Love

"All you need is love, all you need is love, all you need is love, love, love is all you need. Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love. All you need is love, all you need is love, all you need is love, love, love is all you need."

Lennon/McCartney "All You Need Is Love"

Menial task. A long ladder horizontal in my right hand. This must be paint on my overalls. I don't know if I was wearing a hard hat because I couldn't see my head.

My grandpa's house. His backyard. A mulberry tree, gnarled, venerable, but full of life, splendor, awe. It somehow scares me. Awwwww.

A swimming pool, empty. The focus, elliptical. Figures seated around the side of the pool, on the diving board. But they are not wearing shrouds. They are naked. Nothing's in black and white. Passion and debauchery. Love. Bodies writhing on the tiled and concrete floor and banked sides of the pit. I'd better find my grandpa.

In the house. Surly thugs my own age around a rank pool table with all the trappings. Dim lamp, like a Tiffany from hell, suspended from the ceiling, half empty mugs, a filmy mirror, tables stinking of whiskey and cigarettes. A dusty player piano off to one side, plinking ragtime, the pocked spool and toothlike keys slightly glowing jaundice.

The halls and rooms pulsing with girls coming and going. A gold and leather divan at the heart seemingly of the primitive, intense waltz. A hub of nubiles and men with ledgers throbbing around a hidden figure.

“Grandpa, you know about this?”

He smiles charismatically, winks at several of the girls. He looks in the best of health. I always liked him from afar.

Dark figure in a darkened doorway, unnoticed, noticing all. Holding a book in his hands, not a ledger. I can't make out the title. He smiles. I'm not alone. He holds up the book so I can read the title: American Short Stories of 1929. The figure takes a step backwards and is lost in the shadows. All that remains is his Cheshire grin.

Seeing people out. Goodbye. Come again. People smiling, exchanging sweet nothings. A girl with short black hair, the number 16 in red letters on the front of a white halter. A sudden chill in my stomach. “Can you stay?” I say. She nods yes, sighs slightly, turns back towards the house. I pretend I don't notice the shrug.

She leads me by the hand to a darkened area across the room. I am worried I may not be able to get an erection, but that's silly because I already have one. We lay down on the floor. We kiss. Is this true love?

Is it true that if you die in a dream . . .?