Strange Dreams

Acknowledgements

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*** This compilation is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother, Mary Alice Barron, who passed away on January 15th, 2016 at the age of 92. ~ I love you and will miss you always. ***

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*** A special thanks to Tina Rosekrans at Edit This One, LLC (www.editthisone.com) for taking the time to proof read, make suggestions and edit this novel.  Without her help and encouragement, this collection of short stories more than likely would never see the light of day and they probably would have just stayed on my computer for no one else to read. ***

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*** I would also like to acknowledge all of those authors whose work I not only thoroughly enjoy reading, but have inspired me to work hard at this craft and put forth the best possible story I could — Steve Perry, Stephanie (S.D.) Perry, Nyx Smith, Diane Carey, William Shatner, Stieg Larsson, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Laura K. Hamilton, Kevin J. Anderson, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, David R. George III, Dayton Ward, Michael A. Martin, David Alan Mack, Una McCormack, Keith R.A. DeCandido, Jana Oliver, Kristen Beyer & Christopher L. Bennett. ***

The Road

to

Happiness

1

I woke up in the morning with the same mental anguish I had each and every day.  Unfortunately, there was just no way to avoid what I knew awaited me.  Yeah, it sucked, but what could I do?  Responsibility — who invented that word anyway?  Who defined it and why?  Life would be much simpler if that word wasn’t associated with being an adult.  Alas, that word did exist, right along with the expectations that were tied to it.  And I, like so many others in this world, chose to fall in line and show up on time at my place of employment.

I mean, I could always quit, but...  I really didn’t hate my job: it paid my bills, put food on the table, and gas in my car.  It was a prototypical dead end job; not the kind that you should really make a career out of.  But it was also the kind of job that opened up many free hours in my day; hours that I had stupidly wasted instead of using them to better myself.  Welcome to the bar business; an industry that had a continual revolving door.  Anyone with a decent amount of experience could walk in and probably get a job — and maybe even bump you from yours.  But it also meant that I could easily just walk out the door without any regrets, and be pretty certain that I could walk straight into any other club and get hired on the spot.

The downside to working in the bar business unfortunately, was that rarely an opportunity for a promotion from within would come to an employee who worked hard, was responsible (there is that word again), and was loyal.  That usually only happened if an ample supply of ChapStick was kept in their front pocket — which I swore I was never going to do.  The only thing I kept in my front pocket, other than my car keys and some coin, was a condom — and that was because I would occasionally accept the alcohol-influenced advances of a beautiful female customer.  Never, had I ever remotely considered throwing my rules out the window and bowing to any kind of internal pressure or sexual propositions that would come from my superiors — especially the occasional ones from my current, much older, gay boss.

Responsibility — which by definition means being accountable for something within one’s own power.  Never before had I ever contemplated dismissing it.  But lately, that damn little devil had decided that he liked the view on top of my right shoulder where he continually would whisper unfathomable suggestions into my ear; influencing disconcerting thoughts that I had never mulled over before.

These unexpected suggestions that were now freely floating around in my subconscious were certainly enticing; grabbing my curiosity and causing me to wonder what if.  I mean — what would it actually be like if I decided that today was finally going to be the day that I hung my employer out to dry and called in sick?  Would they be lost without me?  Would they finally see just how valuable of an employee I am and give me that well earned promotion?  Or, would they just get pissed off that I had unexpectedly screwed them over and left them shorthanded?  I may come off as sounding a bit arrogant, but I honestly believed that they had no idea just how lucky they were to have me as their employee.  Even when I am sick, I would still end up going into work because that is the kind of guy I am — reliable and responsible.

But there can also come a time when one needs to move on, even if things are still good.  No real definitive reason needs be given; it just feels right when that hasty decision is made.  Maybe my time has come?  Maybe I do need a change?  Maybe it is my turn to walk out that revolving door and take my life in a completely different direction?  And maybe that is why the thought of calling in sick for the first time ever, doesn’t feel as wrong as it should.  I mean — maybe I don’t even know what I mean?

Maybe all of this is just the result of what my stagnant life has become: stuck, with no direction, no fulfilment, no satisfaction, and no pride.  At thirty-five years of age, my life should be much different than it is.  I do have my own apartment, I have a car, and I am not broke.  But those are just material things that really mean nothing.  What I don’t have are kids, a girlfriend, or wife — these are the most important things that are still missing.  Why is that, I quite often wonder?  What have I done to have not earned the right to have a complete life?

It’s not like there hasn’t been any women in my life.  After all, I do work in a social environment and have had plenty of opportunities over the years to pick up a woman — lord knows that there has been a multitude of liquor primed, ready to dine on females who came in and drank at the Rock Hard, Roll Easy Nightclub.  But after so many years of tending bar and so many accumulative notches on my bedpost, the novelty of a one-night stand has worn off.  Don’t get me wrong — I thoroughly enjoyed sleeping with plenty of semi-coherent woman in high heels and extremely short skirts, wearing nearly see through tops, having dainty and gentle hands, and possessing moist, well trained lips that could satisfy every part of a man’s anatomy.  It did wonders for my ego — I even felt like a rock star with how easy it had been for me to convince a strange woman to share my bed.  But no more, no more faces with names that I’ll never remember.  Just like my stagnant life, the days of being a willing man-whore has to end — happily being single is something that I no longer wish to be.

In hindsight, it was pretty stupid of me to think that everything I would ever