Get Out of My Dreams

by Fernando Trujillo Sanz

  He was clutching an enormous pistol.

  “G-Get away,” said the man in a voice choked with emotion.

  “Calm down, friend,” said Kevin, struggling to control himself. “I'm nobody . . . I just came to . . .”

  “I don't care who you are. I just want one last drink.”

  And in that moment Kevin understood it all, or he thought he did. The man wasn't pointing the pistol, it was more like he was just mindlessly holding it. Two tears rolled down his cheeks onto his chin. His eyes were very strange. They seemed unfocused, like he wasn't looking directly at anything. His face was thin and pale, vaguely reminiscent of someone who had been attractive in his younger years. It was obvious that he had been rubbing his eyes judging by the look of his eyelids. Kevin's fear that the guy would shoot him quickly evaporated. That was definitely not this guy's intention, nor had he come to hold up the bar. The only real explanation filled Kevin with a sick feeling like he had never felt before. Unless he was pitifully mistaken, the man was about to kill himself.

  “I can serve you whatever you want. The bar belongs to a friend of mine.”

  “That would be fine.” The man dragged his hand under his nose and wiped his face. “A whiskey would be great.”

  Kevin nodded and carefully jumped over the bar. His hands were still trembling.

  “Any special kind?”

  “It's all the same to me, even rum would do. . .”

  “No, no, whiskey is fine.” Kevin found a bottle, put two glasses on the bar and filled them. “To your health.”

  The stranger reached for the glass but accidentally knocked it off with the back of his hand. Once again he burst into tears when the glass smashed on the floor, scattering shards of glass in all directions. Kevin hurried to put another one out and quickly filled it with alcohol.

  “Come on now, relax. It's not a problem.”

  It took the man some time to regain his composure. His uneven breathing kept him from speaking. With quite a bit of effort, he finally managed to pick up the glass and downed it all in one swallow. Kevin did the same.

  “Okay, I think it's time . . .” said the man, somewhat calmer.

  “No! Let's have another.” Kevin cut him off. “I don't know about you, but I'm thirsty. It would be a shame to waste this bottle.”

  “For all I care you can drink up everything in the bar. I'm going to . . .”

  “Don't do it!” The words rushed out of their own accord. Kevin had no idea why this guy even mattered to him, but he couldn't let him commit suicide without at least trying to stop him. It just wasn't right. “I don't know what your problem is, man, but I'm sure there's a solution . . .”

  “And what would you know?” the man screamed, gesticulating wildly. The gun was waving up and down, making circles in the air. “You think know me or something? You have no idea about my problems!”

  “That's true,” Kevin said hastily in the most conciliatory tone that he could manage. “I don't know you, but I am sure that you're an intelligent man . . . .” Kevin really had no idea about that, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. The tension of the moment was overwhelming. “I see it in your eyes, in your expression. It's clear that you've got a good heart.”

  The man stopped moving and seemed to calm down a bit.

  “N-No I'm not . . . or I wouldn't be about to blast a hole in my head.”

  “Yes, you are. It’s just that you must be going through a rough time. It happens to all of us.” Kevin thought he might not be doing too badly since the man’s expression softened just a bit. “No one can survive in this cruel world on their own. I’m sure that someone in your family . . .”

  “I don’t have anyone.”

  Mentioning family was a mistake and Kevin silently reprimanded himself even though he couldn’t possibly have known. He was doing the best he could, never having experienced such a delicate situation.

  “That’s tough. But I’m sure that you matter to someone.”

  “It hurts so much . . . No one cares about me and no one will miss me. Everything will go on just as it always had when I’m gone. It’s better to end the pain . . . I’m tired of suffering.”

  The stranger put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and closed his eyes so tightly that his eyelids turned white. Two new tears crept out from beneath them.

  Again Kevin’s heart pounded violently.

  “Don’t do it, I beg you! You matter to me!” The man was breathing rapidly. “I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t care. I could have walked out of here but I stayed by your side. You have to believe me!”

  An excruciating moment of uncertainty hung on for several interminable seconds. Kevin truly believed that at any instant he’d be seeing the pathetic, miserable man’s brains blasting through the air, just a few feet away from him.

  Then the man opened his eyes. He didn’t take the barrel out of his mouth, but his breathing slowed somewhat. It was a powerful image. Kevin had no idea how to react. This man in front of him was trembling, gasping with each exhalation as if he’d just run a mile. The barrel of the gun was soaked with saliva that was starting to trickle down his chin, mixing with the tears that were spilling from his eyes. Such strange eyes. Kevin studied them closely for the first time. They looked like the eyes of a dead man, something with which he was quite familiar. What struck him was that he had dealt with cadavers whose eyes reflected more life than the ones in front of him now. They were a grayish color—a very unusual shade—and lacked any flicker of life; they were completely dull. And Kevin would have sworn that they hadn’t looked directly at him even once.

  He concentrated on the next hurdle that was facing him.

  “Give me the gun, please. You don’t want to do it; you know it’s not the answer. You can tell me what it is you need; I’ll help you and between us we’ll come up with a solution.” The man shook his head and continued to look away from Kevin. His trembling slowed, as did the rhythm of his breathing. Kevin took a deep breath. “Listen to me; talking to me can’t hurt anything. If you truly want to commit suicide you can do it later, or tomorrow, but you lose nothing by just having a conversation. And to talk, you have to take the gun out of your mouth.”

  That last comment brought about a change. The strange individual finally reacted by taking the barrel out of his mouth. He did it slowly, carefully.

  “Maybe . . . maybe you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Talking never hurt anyone. Will you talk to me?”

  “Maybe,” stammered the man insecurely. “But I don’t think you’ll like my topic of conversation.”

  “Not a problem, but you have to give me the gun. It scares me just looking at a gun. Hand it to me. I’ll give it back to you later, I promise.”

  Kevin extended his arm toward him with his hand opened. At first the man widened his eyes, as if he were afraid of the idea of handing it over, but finally he relaxed, and with a trembling hand held out the gun to Kevin. He stopped just before giving it up.

  “Are you lying to me? People always lie to me.”

  “I won’t,” promised Kevin in a firm tone. “You can trust me.”

  Finally he gave him the gun. Kevin let out a lengthy sigh.

  He held the pistol fearfully, as if he were handling a bomb. He dealt with death every day in his job, but it did not appeal to him in the least to be holding an instrument that, ironically, provided him with so many clients. Never before had he had a gun in his hands in spite of the fact that they were easy to come by in Chicago. The majority of his friends kept some kind of weapon in their house, but not him. Kevin despised weapons. In the funeral home he had so often been entrusted with hiding bullet holes in the cadavers that were brought in that simply seeing the barrel of a gun upset him.

  He held the weapon with both hands, trying not to shake. It had to have a safety on it somewhere, but he had no idea where to find it; he understood nothing about weapons. The metal felt cold and that seemed strange to him. It should have been warm from
the tight grip with which the man had been clenching it.

  “I don’t think I want it,” said the stranger, his voice suddenly normal.

  Kevin observed him curiously. Even though his eyes still appeared sad, he thought he saw a slight twinkle of happiness on his face; for an instant his lips curved into a timid smile. Maybe it was because it had felt good to him to get rid of the weapon.

  “That’s for the best,” said Kevin, finally slightly more relaxed. “I’ll keep it to avoid any accidents.”

  “Yes, yes, you keep it,” repeated the stranger, dazed. “For God’s sake . . . I was just about to do it. I’m terribly sorry . . . You must think . . .”

  “Don’t feel bad. You just have problems and are feeling alone.”

  “That’s no excuse. I’m nothing more than a pathetic loser. A piece of trash . . .”

  “The important thing is that you didn’t do it. You have a chance to change things.”

  “Yeah, right . . . I . . . I don’t feel well.” The man got off the stool and staggered toward the exit. He was swaying from side to side and supported himself on the bar to stay on his feet. “I think I’ll go see a doctor. Thank you for everything,” he added absentmindedly.

  “But . . . Hey, wait!” shouted Kevin.

  He couldn’t believe it. After the most intense moments of his entire life, it was unthinkable that it would end like this. Completely stunned, he had no idea what to say.

  Not believing his own eyes, he watched the strange character leave the bar. He looked at the weapon that he was still holding and told himself that at least everything had turned out well enough. Only a few moments ago he had been convinced that he would witness a suicide, and just before that he had feared for his own life. A bit much to start the day. He was about to get himself another glass of whiskey, and he would have, but a thunderous noise stopped him in his tracks.

  “Put down the weapon! Hands over your head!” they shouted at him.

  He slowly turned around. Two uniformed policemen were pointing their guns at him. The door of the bar was in pieces; they had knocked it down to get in.

  “What are you saying?” stammered Kevin, completely stunned.

  The two policemen had their eyes pinned on him. They weren’t even blinking.

  “I said put down the weapon,” insisted one of them.

  Kevin looked at his right hand. He was surprised to see the pistol that he was still clenching. For a split second he had forgotten what had happened just moments before from the shock of seeing the Chicago police pointing guns at him.

  “Of course,” he said immediately. He hurriedly put the weapon down on the bar. “It’s not mine, it belongs to a guy who . . .”

  He was not able to finish the sentence. As soon as he let go of the gun, one of the policemen swiftly approached him and smashed his face against the surface of the bar.

  “Hands behind your back!” he ordered.

  “What is this? I haven’t done anything.”

  The officer handcuffed him without the least consideration of his protests.

  “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  “This is absurd!”

  The policeman gave a strong yank on the handcuffs and finished reading him his rights. Kevin was absolutely dumbstruck. He understood nothing of what was happening.

  “Do you understand your rights?”

  “Perfectly, but I haven’t done anything. You’ve got the wrong person.”

  “I doubt that very much. At any rate, a jury will decide.”

  A jury? It was all making less and less sense. More policemen arrived; one of them picked up the pistol with gloves and put it in a plastic bag. He glared at Kevin.

  “That gun isn’t mine.”

  “Sure, sure,” replied the policeman who had cuffed him. “That’s why you had it in your hands when we arrived.”

  It was obvious that they wouldn’t believe him. The truth would sound absurd.

  “Can I at least know what you’re accusing me of?” asked Kevin.

  “Murder.”

  “What? That can’t be. I haven’t so much as killed a fly in my entire life. And besides, where is the body?”

  Then he saw it. Two people were coming out of the back of the bar carrying a stretcher. There was a body on it with a bullet hole between the eyes.

  He almost fainted when he recognized him. It was the owner of the bar. His friend Norman Smith.