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Rosebud, v. 1, issue 4, April 1945
Page 4
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THE DREAMER By Eunice Guyy It was one of those unexplainable dreams. Weird and upsetting. Scott was waiting tables in a restaurant. Actually, he had never waited tables in his life. A middle-aged man walked into the dream, accompanied by his wife; they seated themselves at Scott's table. She had begun to order for the both of them when the man suffered a heart attack. Scott rushed away for a glass of water. It was the only move that occured to him. When he raced back to the table with it, the man's wife took the glass. She poured a little water between the deadly pale lips. Scott thought the man was dead. But the water revived him. He sat up and smiled at Scott as if he were apologizing. He brushed a drop of water from his coat, and introduced himself to Scott as Gerald Langhoff. Scott mumbled something in reply and fumbled with his pencil. Then Mrs Langhoff spoke to him. She seemed cool and undisturbed. "Gerald isn't to go until next Friday," she said. Scott went into the kitchen without taking their order. He awoke then, and the dream existed vividly in his mind as he dressed. He thot about it as he walked to the bus line. All the way across town and to the doors of the museum he remembered the dash he had made for water. Inside the museum he left his lunch box in the locker of the staff room, and changed to his guard's uniform. He stood all day by the glass cases of Egyptian relics but he saw only those two people in his dream. That evening the memory of the dream was fastened so clammily to the back of his neck that he conculted the telephone book and the city directory for Gerald Langhoff. The address was 3939 Ridgeway. Scott supposed the right thing to do would be to write a letter. Langhoff should be told. But he was afraid to sign his name. He wrote, merely, that it would be a week from today--Friday, and that he, the writer, was very sorry . . . Scott left it to Langhoff to interpret the letter. Somehow - -- he couldn't force himself to mention the word death. Scott rode the bus downtown to mail the letter. The postoffice might have some vague way of tracing such matter to the box near him. Suppose there were other such letters . . ? There were other such letters, each a few days apart. Sometimes in the dreams Scott would be selling newspapers at an unidentified corner stand, or again, he might find himself in a theatre boxoffice. He was always some place where he met people.
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THE DREAMER By Eunice Guyy It was one of those unexplainable dreams. Weird and upsetting. Scott was waiting tables in a restaurant. Actually, he had never waited tables in his life. A middle-aged man walked into the dream, accompanied by his wife; they seated themselves at Scott's table. She had begun to order for the both of them when the man suffered a heart attack. Scott rushed away for a glass of water. It was the only move that occured to him. When he raced back to the table with it, the man's wife took the glass. She poured a little water between the deadly pale lips. Scott thought the man was dead. But the water revived him. He sat up and smiled at Scott as if he were apologizing. He brushed a drop of water from his coat, and introduced himself to Scott as Gerald Langhoff. Scott mumbled something in reply and fumbled with his pencil. Then Mrs Langhoff spoke to him. She seemed cool and undisturbed. "Gerald isn't to go until next Friday," she said. Scott went into the kitchen without taking their order. He awoke then, and the dream existed vividly in his mind as he dressed. He thot about it as he walked to the bus line. All the way across town and to the doors of the museum he remembered the dash he had made for water. Inside the museum he left his lunch box in the locker of the staff room, and changed to his guard's uniform. He stood all day by the glass cases of Egyptian relics but he saw only those two people in his dream. That evening the memory of the dream was fastened so clammily to the back of his neck that he conculted the telephone book and the city directory for Gerald Langhoff. The address was 3939 Ridgeway. Scott supposed the right thing to do would be to write a letter. Langhoff should be told. But he was afraid to sign his name. He wrote, merely, that it would be a week from today--Friday, and that he, the writer, was very sorry . . . Scott left it to Langhoff to interpret the letter. Somehow - -- he couldn't force himself to mention the word death. Scott rode the bus downtown to mail the letter. The postoffice might have some vague way of tracing such matter to the box near him. Suppose there were other such letters . . ? There were other such letters, each a few days apart. Sometimes in the dreams Scott would be selling newspapers at an unidentified corner stand, or again, he might find himself in a theatre boxoffice. He was always some place where he met people.
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