VELVET DREAMS
When a homeless man gets his wish, he gets more than he bargained.
Night after night, Hobo Jim slogged by the furniture outlet with a lifetime of clothes slung over his back. Furniture filled the place from wall to wall, a sight of envy for those who slept in a box or crate, if they were lucky enough to live in an object that weathered the elements. The hallway lighting at the far end was traced by a stack of items that piled around it like a picture frame. The light carried into the showroom, rimming what he had previously thought was a family gathering around a mock living space. It came complete with a television that played old reruns during the day to imbue elderly shoppers with a sense of nostalgia. The family hadn’t moved, and it was apparent that he was looking at a set of mannequins who smiled back at him with lips and teeth of fiberglass. Maybe they were plastic. He didn’t know, but they were lifelike enough to fool his perception, and he paid the craftsmen his fullest compliments.
He was already hooked. The intentional ambience made him wistful, especially now, in late autumn, when the last of the foliage whirled down from withering trees and clattered across the pavement. That’s when he sought a warm, cozy corner for the coming season. It made it harder to resist the plush couch sprawled across the middle of the showroom, inviting him to sink into its silken textures and shield him from the bitter cold. He couldn’t take his eyes off the velvet complexions that creased and billowed like a flowery bed. It sure beat a dirty mattress exposed to the wind and rain.
Temptation beckoned. He needed a way to get inside…somehow, some way. Even one night would do—the taste of luxury would last him the rest of his life. Of course, he would find every excuse in the book to extend his stay, ideally until spring. But other factors came into play. Motion detectors would pick up the drop of a pin, never mind a portly slob lumbering back and forth during the course of the night to grab a cup of water. Then off he’d go to spend the next seventy-two hours in jail, only to return to the streets under winter’s bane. He shook his head at the prospects. He’d end up back to square one.
It was like this every time: stroll through the streets, begging for handouts from cashless crowds, dumpster dive for extra garments, or a few morsels behind a random fast-food joint, then head to the outlet, pine for a spot on the sofa, and finally turn in for the night. The visitations had become ritual, an obsession to bend the will of the universe toward his favor. Though, it may have been wishful thinking.
Surrendering his pride, he slogged back to his alley, littered with post-consumables and hand-me-downs that had seen better days, and laid down to rest. For now, the mattress, stained and blemished like his coat, came as close to the ideal living condition that he could hope for. However, he refused to give in. He lay supine, eyes open toward the ebony skies, and left his mind to wander the distant suns. He chose a random star—the brightest he could find, and stared it down for the better part of an hour before muttering a wish. That was all he could do, leave a mental footprint far beyond orbit. He took a deep breath and sighed. It all lay in God’s hands now. He let himself go, no longer burdened with tomorrow’s concerns.
The star of interest suddenly brightened, then receded into the cloudy mist of the Milky Way. A twinkle, he thought. That was normal, especially during the summer months. But the last warm day had been in mid-October, more than four weeks ago, and the rest of the stars appeared as static as they always were during the cold. It could have been a coincidence, or mild hallucination while falling asleep, or most likely the wiling of an old man, especially one who’d been down on his luck most of his life. Without overthinking, he shrugged his eyebrows.
He drifted off, lost in pleasures he never had, except as idle fantasies. His eyelids sagged and shut, sealing him from the outer world. The nighttime sky remained, an after-image fusing into scapes of swirls and uroboric forms. He found himself floating through velvet dreams and chenille fields, cotton clouds and wooly shrouds. The heavens wrapped him in their starry embrace, removing his fears and cradling his soul. A smile graced his bristly jaw like the ersatz smiles beyond the window, guarding the store’s heavenly gates, which fueled his hopes and dreams to one day join those mannequins. Then he fell into a deep loud slumber.
The streets roared back to life. The sun beat down on his face. He winced, throwing an arm over his eyes and blocking the glare. He grumbled, then rolled off his mattress and onto the tarmac adorned with wrappers, butts, and flattened gum that took the sooty color of the ground. Stretching, he grabbed his backpack, kicked his bedding closer to the curb, and carried on with his daily business: meander, beg, dumpster dive, eat, meander some more, repeat. The same old grind.
The day had gone like any other, but it wasn’t complete without visiting the outlet, now considered his sacred space, even if just to whet his ambitions. Regardless of how often he had done this in vain, he held fast to his wish from the previous night.
Tossing a box of chicken bones bought with an hour’s worth of handouts, he wiped his hands on his coat and headed to the outlet. A tungsten light enveloped the showroom, including the living room set with his beloved sofa. The faux family, forever stuck in a single moment of time, remained faithfully at its helm, overlooking the prize possession.
A customer moseyed through, scanning the inventory. He stopped at the front desk, exchanged a few muted words with the clerk, nodded, and sauntered out the door. Tempted to retrace the man’s steps and plop his sullied end on the sofa, Jim shirked, mindful of the law as well as the manager’s protest, and squelched the thought. It was the game of dare, and he failed every time. He had to be more furtive.
Leaves rustled across the pavement, followed by a gust of wind streaming through the portico. Hobo Jim shivered, wrapping his arms around the mottled overcoat. He started to worry. Despite his apprehension, he eyed the vestibule, thinking of ways to petition the clerk for a night’s stay. It sounded desperate, but that cold snap triggered his fight-or-flight response, even tripping some of his reasoning. He scanned the store, but the clerk had disappeared. Where did he go? Give it a minute or two, he assured himself. He had till closing to wait.
Tires squealed. Jim turned around, slower than he would have twenty years ago. The car wigwagged and resumed its course, avoiding a collision with a telephone pole. Close call. When turning back, he noticed a mannequin, the one of the young boy, staring back at him. The head was twisted fully around, its eyes unblinking; for a moment he thought it possessed. He swore it faced the other way. Maybe not, and he wasn’t paying attention. Assuming Occam’s razor, he dismissed it as illusion.
Then it winked.
He flinched. It was sudden, almost spectral in how it took him by surprise. His body trembled, but that might have been the winds; they were picking up. He shook his head, trying to recompose himself, undoing some of the visual legerdemain that came with years of doing the same old thing every day. He didn’t even drink, unlike his peers who heedlessly buried their sorrows. That left one last deduction. Senescence might have taken its toll, a prospect he had dreaded for his coming years, and hoped to high heaven he was only mistaken. He needed to be sure.
He scanned through the collection of beds, dressers, chairs, and other furnishings on display, searching for the clerk who more than likely had walked up and flipped the head around. To Jim’s surprise, the room was empty. It begged the question as to why anyone would play a prank like that, besides frightening away the bum leering through the window. He might have stared longer than his mental agency allowed, triggering visuals that didn’t exist. The mind often did this, at least from Hobo Jim’s experience. Maybe he had assumed correctly that his mind was starting to go.
The minutes slipped by without event. The place remained empty. He wagered that it was all hallucination, stemming from deficits of memory. Maybe he needed rest. Feeling the pangs of defeat, he decided to leave when someone doused the lights.
The clerk finally debauched. He strolled up to the entrance, locked the doors, flipped the sign marked “closed,” and retreated into the shadows. Curious, Hobo Jim hobbled toward the back and peered around the corner. The back door slammed. The clerk shuffled down the steps, strode across the driveway, and settled into his car. A judder rattled the walls of the building. He revved the engine twice, threw the car into gear, and zoomed off with the muffler hanging by a single bracket. The streets echoed with an angry roar, punctuated by the bangs of a leaky exhaust. The car faded into the dying hiss of traffic.
Turning back toward the door, Jim saw it was ajar. Some of the light spilled from inside. The clerk must have swung a little too hard, causing the latch to overshoot the strike plate. The door had rebounded, unwitting to the clerk preoccupied with getting back home. But for Jim it was a blessing in disguise. He cracked a crenelated grin; his dream had finally come to pass. He hurried back to the front, thankful his belongings remained untouched, then ran back around as fast as age and burden would allow him.
He sauntered up the steps, hit the landing, and paused to look around for anyone who might have witnessed his illegal act. Not a peep. Taking one deep breath, he hunkered down and slipped between the door and destiny.
At once, solace and apprehension hit him head-on. When pushing past his boundaries, the weight of taboo often dampened his excitement, torn between legality and ecstasy. He stopped in his tracks, pondering his choice, whether to stay, or in honor of the law, pivot his foot and dash away in a plume of dust. But he had come all this way, expending his energies to do so. He had a purpose, and recalled the weather nipping through his coat, and the squalid shelters that paled to the dirt and grime outdoors. Beggars can’t be choosers, he mused, and he was certainly a beggar. His choice was simple. Barring excuses, he proceeded with caution. But each step thundered through the store, or so it seemed under the burden of guilt.
It was a different world, a radical departure from the ever-present elements offered by an open sky. The place drowned in silence, aside from the furnace that bellowed through the grates and into the store like winds caressing a desolate city. The vents even whistled, some bent out of shape, changing the pitch into a somber melody. It could have been ghosts, taunting him for invading their space. But Hobo Jim welcomed it with open arms.
Past the hall of lights, darkness took the reins. The sofa beckoned, it’s white plushness seeping through the pitch of the showroom.
But he sensed another presence. He knew he wasn’t alone. All around, someone watched. The mannequins tracked his every move like gargoyles atop a castle’s lintel. But something else lay in wait. Surveillance covered the store, but it paled to his excitement, and he barely gave it a second thought.
He walked by one of the children, the son, who faced the television once again. Funny. He last saw it wink in the other direction. There might have been a double, but he never saw it from outside. He had only counted four with each visit. The thought chipped away at him, further embrittling his brain. But it was only fear, he decided, an abstraction, an irrational suppressant of his long-desired wish. Every luxury came with a drawback, a conclusion he had made when hearing rich kids yammer over trivialities without knowing real pain. He certainly knew his own standing, as humbling as it was. Yet here he stood, his dream fulfilled.
Casting his cares aside, he slipped off his pack, succumbed to gravity, and collapsed into a billow of clouds. He thought he floated, letting the current take him wherever it would. Clasping his hands behind his head, he surrendered. His body immediately gave. He imagined a coterie of angels ushering him deep into the sandman’s keep.
His eyes fluttered open. He looked through the slats of the shuttered blinds. It was still night, and he could see the streetlamps thronged with glowing spikes of pressurized sodium. A dreary orange pall cast over the road and store facades that lay across the street. Now and then, a car rushed by, hissing into the drowning darkness. The only lingering sound came from the autumn wind that ebbed and flowed in a blustering sigh. Leaves clattered. A cat sauntered through a gap of broken slats, its shadow dancing as it passed each light, then stopped to pick up a scent, fixing on a nearby alley. A second later, it vanished into the pitch.
Hobo Jim swiveled his eyes. Dawn was still hours away. The room slept. The mannequins remained, greeting him with plastic stares without bias or reproof, their faces partially limbed from the slivers of light outside. Dressers, tables, and beds appeared as matted rectangles, giving the illusion of a boondocks city quieted in the midnight hour.
His eyes began to droop. Slowly, his consciousness retreated. The overarching shapes of the store, the orange-tinted windows, and the mother-of-pearls strung across the roads faded away. His breathing rumbled into a snore.
Voices faded into range little by little. The chattering grew louder, sharper, and clearer until he heard someone mention his name. He ignored it, assuming it was nothing important, as he meandered through his dream, recognizing people and places that never existed. Then he heard his name again, loud enough to startle him. He snapped awake.
Leaning on his forearms, he twisted his head around, searching the room.
Something flickered in erratic intervals. He turned his head. His eyes flared open. The TV was on. So that was it, the mysterious voices. Strange. The television was off when he had fallen asleep. Someone must have turned it on, but who? The volume was low, playing old shows he recognized. The Dick Van Dyke Show cracked an array of antiquated jokes and passing trifles, shadows from a time long gone, well before he was born. He poignantly remembered those in his early youth; they were reruns even then. They were good times, before life got in the way and family abuse took its toll. How long has the TV been running?
And who had announced his name? It might have been his dreams fusing with physical sounds.
To be safe, he swept his eyes across the room, still finding himself alone. If someone, at some point, had flipped the TV on, he had been sound asleep, miraculously going unnoticed, even though he stood out like a bear in a bedroom. The remote could have been wedged between the pillows, and he accidentally had laid upon it, hitting the switch. If that was the case, he didn’t bother to check, too cozy to move.
As he shut his eyes again, someone shouted his name once more. He stirred. The tone, clarity, and volume overpowered the TV. His heart raced; his breathing deep and raspy. Someone entered—possibly the owner. He froze, waiting for the man to usher him back into the streets, or demand that he stay put while calling the police.
Despite the icy fears that chilled him as if stranded in the middle of winter, Hobo Jim needed to test his surroundings. He shouted loud enough for anyone in the store to hear. No one answered, not even his echo, dampened by the thickness of clutter.
He waited, the weight on his conscience too overbearing to shake. After a minute or two, the silence still lingered. Soon, his pulse came to a crawl, and he relaxed once again, assured he was in the clear before going back to sleep.
Hey! The voice shouted, its words more pellucid. Jimmy. Jimmy O’Rourke!
Someone kept addressing him—though he hadn’t heard his last name mentioned in years. He flung up, struggling to right his posture, and twisted his shoulders in every direction.
Here.
Hobo Jim remained still, staring at the far end of the store to check for any passing silhouettes.
Come on. You know better than that!
He shifted his eyes closer to his position, right where the paternal mannequin stood.
Right on target!
Jim couldn’t answer. His brow inched up until his eyes were close to popping out of their sockets.
Welcome, Jim!
Welcome where?
Home, silly.
Where’s that?
With your family! Jim looked to his right. It was the “wife.” Where you’ll be at home forever and ever!
We figured you needed a place to stay, the “father” said.
And a little tender love and care, the wife interposed.
He asked himself if he was dreaming. Without saying it aloud, he got the answer.
Of course not, silly, the father chided. Someone read his mind. You’re wide awake and ready for the day!
He was certain a few screws had loosened upstairs.
Oh, you poor dear. Is someone feeling a little woozy! The mother said, likely in response to Jim’s last thought. Well, I can certainly fix that!
You should try her chicken soup. The father said. Works every time for me!
Makes the sun shine every day!
Me too! Came the boy who had earlier winked at Jim.
You’d eat ‘em all too! The young daughter had her say too.
Chicken soup? For the insane? Perhaps he had succumbed. He pinched his cheek and winced. This pain was real. So were the voices, loud and clear, as well as the wink the child had given him. The place was haunted. Yet from Hobo Jim’s experience, most of the world expected a homeless tramp to suffer similar delusions. That would be his stigma once he told of his nightly escapade. It should have scared him senseless, or made him reconsider his trespasses. But this time seemed different. After decades of weather-beaten transience, someone with a sober head had finally accepted him—a head of fiberglass and polymers—but a family nonetheless. He felt nothing from the odd situation, but unflagging gratitude.
Hours passed…days even, from what he could sense. The sun never came out, and the store remained empty. The back hall dimly shined in its liminal space. No one arrived to work their shift. No one came up, dragged him by his ear, and marched him out the door. Surely, someone had to have seen him lounging on the giant sofa, wiggling around in its costly fabrics, snug as a bug in a rug. The TV stayed on, and reruns cycled endlessly through their monochrome corridors. Yet the night remained, day after day, and there he slept, blinded by comfort, hearing voices he called family.
Such was the mind of a man who communed with dummies.
He awoke to sunlight. Finally! The lighting of the back hall faded; the showroom flickered on. Bodies stirred. It seemed like eternity, but the morning shift had finally arrived. Hobo Jim expected his come-uppance, but he still couldn’t wipe that smile off his face. But after a minute, he realized something was off.
Everyone looked worried, frantic even. They rushed past flinging their hands and running around like madmen, clearly provoked by the mild inconvenience of an uninvited guest. He was certainly caught in the act, yet no one laid a hand on him. They kept milling in circles, acting more frightened that angry, continuing to flail and gesture where the couch had stood. Jim wanted to get up and help. But he couldn’t move, not even his eyes. That was new. He couldn’t even twist his head to see what all the hubbub was about. It also occurred to him that he no longer lay on the couch. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, more than the crime of breaking and entering in search of free room and board, even for the night. It might have been another dream, but he scratched the idea; everything played out concisely, too sequential to be figments conjured from a flimsy brain.
Yet he remained as still as the mannequins around him, his happy family, which reminded him. He tried to shout, to ask how they were doing, hoping to hear their unearthly cheerfulness, as content as the reruns on TV. Maybe life in monochrome wasn’t so bad. He had been equally satisfied, the first time in recent memory that his family life helped fill in those lonesome gaps. Maybe he was just plain crazy.
A shout. He snapped from his reverie. Everything rocked back and forth, his field of view shaken. When all settled, he noticed that he faced a few degrees to his left, getting a better view of the couch. But someone was in the way. That person reeled back, regaining his poise while staring right at Jim. The employee must have stumbled. He shook his head, appearing to compose himself, then dashed from sight. Hobo Jim assumed the employee crashed into him before rebounding. Still, he thanked that one lucky star he didn’t fall and break his hip. But something more pressing grabbed his attention. The couch was occupied. He cursed, though it came out silently. Someone else had entered, following his trails, and took his sacred space. The nerve!
But the backpack looked familiar. Of course. Hobo Jim had left it there last night. Then his eyes darted back to the couch. The coat. That imposter had taken his coat! Yet Jim was still wearing his. He was kidding himself. It didn’t make sense. He reinspected the man on the couch, this time more closely studying the face, garments, and other revealing details. A dreaded feeling slowly unfurled upon recognition, alarming his senses. He broke into a sweat—at least it felt like it, except nothing trickled from his brow.
He stared again and again. The grim truth revealed itself. Convinced it was no delusion of age, he realized he beheld his own presence. But how could that be the case? He noticed he didn’t move, not even his chest that would normally fluctuate with every breath. Yet here Jim stood, alive and well, communing with his newfound family. How did he get here while still laying over there?
Several employees ran over and shook the other Jim. He didn’t stir. What in the world was happening? Someone else rushed into the scene, followed by others all dressed in white. They rolled a gurney up to the couch. Some carried boxes and electronic devices Jim couldn’t make out. They leaned over his doppelganger, checking the vitals and running scans. Counting to three, they shocked his chest. After several tries, the chief paramedic stood up and shook his head. Another pulled out a sheet and draped it over the body. Two others grabbed the feet and shoulders. They gave a heave-ho, hoisted the body onto the gurney, and rolled out.
The employees followed, stumbling over each other as they went. The room plunged back into silence; the dirge of liminality returned. A darkness palled over the showroom, including the mannequins that stared right into his eyes, those happy smiles that never changed. All heads faced Hobo Jim.
Welcome…welcome…welcome… A welter of voices chimed through space and time.
What happened? He could ask that until he was blue in the face…but that already seemed to be the case. In spite of the gloom of confusion, his new found family showered him in warm assurances, that he had nothing to worry about, nothing else. After all, he was now part of their world, a world of happiness. His dream was fulfilled.
Brent Teller, the current store manager at Barrowstown Furniture, came in firmly rubbing his forehead. He slapped his hand down on his thigh, looking skyward, wondering how a vagabond entered the store, plopped down on one of the most expensive couches, then died. A heart attack, they said. He had looked rather old. All his hair was grey and matted, as if he went through hell and back. To Brent, all the homeless were like that, no matter how old. And the couch was ruined, almost. It would cost a pretty penny to clean, a pain in the neck as well, but doable. But the added curse of someone dying on it? $4500.00 down the drain.
Teller spurned himself. What a callous thought, putting more value on a couch than a human life, regardless of social standing.
His eyes swept across the room. The mannequins sat posing away for who knows how long. He longed to take a 2’ 4 out of the back store room and pulverize them on the spot. They creeped him out, and it gave him some levity that he wouldn’t have to look at their vacant smiles staring out into the void anymore. Besides, they were outdated, a relic from before his time. How long had it been? They were ready for the scrap heap.
But something caught his eye that he hadn’t noticed earlier. He remembered only four mannequins, yet now there was a fifth. It was hideous, strangely out of place. No vendor would use an overweight mannequin that looked like someone dug it out of the grave, except as a practical joke. They could even use it to dole out second-hand items at a local thrift shop. And why was it wearing such a raggedy coat? Prank or not, the regional manager would frown upon it. Then again, there was something about it that stood out, something unique, ill-fitting but worthy of adding a little interest to a dead-end job. Maybe he could use it for Halloween.
Yet it looked disturbingly familiar: that weird homeless guy who turned a premier cut of chenille into his personal casket. That was also the same man who kept staring into the window before the end of the shift, fixed in position as if he too was a mannequin. The thought disturbed Teller, but it might have been a stretch of imagination, and he shook his head, having worked too many hours, weekends included. The past twenty-four hours had been stressful enough, especially when swamped by the local media who just ran a first-page story on the incident. He also hoped the ordeal wouldn’t close the store, even temporarily. He couldn’t afford it. Nor could the store. It would take forever to find another job.
Overwhelmed with a feeling of discomfort, Teller decided to dispose of it. He reached out his hands and grabbed the shoulders, planning to lug it off. Then he flinched and snapped away faster than a snake. The mannequin, in all its artifice, had winked at him.
Special thanks to Ian Nol for helping with the edit.
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