Dream: Paint

Nice cool weather, makes me glad I have these paint suits after all. I close the truck door behind me and stretch complaining joints. Another day, another dollar, another job to do. Somebody actually bought the old warehouse and now they have hired me to paint it. All the interior work has been done, rooms and offices created in the empty space. Plumbing and sinks where wanted and where required. But despite all the professional crews the new owners hired to remodel the building, little jack-of-all-trades me was hired to paint it. Can’t figure out why.

I had looked over the building when offered the job. I told the owners point blank, this was a job requiring a full painting crew if they wanted it done quickly and neatly. The owners asked if they supplied the paint and tools, could I do it.

“Yes, I can. But it will take me at least a week just to do the exterior, because of the ladders involved. Inside, could take me a month of nonstop painting because of all the rooms, and requested techniques.”

“Are you saying you don’t want the assignment?”

“I do want the assignment, but I want to make sure you understand the ramifications of me accepting it. Yes, you’ll be paying me much less than a professional crew, but you’ll pay more at the end because of the time it will take me. Which brings me to my second point. A professional crew will be done in three days, if they are lazy. This WILL take me a month. Your investors will have kittens over this.”

The man I talked to smiled as I finished. “Madam, I AM the investor. I appreciate your honesty and candor. And yes, if you are willing, the assignment is yours.”

“I am willing.”

He gave me the keys to every door in the building and a phone number to call in case of emergencies. Start painting in a week, he said. The paint and tools will be inside, waiting for me. No rush, he said. Just leave what paint or tools is leftover in the building when I’m done.

I unlock the main doors and step inside. More than just the paint was waiting for me. Every tool I would require is also waiting for me. New ladders, paintguns, brushes, trays, rollers, and even painting coveralls and cleaners. The only thing missing, was a person to use the tools.

I looked at the coveralls I was wearing. They were so worn and wore out, I had stopped washing paint out of them, as it was the paint that held it together. It did not take me long to decide. I stripped out of my decrepit coveralls and donned the new (and fitting!) coveralls the owner had provided.

The paint was kept in three rooms. One room held all the exterior paint. One room held the main color of interior paint. The third room held lots of small pint cans of many different colors, with instructions on which room was to have which accent.

All the paint was from a brand I did not recognize. It was clear the supplier was a specialty manufacturer and not a national chain. Once I took all the needed tools outside, I lugged one of the exterior paint cans into the chill air and opened it to begin.

Red. Some sort of pearling technique had been applied to the paint. As I stirred it, it changed color from bright scarlet red to deep crimson red. If it were not for the sharp heady smell of fresh paint, I would think I was stirring a cauldron of fresh blood, steaming warm as it cooled in the chill air.

The building was covered in years of graffiti and illegal posters promoting forgotten bands. They all combined in my vision into an unintelligible scramble of vanity and territorial marking. I started high on the wall, in a distant corner not easily seen by the street.

The paint instructions directed the painter NOT to clean or prepare the surface before painting. It was not necessary. Some special enzyme in the paint would destroy unwanted markings as it was applied. I thought this was marketing bullshit, and so chose an inconspicuous corner to test the wonder-paint. Even up here, the taggers had left their mark. I planned to test the corner, take pictures, then come back tomorrow to see what had changed.

As I applied to paint, it began to sizzle and crackle as it soaked into the graffiti. The tagger’s metallic marks boiled on the bricks as the red paint chemically reacted with it. After the third brush stroke, the graffiti was no longer viewable to my eye, although the surface continued to boil and steam.

I painted more of the corner than I had planned, watching the reaction continue along the defacement. My test swatch completed, I took a picture with my camera, climbed down the ladder, cleaned the tools, and put the tools and paint away within the building. Even the coveralls were left behind, as I dressed into the rags I arrived in.

The next day, I came back to the building. The sky was still cloudy, but no rain was forecast and the weather had warmed up a little. Even from the ground, it was clear, the red paint had completely covered the graffiti. Not even the outline of the metallic lines were visible.

When I entered the building to get the paint, tools, and used coveralls, I found the pair I had used was gone. In the spot where I had carefully laid it over a drop cloth so not to risk paint getting on the floor, was a new set of coveralls! I found no note, no signs of anything else disturbed after my departure. Just a new set of coveralls. I said nothing, and dressed for the job, intending to paint at least one full wall of the building.

As I painted, the color deepened from the initial scarlet red to a deep, almost alive, crimson blood red. It soaked into the building’s brick exterior like lotion on my skin. I had the sensation of applying a salve to a mistreated wound.

The bubbling and crackling continued where ever the paint contacted graffiti. As I continued down the wall, I wondered how the paint would deal with the layered papers of forgotten bands and anarchist manifestos. In some places, the paper was layered an inch thick over the bricks. From my vantage point on the ladder, the flyers looked like a calloused scab on the building’s skin.

I applied extra paint to the papers. The paint soaked in immediately, but there was no reaction. After waiting about a minute, I realized the papers had soaked up the paint completely, neutralizing the paint’s cleaning effects. This enraged me, and in retaliation, I painted several layers in quick succession. The bills soaked in the paint as fast as I applied it.

I stopped and climbed down the ladder. Watching the building cleaned by the paint had been uplifting my own spirits. To now be frustrated by nothing more than paper labeling was greatly upsetting. I had to walk away from the wall for a moment to collect myself and control my rage.

As I stood, facing the street, looking at all the other bland, corporate beige warehouses and factories, I ignored the ripping sound from above and behind me. I felt a slight shift of air as something fell behind me, but I was still too engrossed in nursing my anger to notice it as anything more than a falling leaf. More shifts of air teased at my ear, then a large something audibly ripped away from the wall and fell on top of my head with a soft “phlumpf”.

I felt something wet dripping off the item. The wetness running down the headscarf that covered my afro, tracing lines down my face and mingling with my unnoticed tears. I snatched the large dampness off my head and gave an exclamation of joy and shock.

It was a large piece of poster paper. Soaked through with the red paint, it had peeled away from the wall as the paint dissolved the glue that adhered it to the building. I turn around to face the building with great happiness. Everywhere I had spread the paint over the posters, the paper was bubbling off the brick and falling. The ground at my feet was covered in the shed remains of the forgotten and the blasphemous. Even there, the paint was relentless in the assault, eating away glue, then ink, then dissolving even the paper itself. I knew, the moment water was applied, the paint’s work would be complete and the papers would no longer exist.

A faint feeling tickled my cheek. Finding a clean spot on my sleeve, I wiped at my face. To my surprise, the paint had dried up my forgotten tears. Only a faint residue remained, and even that blew off my skin at the slightest shift of air.

My spirits renewed, I chided myself for not being patient. I climbed the ladder, and began applying the paint anew. Where the paper had fallen away, I saw even more layers of billpost, untouched by the cleansing paint. I applied the paint in layers. Soaking the billposts, waiting for the paint to eat away the glue and the billposts to fall. Then painting over the exposed spot again. I continued this until I was finally applying paint directly to the building’s brick.

Despite the size of the building, I was able to completely paint one wall in one day. Just as the sun was setting, did I finish the last corner of the wall I was painting that day. I looked back over my work, a solid expanse of deep crimson red that felt like it was glowing with an inner heat. Feeling very satisfied, I swept up the remainders of the paper debris and disposed of them in the provided trash bags. I cleaned the tools, and placed tools and paint within the building in their respective storage rooms. I changed out of the paint and paper spattered coveralls, placing them carefully on a drop cloth. Locking the door behind me, I felt the day was well spent.

The third day of painting, I arrived to find the wall painted the day before looking well covered and still a deep crimson red. Comparing the color to the corporate beige buildings that surrounded me, it was as if the building was slowly coming to life, becoming more than the inanimate factories that shared the street. Again, I find new coveralls waiting where I had placed the dirtied. But this time, sitting atop the new coveralls, was a length of cloth tied in a large loop. As I picked up the loop, I recognized it at once. A headscarf, tied in the same manner as I have my afro covered. I acknowledge the gift, to no one in particular, and replace my scarf with the offering as I dress for the day.

The painting of the three other exterior walls went without mishap or surprises. The red paint cleaned the brick of all dirt, graffiti, and billposts. The few drops that fell only my skin tickled as it dried, leaving me with odd patches of sweat free skin. Each wall took a whole day. At the end of each day, I cleaned my mess and left the dirtied overalls and headscarf behind. At the beginning of the next day, the dirtied overalls and headscarf was replaced with new clean materials.

The last wall was painted on a Friday. When I arrived the following Saturday to begin painting the interior, I found my keys would not unlock the door. After some fussing and jiggling with the lock, a piece of paper fell from above the door.

Written in beautiful calligraphy was, “All work and no play makes for bitter hands. Shouldn’t you go find something fun to do?”. I wondered verbally how was I supposed to find something fun to do when I had no fun funds to do it with. No sooner had the words left my mouth, I heard a loud bang from my truck. Stuffing the paper into my pocket, I turned quickly to see what had closed my driver’s door.

I looked around, but saw no movement anywhere. I listened carefully, but heard no footsteps. Warily, I went to the truck’s door and opened it slowly. There was a manila envelope on the driver’s seat. The envelope was sealed but not glued. A drop of something red held the flap down. At first, I thought it to be a wax seal. But as I held it in the clouded daylight, I recognized the crimson red of the paint. The paint was long dried and hard. It yielded easy to my fingers.

Within the envelope was a hand written accounting of my hours, and a smaller envelope. From the few hours I spent on Monday testing the paint, to the rest of the week working from sunrise to sunset, the accounting was complete and correct down to the penny. It was also marked, “Paid in Full”. I opened the smaller envelope, and saw a stack of bills. Wrapped around the stack was a strip of paper with more handwriting. “Your attention to detail is worth rounding up your wages to the next whole.” Counting out the money, I thought it was rounded up to the next whole dollar. Instead, I find my pay had been rounded up to the next whole denomination used in the stack, the next fifty dollar bill.

I realize then, I have been watched by the building’s owner from the very first day. If the owner does not want me to work on weekends, then no amount of jiggling the lock will allow me entry. I express my thanks and gratitude, to no one in particular, enter my truck, and drive off for the weekend.

Monday morning, I arrive at the building just after sunrise. To my horror, I find the paint has changed color over the weekend. No longer the deeply crimson blood red I had become accustomed to, the entire of the building’s exterior was now a flat-matte black of incomprehensible darkness. The building did not merely not reflect light, it seemed to devour it. It gave the impression the building was a three dimensional representation of negative space. It was very unnerving to look at.

I ignore the paper stuck in the building’s front door, and walk up to the now black wall. I am almost to the point of tears, having watched the wall be healed by the paint only three days before. Ignoring my instinct to leave the work-site and never come back, I reach out and stroke the wall gently.

The wall shimmers under my touch, crimson red lines follow the trail left by my fingers. I lift my fingers away, and the red deepens and becomes black. I press my palms against the wall with force. The wall under my touch become bright red. I have the illusion of a slight giving under my pressure, like I’m pressing against the flesh of a large creature. When I lift my hands, the black slowly engulfs the red left behind, like the skin color returning to a creature’s hide. Never did I feel discomfort being next to the wall. Instead, I felt an echo of familiarity, the return of an almost forgotten friend.

In the silence, I hear the paper in the front door flapping gently. I trail a finger against the wall as I make my way to the door, leaving a darkening crimson trail as I go. My imagination said the wall laughed as if tickled, but surely that was my imagination, right?

Such beautiful penmanship. I could study the note for hours if not for the task at hand. “The paint will change color to black if you have applied it properly. This is expected. The paint is reactive once it has cured, it may change color in response to touch. The interior is waiting for you to begin.” I sigh, fold the paper and tuck it into a pocket. I find the door unlocks smoothly and enter the building.

Inside, I find a new set of coveralls and headscarf waiting for me. I look into the room that held the remainder of the exterior paint. The room is empty and cleaned. I inventory the tools waiting for me. All tools used solely for exterior work are gone. On top of the new coveralls is a set of notes. I read through them, realizing they are detailing in which order to paint the interior rooms, and how they are to be decorated.

I begin painting according to the notes. The day goes fast without incident and all too soon I’m realizing the sun is setting and it’s time for me to go. Each evening, I change out of the dirtied coveralls and headscarf. Each morning, I find a new coverall, headscarf, and updated instructions. Some of the interior rooms are painted a gentle blue or a delicate rose. Most of them are off-white with no highlights or trim. A few have reactive paint applied.

Each day, I pull up to the light devouring building with no discomfort. Before entering, I would lightly touch the building’s side. Watching the red trails left by my fingers turn to deepest black fills me with a sense of accomplishment. Entering, I would get the sense of the building welcoming me into metaphorical arms.

Every Friday, I would exit the building to find a crimson paint sealed envelope on my seat. It would contain a detailed handwritten account of my hours, and my payment for the week’s work in cash, rounded up to the nearest fifty dollars.

As it happened, the last interior room was completed on a Friday, just before sunset. As I changed out of the coveralls for the last time, I felt a twinge of regret. The building, the very rooms, had become alive to me. I knew it’s environmental changes through the day in an almost intimate fashion. The individual rooms were like individual people. Silent friends that always watched, always listened, always enjoyed the soundless company we shared.

I didn’t want to leave, but I knew my work here was done. It was time to go and become the jack of another trade. I went from room to room, saying my goodbyes in a fashion appropriate to the decor. Some rooms, I merely bowed. Some rooms, I left noisy echoes. One room in particular, decorated in angry reds and jagged blacks, I merely stuck my middle finger in the air and waved it to all the walls. When I laughed in response to my own action, the echo of the laughter made it sound like the room was laughing with me. All too soon, I ran out of rooms to say farewell to. I exited the front door, locking it behind me.

I went to the side of the building. Stood beside the strangely cool wall as the building and I watched the last remnants of sunlight fade in the west. I caressed the impossibly black bricks, whispering my farewells. “You’re beautiful. Whatever he has planned for you, I’m sure you will be spectacular.” The trails left by my fingers brightened red from the pressure, fading slowly to black as my fingers passed.

Once again, on the seat of my truck, is a paint-sealed manila envelope. Along with the account of my hours, and the rounding up of my wages, is another instruction. “Tomorrow night, at sunset, the club will open for the first time. It will be a magickal time, dress accordingly. The building knows you, you won’t need to use the keys, but do bring the keys with you so you may return them to me.”

The following afternoon, I returned to the building. This time, driving my personal car. In my pocket were the keys to the building. When I first drove up, I did not recognize the building and overshot the turn into the parking lot. I had to drive onto the freeway, get off the freeway at the next exit, to be on the street facing the proper direction to turn into the building’s parking lot again.

The second time, I saw a sign noting the parking lot was full, and drove around trying to find a place to park. Finding none, I decided to circle around again, in the hope that a spot might have opened in the few minutes it would take me to circumnavigate the area.

The third time, I saw the sign had remained. But a valet stepped in front of my car and stopped me. “Excuse me, Ms. Nox? Forgive me for not seeing you the first time. A space has been reserved for you, please, enter this way.” He directed me into the parking lot, where a space had a movable “RESERVED” sign placed in it. As I pull up, the sign is removed and I am directed to park there.

I note, the parking spot is directly in front of where I would caress the building’s reactive wall. I smile to myself, but say nothing. I look at the building, which holds the stoic silence of an edifice, yet I feel as if I’m sharing an unspoken joke with an old friend.

The sun is still an hour before setting, and the attendants are announcing the doors will not open until after the sun fully sets. The growing crowd of invitees, celebrities, and dilettantes mumble loudly at not being allowed entry. Each one proclaiming they know the club’s owner on a deeper and more personal level than the one before.

I leave the car, and inspect the now decorated wall. I see the color of the paint is still the light-devouring black that it was before. But now there are many canvases adorning the near breathing brick. Many of them are huge versions of tarot cards. Each one done in a different style. None of them are from decks I’ve personally seen. The Magus. The Star. Fortune. They appear to float over the black surface of the building. Everyone’s attention is on the crowd of celebrities by the door. No one is watching inconsequential me. I reach out to the building to touch the brick gently. Before I touch the surface, the bricks change to crimson red, as if in anticipation of contact. I do not disappoint. The touch is brief but personal. He was right, the building does know me.

“Ah, I thought I saw you arrive.” His voice is as lyrical as his handwriting is stylistic. I did not hear him step up beside me, nor did the maddening throng by the door. They have not seen him beside me just yet.

I turn to face him, but his appearance eludes me. I can’t bear to look directly at his face. I can only look on his silk vest and the sweeps of embroidery that cover them.

I reach in my pocket for the keys, only to discover the pocket is empty. In panic I start for the car but a familiar jingle stops me. He is holding them. “Thank you, so very much, for keeping these in confidence. Thank you, so very much, for wanting to return them once your task had finished. There are those who would not have kept such confidence. That is why they were not asked to complete the tasks.”

I still can’t see his face, but I know he is looking at the mass of people by the doors. “Look at them, they crawl over each other like maggots. They cry for the light to be draped over them and brag of meaningless connections to me.” I can hear the disdain in his voice. “And then there is you.” He faces me squarely, but I can’t keep his gaze. “You have embraced the darkness and find it as plain as the light.” He lightly touches the building’s wall, it reddens under his touch as well. “You keep the company of the grand and the great, but to you, their celebrity is as nothing. Perhaps that is why they keep your company.”

He takes my hand, kisses it as if I were royalty. “You’ll not see me again this night. Chances are, you’ll not see me again, ever. But this… place… knows you. It will ever be a refuge to you.” He holds me at arm’s length, inspecting my clothes. “I told you the same as I told them. ‘Tonight is a magickal night, dress accordingly.’ It would seem you are of the few that heard what I meant.” Automatic lights turned on in the parking lot. I didn’t realize it was long after sunset. As I reflexively turn to the nearest light, he says, “Make of it, what you may.”

I feel his hand releasing mine and a shift of air around me. I turn forward, to see I am standing alone beside the building. The doors have been opened, and the maddening throng is pressing forward to enter the club. I note with amusement, some of the loudest “celebrities” are being turned aside for being party crashers. “Tonight is Invitations Only! If you do not have an invitation, or if you are not accompanied by an invited guest, you will not enter!” A man, dressed in a suit, is standing at a podium by the doors. He is checking those without written invitations against a list.

I feel bidden to enter, despite a lack of a written invitation. I wait for the crush of people to thin out to a fading wail then try my own luck against the door checker. As I step into line, I note I am surrounded by people dressed in “clubbing” clothes. There is lots of shiny, sparkly, flashy fabrics and adornments. The women are in revealing opalescent clothes, with diamonds everywhere. The men are strutting about in silks and fine linens, gold teeth and diamond studs. These are the beautiful people seen in flashier establishments everywhere. They look upon me, my afro held back with a simple headband, my lace trimmed linen shirt covered by a black fitted vest, black slacks, black boots, and full length black coat. The beautiful look down on my five foot, three inch self, and laugh. A woman takes off a diamond ring, one of many, and offers it to me. Perhaps I could sell it and buy myself clothes and hairstyle worthy of this establishment. She and her companions laugh. The door checker remains stoic.

When I don’t reach for the ring, she becomes contemptuous. Flinging it into the parking lot, she derides me for not taking it. “I can throw you away easier than I can throw away that ring. You shouldn’t be here. You need to be polishing my boots after I’ve shoved them up your ass.” More laughter from her companions. The door checker looks at her, then looks at me, emotionless. He holds my gaze, looking strangely familiar to me, then drops my eyes to turn back to her.

“Madam.” She stops taunting me just long enough to hand her written invitation to him. He looks at the paper, but refuses to accept it. “Madam, I must ask you to wait to the side, please.” She stares at him dumbly.

“I have an invitation!” She shakes the paper in his face. His eyes remind me of a color combination I painted in one of the rooms.

“Madam, conduct yourself with decorum, please.” The door checker now looks squarely at me again. Our eyes meet, and I am sure of it now. His eyes, blue and purple, are the same shades of a small room I had painted. He looks on me, sees I recognize the colors, and smiles.

“My Lady, it is good to see you.” His voice is soft. I had imagined the blue and purple room would be fitted with soft, welcoming furniture. It would be a room where one could be welcome in and find comfort with. His voice is as soft as the imagined furnishings.

He holds his hand out, I step forward and place my hand in his. He bows slightly, and kisses my hand as if I were royalty. He smiles as he stands. “They are waiting within, my Lady. The doors will open for you, please enter.” He bows and leads me slightly forward, where two doormen stand at the ready. I note the doormen are dressed in the same colors as the pillars on either side of the doors. I start to make the connection.

“You’re letting that fucking nigger bitch whore in, and not me!” The woman that taunted me earlier is now livid. She has gripped her invitation in her hand tightly and is shaking her fist at me. “Who did she fuck to get in? I paid good money for this night, and I’ll be damned if that little cock muncher is placed before me!” Some of her companions are encouraging her to grab me and slap me. A few of her companions are advising her to calm down.

The door checker releases my hand and faces her again. “Madam, that invitation, is not addressed to you in the first place.” He ignores her and reaches for the hand of her quiet companion, the one that was urging the upset woman to calm herself. He takes the quiet woman’s hand, and leads her forward. “Madam, there will be those delighted to see you just as you are. You did not need to bring such… adornments… with you.” The quiet woman stammered an excuse about having to keep up appearances, and that if the raging woman couldn’t enter then she wouldn’t be able to as well.

The door checker nodded in understanding. “When you wish to come on your own, you will be accepted.” He released the quiet woman’s hand, and she, tearfully, turned and left the group. With the invitation literally walking away, the raging woman was now more determined than ever to enter the club. She pushed her way forward and shoved the door checker out of her way.

I was half facing the doors, but did not notice they had opened. The drama behind me was too engrossing. The doorman closest to me quickly uttered apologies as he grabbed me and pulled me to the side and out of the way of the large bouncer that was coming to the door checker’s aid.

I was not surprised to see the bouncer was dressed in a red suit with jagged black accents. He took a few steps forward, grabbed the loud woman’s arm and with great personal delight forced her away from the doors towards the street. At the street, he pushed her away from him, causing her to trip over the curb and fall into the filthy gutter.

He turns from her and glares at the rest of her “companions”. They all decide to leave as quickly as possible. The bouncer looks over the door checker, and merely grunts at him. He slows down as he approaches me.

The bouncer and I stare each other down for several long seconds. I finally let out a long sigh, roll my eyes as dramatically as I could, and flip him off with great flourish. Everyone waiting to be admitted into the club let out a collective gasp at my abusive gesture. The bouncer narrows his eyes and snarls his lips in a gesture of aggression. I return his gesture and his stare. After a few more intense seconds, we are able to hold it no longer and we both surrender to giggles and laughter.

The door checker just shakes his head as the bouncer offers his arm to me. As I take it, he remarks, “You’re good to have around. Yes. Good to have around.” The doormen open the doors for us as we walk in without any further incident.

Inside the club, I am immediately disoriented. Areas where there should have been many a small room and private door was now great open spaces. The third floor has disappeared entirely, and the first floor is now one great club space. The bouncer holds on to me as I struggle against vertigo.

“This isn’t how you left us, is it?” He has to yell to be heard above the music.

“No! You were all individual rooms.”

“Not all of the rooms are individual. The ones you painted plain are still there.”

“The second floor is actual offices then?” He leads me around the exterior of the club.

“Yes. But the third floor, well…” He opens his arms in a grand gesture of presenting himself.

One by one, he brings me around to meet the club’s staff. One by one, I recognize various painting styles or color combinations of the small interior rooms I had painted. One by one, they greet me as a friend.

After the grand tour of the club’s dancing floor, I was confused. Didn’t the owner say this would be a “magickal night”? All I saw was just one more watered drink, over priced night club. I mentioned my concerns to the bouncer, who just nodded. He led me away from the floor to a door marked “PRIVATE”. I recognized the two men dressed all in black to be from the two small rooms that originally stood here. They looked at me, and nodded. One stepped past me, placing himself between me and the club, as well as me and the bouncer. I felt a shift in position and noticed the club sounds had decreased dramatically. I understood then, that I had just been placed in a magic pocket. The other man in black opened the “PRIVATE” door. I had not seen this door during my painting of the building’s interior. The door opened to a single width stairwell that led directly down into a basement I did not know about.

When I entered the stairwell, the door was closed behind me sealing me in darkness. The sound resonated through me, bringing lucidity with it. I realized I was dreaming. I knew if I went back up to the club floor, I would lose the lucidity and most likely lose the importance of the dream.

First things, first, however. I am in a sealed stairwell, with no windows or source of light. Fine. I just won’t need light to see. I will myself to see without light and the stairwell illumines from every conceivable surface.

I know what is above me, but what is below me? I still remember the owner’s words, that this was a “magickal night”. I am dressed in the style of wear I use in my visits to my Inner Temple. I’m dressed for magick.

I realize the building, and it’s denizens are a great filter. The dancing floor is the Outer Court. How you interact with the denizens determines if you are allowed entry to the Inner Court. But even then, it must be your choice.

I stare down the staircase. I see a door at the bottom. As I descend down the stairs, I go through the verbal rituals of calling my Lords to myself. Of preparing to enter my own Inner Temple. Of placing myself into the mindset for magick.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and face the black door. It is an impossible color of black, a darkness that devours all light. There is no knocker or knob to open the door with.

“OPEN!” I command the door with voice and will. I hear a latch release, and the door slowly opens before me. My lightless sight can only see a few feet into the chamber beyond. I see markings on the floor, great swirls of arcs and squiggles of sigils. I see the feet of others that had already assembled before me. I hear the voice of the building’s owner.

“See. It is as I told you all. Tonight, is a magickal night. Our Sister stands at the door. Our number, is complete. Come in, my Lady. Come in. We wait for you.”

I enter the chamber, and as the door closes behind me, my memory of what happened therein is locked and hidden from me.

(time passes)

Oh! What a night! I wave goodbye to a friend as we part company in the parking lot. The club’s premiere night was a great success. I was glad to see all my hard work in painting the building was put to such splendid use. I walk out to my car, somewhat confused by its location.

Didn’t I park next to the building, and facing the building? Why is my car now parked several rows away, next to the street? I’m sure I pulled into the parking spot. It is now facing out of the parking spot.

I shake my head to clear the confusion. I shouldn’t hang myself up on details, after all, the night went past in such a blur, it is almost morning! Such strange details I struggle to remember. Rooms becoming people, how silly!

Just as I reach the door to my Jeep, I hear a diminutive meow. I look down, and a small, thin, scrawny slate grey cat is rubbing against my ankles. The cat is purring loudly and evokes an almost maternal response in me.

Forgetting my fatigue, I sit down on the ground next to the vehicle. The cat at once climbs into my lap and settles into my arms, purring loudly the entire time. The female feline is almost skin and bones, but I know she is not malnourished, it is just the appearance of her breed. Her eyes are of a deeper grey, nearly black but not quite. Looking into them is like looking into ephemeral smoke. I am delighting so much in the company of the cat, I do not notice the human footsteps that followed her.

“Wow, you must be some person. That cat has never let anyone touch her, not even me. Hell, I can’t even get near her.” I look up to the man speaking. About six feet in height, middle aged, starting to lose his reddish brown hair. Unassuming glasses and neatly trimmed mustache and beard makes him look like “anybody”. It is an appearance that sets off alarms within me. Tan shorts, white shirt, he could have come from almost anywhere, going to any other location. I sense the cat is amused by his attempt at communicating dominance with his body-language.

“Is she yours? She’s purring loud enough to make my engine jealous.” I continue to scratch behind the cat’s ears. I can sense she is well settled in my arms and is enjoying me spoiling her with my attention.

“She belongs to me, but she isn’t necessarily mine.” He has his keys in hand and unlocks the Ford F-150 parked one space over from me. He calls to her. The cat twitches her tail in a display of annoyance and settles even more in my arms.

“By the way, Kerian, congratulations are in order.”

“Eh?” He knows my name. “In order for what?” I set the cat on the ground, she climbs back into my lap at once and settles back down.

“Your new job, of course. It’s time you stopped hiding yourself.”

I am greatly uneased by Mr. Madison. I put his cat back on the ground and try in vain to keep her from climbing in my lap again. Struggling with her is preventing me from getting up myself. I realize I know his name, and wonder how.

Before he can answer, my cell phone starts to buzz with an incoming call. The buzzing irritates the cat who darts away until she is halfway between me and Mr. Madison.

I quickly gather my feet and stand up. I do not recognize the number on the CallerID. “Hello?”

“Um, hello, is this Kerian Nox?” A woman’s voice. Despite being before sunrise, she is wide awake.

“Yes, it is. May I help you?”

“Oh yes, good. I just wanted to tell you because of some work you did for an associate, I would like to hire you for my company.” She’s awfully chipper.

“Forgive me, but it is before sunrise here. What work?”

“Oh, the time difference, oh dear, do forgive me. You did some odd-jobs for a friend, painting to be exact. But he tells me your skills as a network engineer are far better than as a painter. And it is as a network engineer, I would like to hire you. I suppose the papers I have sent you will arrive later today. Do give me a call. Good day, Ms. Nox.” The chipper woman hangs up.

The cat is still standing between me and Mr. Madison. Her tail is near vertical and it is twitching in annoyance at having to be in close contact with Mr. Madison again.

He has opened his truck door and was trying to gently coax the cat into the cab with him. He is not having any luck. Now, he is threatening the cat in gentle tones as if the cat does not understand him. But I know the cat does, she understands his words all too well. He sees I am off the phone and congratulates me again.

“Perhaps you can take me on as a student.” His words completely distract me from his drama with his cat.

“A student?” I look at him in askance. “A student of what?”

“They speak highly of you, you know. They count you as an equal. You have access to places I only dream about.”

Something about the phrase ‘only dream about’ tickles my ear, but I dismiss the concern. “I’m no teacher, and certainly not capable of having any students. Not if I’m going to work as a network engineer soon. I have to brush up on my skills!”

Something about my answer irks Mr. Madison. He is now visibly upset both with me and his cat. “Then you don’t know what you have. Such a shame. You’re neither a teacher nor an engineer. Just a sham.” He leans over and picks up his cat with great force. The cat in turn, bites his thumb and claws him mercilessly. He tosses the cat into the cab and quickly climbs in, shutting the door before the cat an escape. I hear the cat growling discordant tones in a display of aggression.

He picks up his cell phone and begins to make a call of his own as he peels out of the parking lot. Looking straight at me, he sharply cuts to the right and nails the front left corner of my subcompact car. The modern material gives way to the decades old steel of the truck and is folded under to seconds. As I scream obscenities after him, I see him smile smugly and race off into the pre-dawn traffic.

I take my camera and try to get pictures of his license plate. Seeing I am trying to document his willful hit and run, he weaves into the rush hour traffic trying to cut off my line of sight. But my will is relentless, I bind my camera to my Sight and pursue him regardless. My camera somehow taking pictures of what my second Sight is able to see of his license plate.

I go to the front of the car to inspect the damage. Speaking softly to the car, in line with my animist ways, I apologize to the car for having to bear the front of Mr. Madison’s dickishness. But as I stroke the car’s bent fender gently, I feel a strange response. The car has heard my concern and is shaking like it is chuckling.

I feel an echo of someone saying “Watch this.”, and step back from the car. As I watch, the crumpled front end starts to unwind itself. The hood straightens out, the radiator stretches into its original form. Even the headlight unfolds from its damaged position to a like-new state. The light flickers on, then off, as if the car was winking at me. In seconds, the damage is undone and my car is as if nothing had ever happened.

Somehow, I know, the car is able to do this only because of some extension of myself into the car. As the car settles down into smug accomplishment, I start laughing in deep guffaws. Soon, I hear another car engine, and turn around to see a mobile car repair team coming for me.

“Kerian Nox?”

“That’s me!”

“We have a report from Mr. Madison that you were involved in an accident?”

“I was.” I pat the Jeep’s fender tenderly. “But everything is okay now.”

“His report was the repair would be beyond your skillset.”

Oh, did he now. “He reported wrong. I do believe, he may be the one in need of assistance, and not merely from mechanics. He is the one that hit my car. His license plate is ‘3DN0O0L’ and he has damage to his front right corner.”

“Well, we would like to check your Jeep, regardless.” I sense no hostility or deceit from him, so I concede. His team checks the Jeep from bumper to bumper, wheels to antenna. “There is no problem here. Whatever skills you have, M’am, you shouldn’t hide them so much people think you are helpless. You’re more capable than most people wish they are.”

The dawn is almost upon us. The glare from the approaching sun is blinding. As I consider his words, he gathers his team and they leave me in peace.

The sun rises in the east. The first rays stab through me, piercing through my body and into my soul. The influx of power is more than I am able to handle and the dream is blown away. I wake up, to the initial rays of dawn piercing the curtains in my room.

~~~

The license plate has stayed with me all day. But I’m going to try and not get all gematria (Liber 500) with it. The day has enough distractions of its own.

Make of it, what you may.