Dreamy Party
Mike Lee
When he entered the atrium, the woman taking Patrick’s overcoat handed him a brass skeleton key.
He stared at her, noting the dark eyeshadow and aquiline nose. Something about her triggered a memory, perhaps from years ago. But, he thought, “It couldn’t be.” That had been more than thirty years ago. This woman is in her thirties, too young to be her.
With the transformative powers of history, thirty-seven years was a civilization away. Yet, he was young—everyone seemed so—and at that moment, he felt transported, just for a second, to youth, hope, and unintended detours.
“This is your key to collect your coat when you leave,” the woman said. He noted she held a timeless expression, but perhaps this came from an imagination triggered by a sentimental memory.
That memory was a fleeting moment from when times were personally better. People he knew then who have long since moved on, scenery and styles have changed, and opportunities of relative youth replaced with the graying anticipation of moving on himself—always accepting change, like hair going brunette to mousy gray and walking with a trick right knee from climbing subway stairs nearly daily for decades.
Acceptance. In these uncertain times, this is the word to live by, to clutch with a drowning grip.
He gazed down at the key.
“Oh, your pickup number is etched on one side, on the turnkey,” the woman said.
He looked. “Number six,” he said.
“Low numbers are good luck,” she said.
He smiled, reminded that he had gambled enough in his day. Then, when he turned 55, he decided he had reached the age of controlled self-care. That was five years ago. Now, even more so necessary to have caution.
He held up the key and smiled. “Thank you. To me, every number is lucky.”
“Enjoy the party.”
“I shall.”
~ ~ ~
“I see that you made it through.” Peering out from under tinted glasses sliding down his nose, Dan Kennison’s hand reached out toward him. Dan recently had eye surgery. As a result, he was advised to avoid bright lights. Patrick hoped it didn’t affect reading his manuscript, so he hired an assistant.
“Yeah,” he said. “Happy New Year, brother.”
“Well, we’re not there yet. It’s 9:30.” Dan pushed his glasses back with his finger. “But glad this year is almost over.”
“Indeed, it is so,” he said. “So, how’s life, the universe, and everything?”
Dan chuckled, “Family. This year I suffered no traumas or extended silences punctuated by passive-aggressive comments about politics, religion, and the New York Jets. And you?”
He smirked. “Peace.”
“Isn’t it nice?”
“I hear you. Let’s hit the bar.”
They recognized the bartender from a bar they once frequented in SoHo, making the choices available.
Dan made eye contact and pushed a 20 into the tip jar. “Hey Perry, Happy New Year. Green Dean. Airline. Double.”
The bartender made the drink without lifting an eyebrow. “Happy New Year to you, too. And for you, sir?”
“The Bootsy Collins, Grey Goose, and hold the mint.” Perry nodded as he mixed Dan’s drink.
“Thank you—and thank you, Steven.”
“You’re welcome, and Happy New Year.” His name was Patrick, but he tipped Perry another 20.
“It is sheer artistry in how he mixes a drink,” Dan said, happily imbibing.
“Yeah, we raised our level to the somewhat fancy stage of our lives,” Patrick said. “Too bad this has come far too late.”
“Anna Kavan?”
“Good guess, but Jean Rys said it. I’m usually Mr. Positivity for the moment, and I apologize for the depressive quote.”
“I’m sorry, man. I understand it’s been hard.”
Perry handed him his drink. “I’m over that. But, unfortunately, there is something else bothering me.” Patrick took a sip, noting the Lillet Rouge adding a needed taste to the vodka. Even for Grey Goose, a smooth vodka that acts like a deceptive lover under the covers, this mix was more potent than usual. If Patrick has three more, he faces a bad morning and afternoon, a shitty way to begin another New Year.
“Sometimes, I dream in neon,” Patrick said.
“What?”
“Just something I’m thinking about while watching this party. By the way, why aren’t you with the family?”
“Dorrie would be here, but her sister has another cancellation, and she’s picking her up from Newark and driving her home.” Dan shrugged. “She’s staying at her place, so here I am.”
“Let’s do the mix thing, then.”
~ ~ ~
While they pursued the hors d'oeuvres, thoughtlessy munching, Patrick spotted a Tarot Reader at a table off the side, beyond the long bar.
Patrick saw the young woman who checked his coat as the reader.
“I’m interested in this,” he said.
“I’m taking a pass,” Dan said. “I don’t want to discover more remarkably sideways stories suddenly manifesting in my future.”
“Okay, see you in a bit.”
~ ~ ~
“Doing double-duty tonight, I see,” Patrick said as he pulled up the chair to sit down.
The young woman did not smile, only stared intently at him.
“I feel a connection between us. I felt it when I handed you the key,” the woman said.
“What deck are we using?”
“Hermetic.”
“I’m familiar with it. However, the Hermetic is a problematic deck. Therefore, I only want a three-card reading. A Celtic Cross is a bit too much for me at the moment.
“I understand. A three-card it is.”
Patrick finished his drink and held it in his hands on his lap. He felt uneasy as she shuffled the cards silently. Patrick noted she did not ask him the question in mind. He looked at her, recalling a memory, and closed his eyes.
“Cut.”
He opened his eyes and broke the deck into three piles. The woman reassembled the stack. Then, with a snap, she placed the first card between them.
It was the High Priestess.
“Based on the situation you face, you must use sound judgment. Likely a spiritual moment happening now,” the woman said. “You’re facing limitations imposed on yourself after struggling with ambitions all your adult life. It tells me you suffered loss based on self-sacrifice, which became a punishment.”
She laid the next card down. Patrick winced—the Hanged Man.
The woman noted his expression. “As an artist, you grapple with illusion. That struggle defines your life. Yet, what you search for is deeply spiritual. You were in love and want it again—yet this has been elusive.”
She paused and looked up at him, half-smiling. “I see you made some mistakes.”
“Yes, I have.”
“We all do. Take small steps toward resolving your goal.”
With a softer touch, she placed the third card.
“Lord of the Root and the powers of the Earth,” she said. “Ace of Pentacles. This card signifies a gift—if you want it.”
“Going back in time and fixing all my mistakes,” Patrick said.
“Time is a river, and no going back,” the woman said. “When you make bad decisions, you make good ones. The Ace of Pentacles concludes that the way opens for the stability you seek and the love absent in your life. I could say more, but this is only a simple three-card reading.”
“Thank you,” Patrick reached into his back pocket. “How much do I owe you?”
The woman waved him off. “I’m not allowed to charge. It’s in my contract.”
She stared at him. Her eyes had an azure cast.
As Patrick got up, she spoke.
“Please don’t treat me weird the next time you see me.”
Now he remembered.
“That’s what my mother told you. She talked about you. Read the two books you wrote. I have them, and I can see her. Also, she died of lung cancer last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She forgave you. We do stupid shit when young, she said. By the way, she named me Freya. That should be of no surprise to you.”
Patrick smiled, masking guilt. “Who was the father?”
Freya paused. “A name on a California birth certificate. Just like you. I read both of your interviews.”
Patrick saw people waiting for Freya to read their cards.
“Remember. Next time you see me,” Freya said. “I am not my mother.”
Patrick nodded affirmatively, rising from his seat. “We are all separate countries. I won’t.”
~ ~ ~
“I saw you with the cute goth coat check lady,” Dan said. “You look spooked, brother.”
“I need a drink, preferably one like yours. Double on the max.”
“What happened?”
“It was an interesting experience,” Patrick said. “I learned something I didn’t know because I was afraid to ask. Anyway, it turned out easy—instead, I got schooled.”
Dan shrank back a little. “Okay. Do you want to talk about it?”
“I would rather process this with the help of Mama Goose.”
“Dude, I’m your editor. I understand. I take it you have another story in mind.”
“It requires an ending,” Patrick said.
“Are you going to dance with her when they play The Cramps? You know they will.”
“Please stop. Please don’t tease me.”
Patrick raised his finger to signal the bartender. Oh, Perry?”
~ ~ ~
Midnight passed, Dan called Dorrie and the kids from the bathroom, and later, when the DJ finally played Goo Goo Muck, there was no Wednesday or Freya. Instead, while a group sang Auld Lang Syne, Patrick leaned against the bar, looking at the empty table where she was reading Tarot.
She likely was somewhere in the crowd or back in coat check, waiting to return coats to middle-aged drunks and the occasional hip literary sorts who were there to network.
When Dan returned, they hung out while the crowd slowly cleared. Dan was utterly blotto but had called the driver to pick him up in an hour. He was going to Dorrie’s sisters’ house. Patrick thought that was going to be interesting.
Patrick was still nursing the second drink he ordered after the Tarot reading. The ice had melted, and a couple of gulps left.
He motioned to Perry, “Hey, can I get a shot of Jamo Black? Make that two.”
He paused. Holding up his fingers. “I want three.” He slipped Perry three more twenties. “Happy New Year, man.”
~ ~ ~
The floor staff announced the last call. Dan had already left for New Jersey.
Patrick finished the extra Jamison and snuck a silver platter from the bar. After he placed the two shots on the surface, he walked toward the front.
He reached into his suit pocket and placed the brass key on the tray beside the shot glasses. Then, when the coat check cleared, he stepped in.
Freya chuckled when she saw him.
Patrick held the tray toward her. “Is playfully eccentrically acceptable?”
Mike Lee
When he entered the atrium, the woman taking Patrick’s overcoat handed him a brass skeleton key.
He stared at her, noting the dark eyeshadow and aquiline nose. Something about her triggered a memory, perhaps from years ago. But, he thought, “It couldn’t be.” That had been more than thirty years ago. This woman is in her thirties, too young to be her.
With the transformative powers of history, thirty-seven years was a civilization away. Yet, he was young—everyone seemed so—and at that moment, he felt transported, just for a second, to youth, hope, and unintended detours.
“This is your key to collect your coat when you leave,” the woman said. He noted she held a timeless expression, but perhaps this came from an imagination triggered by a sentimental memory.
That memory was a fleeting moment from when times were personally better. People he knew then who have long since moved on, scenery and styles have changed, and opportunities of relative youth replaced with the graying anticipation of moving on himself—always accepting change, like hair going brunette to mousy gray and walking with a trick right knee from climbing subway stairs nearly daily for decades.
Acceptance. In these uncertain times, this is the word to live by, to clutch with a drowning grip.
He gazed down at the key.
“Oh, your pickup number is etched on one side, on the turnkey,” the woman said.
He looked. “Number six,” he said.
“Low numbers are good luck,” she said.
He smiled, reminded that he had gambled enough in his day. Then, when he turned 55, he decided he had reached the age of controlled self-care. That was five years ago. Now, even more so necessary to have caution.
He held up the key and smiled. “Thank you. To me, every number is lucky.”
“Enjoy the party.”
“I shall.”
~ ~ ~
“I see that you made it through.” Peering out from under tinted glasses sliding down his nose, Dan Kennison’s hand reached out toward him. Dan recently had eye surgery. As a result, he was advised to avoid bright lights. Patrick hoped it didn’t affect reading his manuscript, so he hired an assistant.
“Yeah,” he said. “Happy New Year, brother.”
“Well, we’re not there yet. It’s 9:30.” Dan pushed his glasses back with his finger. “But glad this year is almost over.”
“Indeed, it is so,” he said. “So, how’s life, the universe, and everything?”
Dan chuckled, “Family. This year I suffered no traumas or extended silences punctuated by passive-aggressive comments about politics, religion, and the New York Jets. And you?”
He smirked. “Peace.”
“Isn’t it nice?”
“I hear you. Let’s hit the bar.”
They recognized the bartender from a bar they once frequented in SoHo, making the choices available.
Dan made eye contact and pushed a 20 into the tip jar. “Hey Perry, Happy New Year. Green Dean. Airline. Double.”
The bartender made the drink without lifting an eyebrow. “Happy New Year to you, too. And for you, sir?”
“The Bootsy Collins, Grey Goose, and hold the mint.” Perry nodded as he mixed Dan’s drink.
“Thank you—and thank you, Steven.”
“You’re welcome, and Happy New Year.” His name was Patrick, but he tipped Perry another 20.
“It is sheer artistry in how he mixes a drink,” Dan said, happily imbibing.
“Yeah, we raised our level to the somewhat fancy stage of our lives,” Patrick said. “Too bad this has come far too late.”
“Anna Kavan?”
“Good guess, but Jean Rys said it. I’m usually Mr. Positivity for the moment, and I apologize for the depressive quote.”
“I’m sorry, man. I understand it’s been hard.”
Perry handed him his drink. “I’m over that. But, unfortunately, there is something else bothering me.” Patrick took a sip, noting the Lillet Rouge adding a needed taste to the vodka. Even for Grey Goose, a smooth vodka that acts like a deceptive lover under the covers, this mix was more potent than usual. If Patrick has three more, he faces a bad morning and afternoon, a shitty way to begin another New Year.
“Sometimes, I dream in neon,” Patrick said.
“What?”
“Just something I’m thinking about while watching this party. By the way, why aren’t you with the family?”
“Dorrie would be here, but her sister has another cancellation, and she’s picking her up from Newark and driving her home.” Dan shrugged. “She’s staying at her place, so here I am.”
“Let’s do the mix thing, then.”
~ ~ ~
While they pursued the hors d'oeuvres, thoughtlessy munching, Patrick spotted a Tarot Reader at a table off the side, beyond the long bar.
Patrick saw the young woman who checked his coat as the reader.
“I’m interested in this,” he said.
“I’m taking a pass,” Dan said. “I don’t want to discover more remarkably sideways stories suddenly manifesting in my future.”
“Okay, see you in a bit.”
~ ~ ~
“Doing double-duty tonight, I see,” Patrick said as he pulled up the chair to sit down.
The young woman did not smile, only stared intently at him.
“I feel a connection between us. I felt it when I handed you the key,” the woman said.
“What deck are we using?”
“Hermetic.”
“I’m familiar with it. However, the Hermetic is a problematic deck. Therefore, I only want a three-card reading. A Celtic Cross is a bit too much for me at the moment.
“I understand. A three-card it is.”
Patrick finished his drink and held it in his hands on his lap. He felt uneasy as she shuffled the cards silently. Patrick noted she did not ask him the question in mind. He looked at her, recalling a memory, and closed his eyes.
“Cut.”
He opened his eyes and broke the deck into three piles. The woman reassembled the stack. Then, with a snap, she placed the first card between them.
It was the High Priestess.
“Based on the situation you face, you must use sound judgment. Likely a spiritual moment happening now,” the woman said. “You’re facing limitations imposed on yourself after struggling with ambitions all your adult life. It tells me you suffered loss based on self-sacrifice, which became a punishment.”
She laid the next card down. Patrick winced—the Hanged Man.
The woman noted his expression. “As an artist, you grapple with illusion. That struggle defines your life. Yet, what you search for is deeply spiritual. You were in love and want it again—yet this has been elusive.”
She paused and looked up at him, half-smiling. “I see you made some mistakes.”
“Yes, I have.”
“We all do. Take small steps toward resolving your goal.”
With a softer touch, she placed the third card.
“Lord of the Root and the powers of the Earth,” she said. “Ace of Pentacles. This card signifies a gift—if you want it.”
“Going back in time and fixing all my mistakes,” Patrick said.
“Time is a river, and no going back,” the woman said. “When you make bad decisions, you make good ones. The Ace of Pentacles concludes that the way opens for the stability you seek and the love absent in your life. I could say more, but this is only a simple three-card reading.”
“Thank you,” Patrick reached into his back pocket. “How much do I owe you?”
The woman waved him off. “I’m not allowed to charge. It’s in my contract.”
She stared at him. Her eyes had an azure cast.
As Patrick got up, she spoke.
“Please don’t treat me weird the next time you see me.”
Now he remembered.
“That’s what my mother told you. She talked about you. Read the two books you wrote. I have them, and I can see her. Also, she died of lung cancer last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She forgave you. We do stupid shit when young, she said. By the way, she named me Freya. That should be of no surprise to you.”
Patrick smiled, masking guilt. “Who was the father?”
Freya paused. “A name on a California birth certificate. Just like you. I read both of your interviews.”
Patrick saw people waiting for Freya to read their cards.
“Remember. Next time you see me,” Freya said. “I am not my mother.”
Patrick nodded affirmatively, rising from his seat. “We are all separate countries. I won’t.”
~ ~ ~
“I saw you with the cute goth coat check lady,” Dan said. “You look spooked, brother.”
“I need a drink, preferably one like yours. Double on the max.”
“What happened?”
“It was an interesting experience,” Patrick said. “I learned something I didn’t know because I was afraid to ask. Anyway, it turned out easy—instead, I got schooled.”
Dan shrank back a little. “Okay. Do you want to talk about it?”
“I would rather process this with the help of Mama Goose.”
“Dude, I’m your editor. I understand. I take it you have another story in mind.”
“It requires an ending,” Patrick said.
“Are you going to dance with her when they play The Cramps? You know they will.”
“Please stop. Please don’t tease me.”
Patrick raised his finger to signal the bartender. Oh, Perry?”
~ ~ ~
Midnight passed, Dan called Dorrie and the kids from the bathroom, and later, when the DJ finally played Goo Goo Muck, there was no Wednesday or Freya. Instead, while a group sang Auld Lang Syne, Patrick leaned against the bar, looking at the empty table where she was reading Tarot.
She likely was somewhere in the crowd or back in coat check, waiting to return coats to middle-aged drunks and the occasional hip literary sorts who were there to network.
When Dan returned, they hung out while the crowd slowly cleared. Dan was utterly blotto but had called the driver to pick him up in an hour. He was going to Dorrie’s sisters’ house. Patrick thought that was going to be interesting.
Patrick was still nursing the second drink he ordered after the Tarot reading. The ice had melted, and a couple of gulps left.
He motioned to Perry, “Hey, can I get a shot of Jamo Black? Make that two.”
He paused. Holding up his fingers. “I want three.” He slipped Perry three more twenties. “Happy New Year, man.”
~ ~ ~
The floor staff announced the last call. Dan had already left for New Jersey.
Patrick finished the extra Jamison and snuck a silver platter from the bar. After he placed the two shots on the surface, he walked toward the front.
He reached into his suit pocket and placed the brass key on the tray beside the shot glasses. Then, when the coat check cleared, he stepped in.
Freya chuckled when she saw him.
Patrick held the tray toward her. “Is playfully eccentrically acceptable?”
