The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [20]
“Don’t worry,” the dreamseller said, “I’m not Him. I only try to understand Him.”
“You’re not who?” I asked, not following.
“I’m not Jesus Christ. Like I said, I’m just the least of his brethren. I just try to understand him,” he replied calmly.
“But who are you?” I repeated anxiously, seeking a fuller explanation that never seemed to come.
He said emphatically, “I’ve already told you who I am. Don’t you believe in me?”
Bartholomew should have kept quiet just then, but he didn’t have it in him. He tried to correct me by saying, “You don’t believe he’s the alien commander.”
This time I couldn’t hold back.
“Shut up, Trashmouth,” I shouted.
“Trashmouth? You second-rate snob!” he shouted and struck a karate pose. This would be the first of many arguments among the dreamseller’s ragtag band of disciples.
The dreamseller gently corrected me, that warm smile and calm demeanor more effective than any physical punishment.
“Julio, you’re a smart man, so you know that no artist owns his work. It’s he who interprets the art who gives it meaning. If Bartholomew thinks I’m the leader of an alien race, so be it. You shouldn’t worry. Generosity, not obedience, is what I want. Be generous to yourself.”
Back then, I thought he misspoke and meant that I should be generous to Bartholomew. But during this journey I would discover that a man who isn’t generous to himself can never be generous to others. One who demands much of himself is a tyrant to others.
Generosity was one of the most important dreams that he wanted to share with the world. The “normals” living in their cages, isolated in their own little worlds, had lost the indescribable joy that comes from giving, embracing, offering a second chance. Generosity was a word found in dictionaries but rarely in mankind. I knew how to compete but not how to be generous. I knew how to point out the ignorance and shortcomings of others, but not how to accept them. Seeing others fail pleased me more than my own successes. I was no different from politician who wanted to see the ruling party fail.
After that careful lesson, I calmed down. But there was still the question of where we would be staying. Then the dreamseller pointed to the shade beneath the bridge and said, “This is our home.”
I felt dizzy. Suddenly I began to miss the San Pablo Building. There were several torn mattresses strewn under the overpass and only filthy rags to cover us. There was one jug of water and we all would have to drink straight from the bottle. I had never seen such poverty. I thought, “This is the man who saved me?”
It all looked so destitute that even Bartholomew protested. Now I was starting to like the guy. He scratched his head, rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating and said, “Chief, you sure this is your house?”
The alcohol was wearing off and Bartholomew had begun to see reality. Even he had slept in better places. He slept in a friend’s tiny efficiency, in the back of bars and even in homeless shelters, but never under a bridge.
“Yes, Bartholomew, this is my house. And we have a long night ahead of us.”
Because everything the dreamseller said had another meaning, he wasn’t predicting a bad night’s sleep. We were in for more of the dreamseller’s eye-opening world.
For dinner there was some stale bread and old crackers. I had hated fast-food hamburgers, but now I started to fantasize about them. After taking a few bites of the crackers, I decided to lie down. Maybe tomorrow I would wake up and find it was all a nightmare. I lay down on the lumpy mattress, rolled a piece of cardboard into a pillow, and rested my head—but not my racing mind.
Trying to relax, I told myself, “OK, stay calm. You’re a sociologist. You like to study eccentric groups, don’t you? Now you’re part of one. It’ll be good for your academic