him is his groundedness. He always seems so present in the world, never once trying to disconnect from his surroundings. He doesn't instinctually distract himself with his phone to avoid everyone else's gaze in the bus like the rest of us. There is a self-assurance in himself which makes me envious.

I wish I could confidently be in a room without the fear of being judged or worrying about what other people think, as he seems to do so easily. I don't want to psychoanalyze my every move or be concerned about my appearance. But I do worry about these things because I have been molded to be demure and meek by a society that sees these values as ideal for a woman. As a black woman, I just want to walk into a room and not feel the need to hide or prove that I belong there. People should just be able to accept my own worth without first judging me through the color of my skin and my womanhood. Because of our society's expectations, my own belief in my self-worth has been poisoned. I have done a lot to regain it back, but the insecurities still linger.

Sometimes I wish my mind would stop conjuring this man in my dreams. I don't understand why he must be in every one of them. Nothing that he does in my dreams is meaningful. Even in my fantasies he keeps his distance. He is always a side character in the storyline, and sometimes I get the feeling he's watching me with that same placid curiosity he has on the bus. He is never involved in the action but always present to watch it.

In my dreams we have never spoken either. What would he say? Would he quench my hopes with sweet words or reject me as I fear he would? Dreams are weird in that they can both grant you your most wanted desires and curse you with your most horrific fears when they become nightmares. In my dreams he has seen me both win and struggle. He knows that I'm a mastermind at spelling bees and satisfying clients at my marketing company. But he knows too that I'm a complete klutz, and it is in those dreams that I wish the Earth would swallow me whole. One time I was competing in a dance competition. I'm not a dancer in real life. My sister is the one who was blessed with the talent. She currently competes for her college and travels around the country. I'll go dancing at the club, but if you catch me on a stage, then you know I have lost my mind. But for some reason in my dream I had entered into this competition that was being judged in a closed theater. He was one of the judges. I was standing on this black stage all alone with the spotlight focused on me. The theater was empty except for the four judges sitting behind a desk at the bottom in front of the stage. I was wearing a glittery purple dress with tassels cut short to the top of my thighs, like the kind Salsa dancers wear. In the dream I was being judged to see whether I was good enough to perform in front of an audience on TV, and it meant a lot to me that I could advance onto the live shows. I had practiced so much to be there. But I was so nervous standing on that stage and seeing him there only worsened my nerves. During my performance I lost my footing and face-planted right onto the floor. The judges were not impressed and told me unfortunately that I wasn't passing to the live show. He was trying to hold a snicker as one of the judges dismissed me on his face, and his face remained emblazoned within my mind. My cheeks were burning red with embarrassment. I was so mortified, not because I didn't make it no to the next round, but because I had made a fool of myself in front of the one man I was trying to impress.

It is 8:34am when he gets on the bus today. He's wearing an olive sweatshirt with black-washed jeans. I'm seated near the front today, a little unusual for me but the back was full when I got on earlier. My pulse rate starts to elevate when I see him. There's an empty seat next to me—the only empty one at the moment. I hug my purse tightly to myself and take a deep breath in. It feels like a heat wave has passed through the bus when the door opened and he walked in (even though it is a cold early Spring day). It's the only way to explain why I feel drips of sweat falling down my forehead. He glances in my direction and I know instantly he is about to take the open spot beside me. Part of me doesn't want him to sit there, but I'm powerless to deny him access to the seat. My head is screaming to stand so I don't have to endure the clamminess brought on by him sitting next to me. But another more level-headed voice is telling me to calm down. It's not that big of a deal.

He says nothing as he sits down beside him. The other part of me is saddened he doesn't. It wrestles with my more anxious side, whispering that I should say something. I've been seeing this man in my dreams every night since I first noticed him. Maybe it is time I bite the bullet. So I take in a deep breath — maybe a bit more than is necessary —, loosen the bearhug grip I have on my purse, and relax my shoulders.

"Morning," I say to him. The lamest beginning to a conversation ever. I have never been the greatest at small talk, and I'm obviously not going to start being better at it today.

He looks at me skeptically at first as if unsure if I had spoken to him. The reaction makes me uncertain of whether I should keep going. For a beat we stare at each other, and I want to pretend like I didn't say anything. But by some force of the universe, whether the Holy Spirit or the puppet master pulling the strings of my fate, I continue talking with the fake courage I have.

"You work in the city?"

His eyes open wide in alarm. "You... You see me?" The question is barely louder than a whisper. The words are tentative, like a little kitten coming into a new home and is afraid of coming out from under the sofa.

I feel like I've said something wrong but I can't really understand what. Maybe I should just stop talking. "Umm... Yeah?" Or not.

"You can hear me? Feel me?" He grabs one of my arms and starts waving it in the air.

"Yeah, I can feel you. And hear you very clearly."

"Sorry. I need to get off of this bus." He lets go of me, grabs the yellow cord above his head and pulls on it to request to stop.

Before I can process what is happenign, he stands up and makes his way to the doors. Without looking back at me, he gets off the bus when it finally stops. The doors shut behind him and the bus continues to move as if nothing at all had happened between him and I.

There's a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that makes me want to curl up on my seat and just continue riding until the driver forces me out. But at my stop on 20th street, I get off as I normally do every morning. My body instinctively take me towards my work building because it can't rely on my mind which is lost in a stupor. The pestering, anxious and uncertain side of my brain keeps repeating in a loop 'I knew I should haven't said anything'. I wish I could just shut it up. But I am as powerless at doing that as I am at keeping away the image of him when I fall asleep. So much for the man of my dreams.