The Long Wait for Tomorrow (6 page)

“I don’t mean you, Patrick,” Kelly assured him, shadow of a smirk lost somewhere behind unrecognizable green eyes. “I mean everyone else.” He leaped down from the counter and pointed in several directions at once. “Mugs?”

Without thinking, Patrick pointed to a cupboard in the far left corner.

Kelly jogged over, took down a coffee mug, and trotted back to the coffeemaker. “At any rate, if dreams have that kind of influence on our bodies, both sleeping and waking … well, then.” Kelly dislodged the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. He turned to Patrick and held the mug under his own nose, eyes closed. Two deep inhalations, and his lids fluttered open; content and lazy, almost lecherous. “If we grant the premise, Patrick … what happens when we drink coffee in our dreams? Does our body treat it like a wet dream and act accordingly? Do we wake up? Or, being in a state of consciousness
within
the dream, does the caffeine affect
that
reality? Does all that roasted goodness, in fact, get further and further from waking us up, while sending us deeper and deeper into our dream?”

Kelly shrugged, took a deep breath. “Only one way to find out.”

He raised the mug to his lips and took two large, scalding swallows. His eyes closed once again, cheeks imploding against his face, as though trying to suck out any rogue drops that had escaped his tongue. Eyes opened, rolled back momentarily in an eerie kind of ecstasy before righting themselves, lids wide, pupils dilated.

“Damn on a hot tin roof, that’s good shit!” Kelly exclaimed, words peppered with pleasure-domed vowel sounds. “Oh! Damn, that is so—
Hell, yes!
Patrick, you’ve got to try some of
this, amigo. It’s like there’s a party in my mouth and everyone tastes like the best damn coffee I’ve ever had!”

Patrick found the mug shoved under his nose, and his brain became one with his reflexes.

“No!” he cried out, swiping the coffee out of Kelly’s hand, watching it fly across the kitchen.

Both of them watching it fly across the kitchen, through the doorway leading to the dining room. Soaring over the antique dining-room table, toward the glass cabinet filled with crystal plates and goblets, carrying with it fresh roasted coffee and the midflight certainty that some things simply can’t be taken back.

It was with this understanding that Patrick barely flinched when the glass shattered. Glass doors to an antique cabinet housing a small fortune. The impact set off a chain reaction as the top shelf of finely polished mahogany collapsed, smashing down on the second shelf, smashing down on the bottom of the cabinet, obliterating all objects resting in between.

The world’s most priceless sandwich.

Patrick found it in him to bring his hand to his mouth.

Two stray shards of glass broke away from the cabinet windows.

The afterthoughts of destruction.

Wind chimes, really.

Coffee dripping down onto the white carpet, and Patrick turned to Kelly.

Kelly did the same, only there wasn’t the slightest bit of concern on his face. Less than concern, it was as though he actually had welcomed the destruction. As if it had proven
some point. Kelly simply winked, went to get another mug, and poured himself another cup of coffee.

He took a sip, keeping a sly distance. “You sure you don’t want any of this?”

Patrick shook his head. “You always said …”

“No, I understand….” Kelly brought the mug up to his lips. “I mean, good for everything I’ve ever told you, Patrick. It all sounds so wise, but …” Another sip. “Hell, this is just a dream, anyway. I’m thinking maybe wisdom’s just not what’s right for what little time we’ve got.”

Patrick opened his mouth. A few seconds later, he spoke: “Sorry about the crystal.”

Kelly gave the dining room little regard, shrugged. “Ah, well.”

“Seriously, Kelly—”

“So, what are we doing today, Patrick?”

Patrick blinked. “We’ve got to go to school.”

“School, eh?” Kelly walked over to the kitchen table, picked up the newspaper. “That’s right, school’s still in. That ought to be interesting….” He tucked the newspaper under his arm and gave Patrick a salute. “Guess I best get ready for school, then, huh?”

“Yeah,” Patrick managed.

“All right.” Kelly nodded.

He made his way past Patrick, down the hallway toward the front door. Found it was still open and closed it, not bothering to lock up. Then, without further ado, he plodded up the stairs.

Patrick took another look at the shattered remains of Kelly’s family heirlooms.

Shattered glass and coffee stains soaking into the rug.

He heard Kelly rushing back down the stairs, saw him peek his head over the banister.

“Patrick!”

“Yeah?”

“We’re taking the car to school, right?”

“Yeah.”

Kelly’s head bowed down in a strange act of humility. “Can I drive?”

Patrick squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head. “Yeah, you always … yeah, you can drive.”

“Yeah!” Kelly proclaimed. His arm shot out from nowhere, raising the coffee toward a hanging chandelier. “See you in a few, Patrick!”

Once again, Kelly’s footfalls shook the walls.

And Patrick was left in the kitchen.

He glanced over to the coffeemaker, saw the orange light staring at him.

The clock on the stove read a digital 8:15, and Patrick let himself get back to the basics.

Time to get ready for school.

Up above, second floor, the shower came to life.

Patrick strode to the coffeemaker and flipped the switch.

The orange light died out, and from somewhere upstairs, he heard Kelly singing.

atrick had simply assumed they were going to be late.

Even after Kelly stepped out of the shower, he remained in a state of cheerful disorientation. From his shoes to his keys, book bag and playbook, the entirety of Kelly’s routine had to be retraced for him. He was like a large, dangerous child; even when Patrick managed to lead Kelly in the right direction, there was always another deviation to be dealt with. A brief couple of seconds sorting through his clothes, and Kelly had asked to be escorted to his father’s closet. There he went about selecting a white dress shirt, black tie, and pants and a coat to match. They were nearly out the door when Patrick had to remind Kelly to get his cell phone. The two of them had bolted up the steps, Patrick leading his best friend through his own house, over to where his phone had been charging.

Kelly took one look at it, strode to the bathroom, and tossed it in the hamper.

“I got everyone I need, right here,” he had said, winking. “Almost.”

By the time they had finally made it out to the car, there was no doubt in Patrick’s mind.

They were going to be late.

That was before Kelly jumped behind the wheel of his black Jaguar XK convertible, eyes glinting.

With wailing tires, Kelly backed out of the driveway and into the street. Hardly bothering to turn, he popped his back tires up onto the opposite curb, knocking over the neighbor’s dark green rubber garbage can.

“Oops,” Kelly said, as though mentioning the time to a passing stranger. With nothing more to contribute, he shifted into first and peeled out, flatlining his way toward the first intersection, where the stop sign was met without even an honorable mention. Speakers blaring, hip-hop station doing what it could to corrupt their young minds, Kelly took a sweeping right turn. He overshot his lane by a wide margin, suddenly nose to nose with a city bus speeding toward them.

Patrick’s hands shot out, fingers sinking into the dashboard.

Strange what a luxury vehicle could accomplish, going eighty on thirty-five-mile-an-hour streets; with a casual nod, Kelly jerked the wheel, just enough to send them fishtailing back over to the right side of life, missing the bus by inches.

Ignoring Patrick’s white-knuckled silence, Kelly revved the engine and offhandedly asked if they were headed in the right direction.

Patrick shook his head, pointed his thumb back behind them. “That way, Kelly.”

“Oops,” Kelly repeated, without an ounce of remorse or recognition.

He slammed on the brakes, sent the car skidding sideways. Came to a perpendicular halt in the road, Kelly’s car taking
its share out of both lanes, double yellow stripe bisecting his car nicely.

“Hey, Patrick.” Kelly searched his surroundings with unhurried interest. “There a way to drop the top on this baby or what?”

A couple of cars screeched to a halt on either side of the Jaguar.

Patrick reached up above their heads, unhooked the handles.

He mashed down on a button between the two seats as the top began to yawn. Gears whirring, doing their best to please the rest of the world, already backed up in both directions. Morning commuters honked, pounded their fists against steering wheels, already rehearsing the story for coworkers, spouses, and drinking buddies.

All thanks to Kelly’s sudden urge to have the top down.

“I make money for the money, ’cause money’s got my back?”
Kelly repeated radio-station lyrics, scoffing. “Can’t believe I used to listen to this shit.” He began fiddling with the knobs as the black top finally folded back into the car. “What’s good around here, Patrick? What do
you
listen to?”

Choosing expedience, Patrick once again used his finger as the path of least resistance. Pressed 90.7, tuned right smack into some funk-minded jazz fusion.

The Charlie Hunter Trio
, Patrick’s angels marveled, calm as always. “Cueball Bobbin.’”

“Yeah!”
Kelly grinned, fingers agreeing with high-hat cymbals. “If I had sunglasses, I’d put them on, this is
nice.”

He twisted the wheel hard left and gave her all she had, back the way they came.

Hardly a second glance to the mess he’d made, blasting his way past trees, houses, all a blur.

Patrick winced as they tore past a parked patrol car, automatically sinking into his seat.

But in place of a siren, all that could be heard was a distant cry of a certain mustached officer: “YEAH, KELLY, ST
ATE CHAAAAMPIOOON
!”

Kelly laughed, threw his hands into the air.

Patrick felt that very air sandblasting his hair, violent whorls and eddies roaring in his ears all around him. Once again, no time to ask what was going on as another intersection loomed before them.

“Left!”
Patrick yelled.
“Left, Kelly
, LEFT! MAKE A LEFT!”

Kelly’s hands hit the wheel. A graceful downshifting arc sent them halfway onto the shoulder, gravel flying as Patrick began to wave his arms. Gasping for breath, hardly able to scream: “RIGHT, RIGHT TURN!”

“Woo!”
Another stuntman’s curve, and Kelly was loving it. “Guess it’s like riding a bike, Patrick, all these years!”

Patrick twisted in his seat, desperately scanning for any damage they might have left behind.

One or two motorists stuck in gape mode, unsure of what they’d just seen.

Other than that, it appeared as though they had made a clean getaway.

Facing forward once more, Patrick saw the needle edging comfortably past seventy.

“Slow down, Kelly!”

“It’s OK, Patrick!” Kelly cried out. “We’re good!”

“We’re going to get ourselves killed!”

“Not with you as my copilot!”

A slight dip in the road sent them sailing, tires slamming back down onto the asphalt with a jarring bounce. Patrick felt his teeth meet, two thunderbolt snaps keeping time with the music.

“ Hey-oh!” Kelly called out, tailgating the car before him. He crossed over, hit the accelerator, and snaked his way out in front of the speeding Buick. With his mission now accomplished, Kelly kept his left foot planted on the floor. “All these close calls, Patrick, you think I would’ve shocked myself back awake by now!”

“You ARE awake!” Patrick roared over the clattering jazz drum, wondering if this is how old-timers in the fifties must have felt upon hearing that unbridled music, alien sounds signaling a dangerous new world, just over the horizon. “You are AWAKE, Kelly!”

“Then riddle me this!” Kelly gave a sly grin. He put a hand to his temple and mimed raising a pair of sunglasses up from his eyes. “Why haven’t we hit a single red light on our way to school?”