The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part One: The Baker 38

Literary Novel, Dog Photo

Literary Novel

 

He mumbled something to the driver, took his tie and those square shoes off, fixed his stare at the back of his head and stopped thinking. He probably should have asked for advice. The humble opinion of a man that was brave enough to live instead of ‘to dream’. He ruled it out. Opinions didn’t matter.

Instead he dosed off to the far side of the river of imagination. His best mentor. Everything he needed to know about life was inside him already. He just needed an interpreter. He knew only one, a guy with a pipe.

Dog.

Was he a dog? His last thought before he plunged into the dreamy world of his subconscious. The seed was planted. The thought of his four-legged incarnation had mutated into a collection of signals embodying all his current dilemmas.

He dreamt he was a dog.

A dog with an invisible head. Yes he had a head but above his shiny collar with a nametag his head was transparent. He could feel it. He could bump it into a fence he was sniffing. But. He could peak around the corner and no one would see it.

When he ate he could see the bones grinded to bits by his invisible teeth. His seemingly headless furry body was the color black. No surprise here. He could move his ears, feel the breeze with his cheeks, smell with his nose, poke a garbage can with the tip of it. But. He couldn’t see his head. Above all he couldn’t see his eyes. They could see the world but the world couldn’t see them. He couldn’t know what color they were, how deep they went and how his soul felt. He couldn’t read if they expressed strength, weakness, fear, sadness, happiness or dullness of existence.

He knew the world but he didn’t know himself.

His only solace was that the world couldn’t figure him out either. He was hard to read. Hence, unfriendly, unsocial, un-everything that didn’t start with whiskey.

Introverted.

Was that a good thing?

He didn’t do anything. He walked about garbage bins in back alleys and scared skinny cats away. They were not scared of dogs per se. They had never seen a headless dog barking.

The sun shined directly over his shut eyes and burned this delightful illusion to bits inviting him to rejoin the world of defined shapes and undefined feelings.

The car was parking in the deer park by the guesthouse, his home. The only place he felt close to him.

A guesthouse.

What bliss, filled his weary head when he smelled the pungent tobacco smoke coming from the garden.

Wake up brain.

He walked to the garden. He couldn’t get the images he had dreamt out of his head.

He was there. The guy with the pipe. His grandfather, like an ancient oak tree, puffing away in deep thought. At first he thought he didn’t see him. But. He picked up the open wine bottle and poured two glasses. Unusual ‘welcome home’ considering the Baker’s past.

‘You have not been spending enough time with your wife.’ He proceeded to the first order of business.
‘Has she complained?’ He took a firm grip on a wine glass.

‘No, she is better than that. I had a dream. I dreamt of you in the kindergarten on a grimy autumn day. Still warm enough. The attendants let all the kids outside to play before the winter takes over. You were learning to play ball with the bigger kids. They pushed you around but you kept playing. At the same time a little girl was sitting in a sandbox, crying.’ He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

The Baker almost grinned.

The guy with the pipe often used the medium of dreams to gently get a point across, he otherwise knew about from reliable sources.

‘I always trust my dreams.’ Added the pipe.

They both smiled. Then the pipe gravitated back to expressionless. His thick features commanded respect.

‘Do you want to talk?’ He offered the Baker the chance to choose the next order of business.

‘I shouldn’t have ignored her.’ He was polite.

‘You don’t understand it now but most of your bigger problems are sourcing from this little mistake. You lack the female perspective. Her counsel of genuine morality, humanity and basic politics would have made your decisions wiser. You can’t listen only to stone faced old man with nothing but power and war on their minds.’

He took his first sip of wine.

 

NEXT: The Baker 39

PREVIOUS: The Baker 37

ALL CHAPTERS

more by PETER ODEON

Photograph from unsplash.com

 

Image Curve’s Manifesto

Hire An Editor
Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

You may also like...