The Little Black Book

I had a dream last night that all of my teeth were gone, but someone was installing them back into my gums. So I could chew. So I could bite. It was fairly painful from what I remember in the dream. Tears ran down my soft pillow cheeks as this small man on a small ladder faced my mouth with all of my missing pieces, making me whole once again.

I woke up and my lips were tender. I’d bitten them so many times during my slumber, like biting a chocolate-covered strawberry. This was no dessert though, this was a raw and rough start to the day.

I stretched, as I do, every morning when I wake up. Looked out the window for a minute longer than usual while I rubbed my tongue around my mouth. It’s hard to shake a dream that is so vivid and familiar, but you don’t know why.

Something in the yard caught my eye because it was the only fragment that was not perfectly green like the rest. My slippers laid next to my bed and I put them on one at a time. Rushing to do anything is not something that I enjoy.

Walking out to the yard on this dreary day reminded me of why I put this house up for sale, to begin with. At least the lawn is always green, I try to remember. It’s easy to forget when it’s always raining. Slow jazz music is the soundtrack to this life.

I walk to the middle and pick up the item I saw from my bedroom window. It’s a little black book. I go back and forth in my head for all of three seconds before I open it. What is this? How can this be?

The first page read, “What did you dream about last night,” with no punctuation. Is someone watching me? In my sleep? Do I respond? I flipped through the rest of the pages, not a single one marked but the first.

It’s raining harder now so I venture back inside. All of my pens are in a drawer in the kitchen. Black ink. I responded, giving the details I woke up with from my cerebral movie projector experience and close the book again. Threw back it back outside. Chucked it in the yard and I smoked a cigarette inside, which I had not done for a while. I am thinking it’s been at least 3 months... since I decided to put the house up for sale…

It burned so well, filling my lungs with its voluptuous smoke and venom. Wondering if anything happened to the book since my entry, I walked towards the living room window and peered out. The little black book was planted in the same spot where it was found. Maybe I am crazy, but I wanted to look inside of it again.

The top cover was not parallel with the pages, something separated the two, not allowing them to be flush. My slippers led me. I flipped open the cover and there were teeth. Teeth. What is happening? Someone or something is not only watching me...they are responding. Is this a threat? Should I call the police? Laughing feels like the only way I can counter this absurdity.

I pick up the teeth and flip to the second page. It reads “what about the day before,” with no punctuation. I try to remember. Ah yes, a couple called and wanted to come and look at the house. I brought the teeth and the little black book inside. Black ink flows steadily to the page as my memory communicates with my hand to spell out my after-dark post-fallen asleep fantasy. I threw the book back into the yard. Locked the door.

Showering was next on my agenda. Would this book make a couple appear on my doorstep next? Is that how this is going to work? Would I be out of here soon enough? Whatever magic this book possesses, I hope it’s on my side. The shower calmed me down but that doesn’t mean I remembered to wash the soap off of my body. I couldn’t wait to see what was next.

The phone rang. I answered.

“Hi, we’ve been approved for a loan, we would love to see the house sometime this week,” a woman with a lovely voice explained.

The book was on my side.

“Yes, how does tomorrow afternoon at 2 pm sound?” I asked.

“Perfect!” She so delightfully hung up the phone.

I ran out to the yard in my robe, not worried about a damn thing. Once again, the book read on the next page, “and the day before that,” no punctuation.

I stood there and thought. That was the night I had the dream about the $20,000 given to me by my father. He robbed it from a bank, because that was who he is in real life. He has been in jail since I was a kid. He murdered someone. A teller at a bank, a young woman.

What if he is dead and trying to communicate with me? What if this book is the pathway to another realm? I won’t have it, I’ve spent so much of my life trying to forget those bad ways.

I took the only detail I would endure from that dream and began to write a dollar sign and suddenly there was a knock at the door. There is no peephole on the door so the only way to face what’s out there is by revealing what it is.

There it was, a wad of cash. I stood there. This is life-changing, but how far is too far? I grabbed it and ran over to the book. Turned to the fourth page. “Don’t forget the details,” it read, no punctuation.

I looked up and there was a man was standing in the doorway.