The Dreammaker

“You could take this box instead.” Scribbling my signature, I barely heard him say it. He coughed slightly. “Mr Haverman?”

“I’m sorry.” I stopped, sat up, trying to conceal my impatience, “Instead of what?”

“Instead of the television.”

I held his gaze a second. He didn’t blink. Then I saw the box, and felt a surge of annoyance.

“I’m sorry, you’re offering to exchange that little packing box you’re holding for my doped-out, state-of-the art TV? The one I just bought? I don’t even know what’s in that box.”

“Exactly,” the salesman said, smiling.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. The salesman’s assistant squirmed in his overstuffed armchair. My armchair. The second lengthened as I surveyed, as from a distance, the comical scene unfolding in my chic upstate apartment. The long-awaited, futuristic TV set that these two jokers had finally delivered. The salesmen. Or rather, two fresh-faced boys lounging about on my expensive chairs and sipping my good whiskey, all gratis of the high-paying box-office job I had held for years.

And now this one offers me a box. What is his deal?

“You heard me right,” the salesman was saying. “Take it or leave it, but this baby goes incognito until adoption. Part of its charm, you know.” He slapped the box affectionately, as though it were a real live baby.

“It sounds hollow,” I observed. “I’ll bet it’s empty. So you want my new TV? Think it’s cool, huh?”

The salesman laughed out loud, stroking the box with pencil-thin, milk-white fingers.

“Keep your dentures on, Gramps! That’s a nifty television, but I’m offering you something far better.” He shoved the box towards me. “Here, it doesn’t bite.” Gingerly, I took it in both hands, finding it rather heavy. I squinted down at it, and felt a sudden strange interest. Of their own accord, my fingers probed the stiff packing paper.

“Man oh man, but the magic is strong with this one,” said the salesman in my ear, taking the box back. Irritated, I shoved the purchase papers into his smirking face.

“Enough tomfoolery. I’ll thank you to wrap this up.”

“Right away!” He thumbed through the paperwork several times, before turning to me with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Haverman, but here’s the skinny. The final sales doc is back at the office, and we can’t complete the sale without it. I’m sorry about the inconvenience.” He turned and snapped his long fingers. “Henry? Our coats.” The other kid jumped to his feet.

I sank back into my chair, groaning along with the cushions. “Well then. Suppose you leave my TV here in the meantime? I’m home tomorrow, so come by as you please.” (I was home every day).

“Of course! And thanks. But we are solid-booked for a bit. I’ll be back in a week.”

With a resigned grunt, I reached for my book. As I did so, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. The Salesman was putting on his shoes, and our eyes met. I reddened, and he smiled, amused. Languidly, he reached for his box.

“The fount of all good things comes with me. See you in a week, Mr. Haverman. I bet you’ll be counting down the days.”

At the door, he waved like a schoolboy. “Peace, love, and granola!” The door slammed shut. In exasperation, I watched the two youngbloods clatter down to the landing and out onto the street. When they passed my Chevy Camaro, the Salesman stopped to pat the newly-waxed bumper. I felt pleasure, then annoyance. Drawing the curtains, I switched on my TV.

The TV brought a touch of color and dimension not only to my lounge, but to my life. A life that had grown duller than ever since retirement. I read old books, walked the streets, drove about. Not that I walked much anymore. Loneliness multiplied in a crowd. The chatter of pedestrians, the banter of street merchants, the cries of school children… relentlessly it excluded me. The whole busy, thriving world mocked me, told me my era was over.

There had been a day when I had turned heads... once the dashing schoolboy, the confident businessman, the well-to-do executive. That world had needed me. This new world did not. The unseeing glances, the unsaid greetings… all of it cut me. Even the grey figures trudging to office I envied. For they dreamed of better times… how little they knew of arthritic joints and senselessly long naps. They still believed the myth of happily ever after. How cruel it all was. To work and work… until you were too old for pleasure. Oh, to be young again! The television was small consolation.

I began to have dreams at night. Dreams of color and dimension. Dreams of freedom and escape. Dreams so beautiful that I awoke in tears, sobbing for breath, my senses drenched and confused. Once I woke in a sort of trance, fixated on a box. At first I saw the prison that was my life. And then I saw the Salesman’s Box.

The Salesman arrived punctually next week. I met him at the door, and he seemed unsurprised.

“How are you liking this piece of tech? All copacetic?” He thumped the TV casually, and smiled.

“It’s fine, I guess.”

I signed the sales paper slowly, re-inking the last few flourishes. When he tried to take it, I pulled back. The Salesman cocked an eyebrow. Was it my imagination that his smile mocked me?

“The Box. Is it… you still have the Box?”

The Salesman shot me a quizzical look. “The box? You didn’t want it.”

“I-I thought I would look at it again.”

He said nothing. I tried again.

“You said it contained the fountain of youth.”

“I did?”

“Yes! I-didn’t you?”

Was he smiling? Sinking into an armchair, the Salesman sat playing with his long fingers. “I still have it.”

“You have it! Well then. Well, that is good.” I tore the sales document in two. “Take the television and give me the Box.”

The Salesman did smile then, though he tried to conceal it. “Perhaps I spoke too soon, Mr. Haverman. It is true that I have the box. But it is promised to another man. I am sorry.”

“But you offered it to me!”

“And to him. He offered me something in return. Business is business, my man.”

“Is there only one Box then?!”

“Should there be two fountains of youth?” he asked.

“So it is!”

The Salesman smiled sympathetically. He rose, patting the smooth arms of his chair. “Good mahogany.”

“Eh?”

“You have good taste. Expensive taste.”

I frowned.

The Salesman sighed. “Look, I want to help you. But you’ll have to work with me. How much can you offer? In addition to the television, I mean.”

“How much did he offer?”

“Two grand.”

“That is absurd!”

“He didn’t think so.”

Fuming, I poured myself a second finger of whiskey. The Salesman made a motion towards his empty glass, but I ignored him.

Stupid Box. I bet it’s empty, I thought.

“Did it feel empty?” The Salesman was suddenly at my shoulder. Had I spoken aloud? I drank deeply, remembering. I remembered the stiff paper wrapping, the solid weightiness in my hands. It was not empty.

“What good thing comes in a box?” I demanded of him.

The Salesman laughed. “Pizza, for one thing. Pizza… and perhaps stock shares - undervalued stock, that is... or jewelry - rare, beautiful jewelry… perhaps Napoleon’s lost watch--” He broke off with a laugh.

“He had one?”

The Salesman shrugged. “They say he was never late to battle except that last time. Anyway, I still need that signature. I’ll come again next week. Same time.”

“And the box….?” I hated myself.

He hesitated. “I’ll let the other gent wait a bit. Perhaps...” and he stopped. It was as though he saw me - really saw me - for the first time. I prayed he liked what he saw. But he turned away. “We’ll see what you can offer me. Maybe you need it more than that other guy. We’ll see.” With a two-fingered salute he was gone, shutting the door softly behind him.

Far from abating, the nightly dreams intensified that week. Beautiful, soul-achingly beautiful dreams. Dreams of simmering hot beaches and foamy waves, dreams of golden light spilling across acres of emerald forest. Dreams of warm hugs, joyous dances, and kindly eyes smiling back at me. Dreams I had not dreamed for thirty years of toilsome drudgery. Dreams so alive they began to follow me into the daylight...

The night before the Salesman’s return, I made up my mind. I would give him the television, the $2,000. I cried real tears. I was going to be young again.

Next morning, I watched the clock drone away the seconds, the minutes, the hours. How dull it was! How senseless! In sheer exasperation, I would have chopped the soldierly timepiece into firewood, but for a sudden surge of compassion. It was brave, that clock. Senseless, but brave. I had two fingers halfway to my forehead when I heard the knock at the door.

I refused the sales document point blank, and when he persisted, I knocked over my pen case.

“I want the Box. Not the television. Take it! And the rest, in cash!” I waved the freshly-minted bills before his eyes, but he looked away.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Haverman, but I’ve received an even higher offer. I’m delivering it now.” From beneath his street clothes he pulled the Box. I sucked in my breath, hands trembling.

“You underestimate me. Open your eyes, I am a wealthy man!”

The Salesman shrugged, and picked up a pen. “Sign your sales document. I wanted to help you, but…” he hesitated, eyes wandering out the window, “even the highroller who owns that fastback Camaro couldn’t beat this latest offer.”

“It’s mine!” I shouted at him, slapping the pen away, “That’s my car! Name your price, youngblood. I WANT THE BOX.”

“Hold on, that’s different,” said the Salesman, his eyes back on me. “She’s a beauty, Mr. Haverman, a real beauty. But for the box…” he sighed. “Fine. Fine, Mr. Haverman. I’ll take the car, you take my box. Nevermind the television.”

“Take my car?” For a moment I couldn’t breathe. “You will NOT, you young hoodlum! Jeepers creepers, the nerve!” I scribbled out my signature, and threw it at him.

“Take your stupid box and begone. May I never see you again!”

The Salesman nodded, and retreated out the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Haverman, best of luck.” I turned my face away.

That’s when I noticed the scrap of paper with ten digits.

I saw boxes everywhere that week. Bread boxes, letter boxes, boxes of jewelry and wine. When the delivery boy brought pizza, I kicked over the television. Feeling insane, I paced the streets. And the boxes multiplied. Milliners boxes, cleaners boxes, a box of chocolates from a man to his wife.

By the time I dialed his number, the scrap of paper was soft as linen. I told him to meet me outside. He came two minutes late. My SALESMAN. He smiled at me as he patted the newly-waxed bumper.

“She’s a beauty, Mr. Haverman. I’ll treat her well. Make sure you open the box inside. You don’t want to lose any of the… magic.” I was halfway up the stairs, when I heard him calling from below. “Best of luck, Sir, best of luck!”

In the serenity of my sitting room, I unwrapped the box. All at once, I realized I had no idea what I expected to find. For a moment I sat, considering. Then, in a rush of courage, I tore off the brown packing paper and tugged off the lid. I saw red and white. I brought the paper to the light, leaving the bricks for later. Heart racing, I read:

You’re not a fool, Alan Haverman, you’re a dreamer.

The young are not rich, but we are happy.

Best of luck.