The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [72]
Honeymouth, with Dimas as his partner, set off to sell dreams in the places he knew best, bars and nightclubs. He was met with countless hassles. Some threw vodka in his face, others humiliated him, some cursed him, and still others simply threw him out. “Get outta here, you drunk!” He lost his patience five times and threatened to punch two alcoholics. He began to realize just how difficult a calling this would be.
Despite the setbacks, he helped alcoholics to their feet, listened to rambling conversations and consoled them. Many told him they drank to drown out the pain of losses, betrayals, financial crises and deaths in the family. He had no magic solution, but he lent his ear. At the end of the first day, he went up to a middle-aged man sitting by himself at a table and said, “Sir, I don’t mean to bother you. I’d just like to know how I can be of service.”
The answer was swift: “Get me another shot of whiskey.”
He said he had no money. The alcoholic shoved him rudely.
“Then get out of here or I’m calling the police.”
Bartholomew was a husky man. He grabbed the alcoholic by the collar and was about to shake him when he remembered the dreamseller’s counsel.
“Oh, if this had happened a couple of months ago . . .” he said angrily. Dimas was also indignant.
The drunk put his hand on his head, quickly regaining his composure. Even with his judgment impaired, he saw he had been rude. He apologized and asked them to sit with him. Then, without explanation, he sobbed for twenty solid seconds.
When he regained his composure, he introduced himself. He said his name was Lucas and he was a failed surgeon. He had made a mistake that didn’t threaten his patient’s life, but the patient’s lawyer used that mistake to take him to the cleaners. He was sued and lost everything he had built up in twenty years of practicing medicine. Deep in debt, he couldn’t make his mortgage payment and was about to be evicted. He couldn’t meet the monthly payment on his car, and that was about to be repossessed soon, too.
“Don’t cry, my friend. You can live under bridges,” said Bartholomew, which only depressed the man even more.
Dimas jumped in. In an effort to console the doctor, he told part of his story, a story Bartholomew didn’t know. He said his father had served twenty-five years for armed robbery. His mother soon took up with another man and abandoned the boy, just five years old at the time, and his two-year-old sister. They were sent to separate orphanages. She was adopted and they never saw each other again. Dimas wasn’t adopted and grew up without a father, without a mother, without a sister, without schooling, without friends and without love, until he aged out of the system.
Bartholomew tried to console his friend:
“Mi amigo, I always thought you were just a crook and a cheat. I didn’t really know you,” he said, putting his arm on Dimas’s shoulder. “You’re the most normal one in the whole crazy group.”
Dr. Lucas was moved by his story. The effects of the alcohol had started to wear off. They became friends, chatting for more than three hours. They left arm in arm and singing, “For Lucas is a jolly good fellow, for Lucas is a jolly good fellow . . .” They felt the pleasure of a true friendship. They understood that living outside the cocoon has its undeniable risks but also irrefutable charm.
Bartholomew and Dimas slept in a guest room at the doctor’s house. His wife had heard of the social movement of “dreams,” and she made them a delicious spaghetti dinner. The next day, she thanked them. It had been six months since she’d seen her husband motivated to face his life.
Dimas and Bartholomew continued their journey. At the end of the afternoon of the second day, they found another alcoholic in a pitiful situation, slumped over the counter of the bar. Bartholomew