Chapter 4: The Wagon

To obtain a green check mark you must complete and return this form within eighteen hours of having used the DreamAds™ hood.

How many hours did you sleep for?

7.

Was your night’s sleep in any way unusual?

No.

Did you dream?

Yes.

Can you remember your dream?

Not really.

Please recall what you can about your dream (300 words, minimum)

How am I supposed to write three hundred words about a dream I can hardly remember? I think my dad was in it and that he was angry or disappointed with me. That’s pretty much it. There was a moment in the dream where I was afraid of falling. Though where I was at the time, I can’t say.  Honestly, that’s everything.

I see, I can’t submit without three hundred words. That’s annoying. You should make this process more flexible. You’re tempting me to write over and over, ‘all work and no play makes Cyn a dull girl’. I could copy and paste that until my three hundred words are done and it would add no value to your research. I’d be wasting your time, just like you are wasting mine.

I’m not even half way. Let’s see. There was music, I think. I’m not very good about music. Oh, wait now I have a fragment of it. The judge who sentenced me was in the dream. Probably that was the father figure impression I have. In the dream, the judge admitted that she liked my mural. She explained that it was her responsibility to society that required her to be harsh with me. Of course, I didn’t agree with this. I think I made some good arguments back against her, though I can’t remember what they were now. Probably, awake, they aren’t anywhere near as effective as they seemed to be in the dream. She was still wearing her judge’s robes, but she was off duty and more like a real person, like it was believable that she was somebody’s mother. I couldn’t warm to her. But I did understand her more.

I can’t remember where we met but it was somewhere interesting. I genuinely wish I could recall more of the dream because it wasn’t all bad. At least it wasn’t the nightmare I had been terrified that I’d get. And also, I don’t feel it was … I was going to say that I don’t feel like it was particularly unusual. All dreams are strange. But now I think about it, it was different. Less fuzzy or something. I think most of my dreams are like living in a fishbowl and while some small area of my vision is in focus, everything else is blurry and distorted. This dream was a lot more like being awake, from what I can remember. Wow, 400 words.

Do you recall any products that you dreamed about?

No.

Do you have any new goals or desires?

Not that I’m aware of.

Are you hungrier than usual?

No?

Is there a particular type of food you’d like to eat soon?

I fancy a burrito.

Did you dream about a McDonald’s burger?

Not that I remember. Although now you say it, I could have. I think I was afraid of falling around that time. If it happened. If this isn’t a trick question.

Do you have a desire for any other product?

It’s not exactly a product, but I want to read more.

Did you feel a sense of gratitude in your dream?

Not that I remember.

Did you feel your life was saved by someone?

Not that I remember.

Did you feel that you were in a building in danger of collapse?

Holy… I did. I remember that now. Can I go back? No. Anyway, you have my 300 words.

Did someone help you escape the building?

I think so.

How did you feel about this person?

I liked them but I was afraid of them.

Was this person Neo?

Are you telling me that you are putting Neo into my dreams? If you were to ask me who, on the entire planet, I wanted to exclude from my dreams, my answer would be Neo. Don’t you dare put him in there. Consider this a warning. If Neo pops up in my dreams I’m heading straight onto social media and I’ll also be contacting traditional newspapers to alert them that this pilot scheme has an agenda of promoting Neo. I’ve screenshot your question for this use if necessary.

I gave a sigh and hit ‘send’.

‘You okay Cyn?’ asked Daniel. It must have been a loud sigh, he was in the bathroom on the other side of a sliding door, shaving.

‘Just my DreamAds app. Their final question was whether Neo had helped me escape a collapsing building.’

‘Interesting.’ Nothing more came from the bathroom for a scratchy moment or two. Then: ‘If I owned a technology that could change people’s minds so that they thought me the world’s greatest poet, I’d be very tempted to use it.’

‘Of course you would.’ I regretted the emphasis I put on the word you as soon as I heard myself say it aloud.

‘Wouldn’t you? As an artist I mean. Take the Faustian pact?’

Relieved that Daniel didn’t seem to have felt the blow, I gave my answer after carefully formulating it to avoid being offensive. ‘In a way, that’s already happening. The art industry picks a figure and makes them a celebrity out of all proportion to the merit of their work. Would I like to be that figure? Right now I could use the money. But in general, I don’t think so.’

Returning to me from the bathroom Daniel looked comical. From the waist up he was a respectable member of society: freshly shaven jawline; crisp white shirt, buttoned at cuff and collar; burnt amber fleece, unzipped. From the waist down, two naked and sturdy thighs were holding up this model citizen. ‘Who do you paint for, Cyn? Who do you imagine as your audience?’

‘Myself, really. Maybe sometimes I wonder what Leonora Carrington would make of my murals.’

‘Same. I write for myself... And you.’ His look was almost shy and I understood it. Daniel had no restraint in exposing his genitals before me, but for him to expose his inner self would be terrifying. Despite Daniel presenting to the world the lively persona of a successful and radical poet, when he let that lapse you could see a child who had not been loved by his parents; a child who had been bullied at school; and a man who today harboured an unvoiced doubt about his ability as a poet. We all need love, but Daniel was especially in need of it. Did he acknowledge this lack of confidence to himself? I wasn’t sure. Perhaps in very rare moments he touched on that most intimate and sensitive of places as gently as a butterfly landing on a flower.

It did not help the poor boy that he was currently on a downwards trajectory, with his recent poems merely crowd-pleasing didactic cries, suitable for Instagram, YouTube, slams and small protests, but lacking the subtlety of his first collection. Do you want a hundred likes and a dozen new followers? Write a few lines about a terrible flood (that you have no first-hand experience of) and tag all the concerned organisations as well as the main climate change hashtags. This pull towards the performative and away from the disturbing was one of the reasons I didn’t use any social media at all, even though my galleries were annoyed at me for this seeming lack of effort to market myself.

With his trousers on, Daniel looked the part of a creative writing tutor. The disguise mattered. Inhaling a line of speed from the top of the dresser, Daniel let out a long breath and regarded me with watery eyes and flushed cheeks. ‘That’s going to get me through the morning at least.’

‘Can you wait ten minutes? I’ll come with you. The Sackville has made a sale.’

‘Which one?’

‘Nymphony.’

He nodded. ‘I’m not surprised. That’s a great painting.’

Soon, we were riding into town under a grey but mild sky. While bunched up alongside a dozen other cyclists at the Phibsboro crossroads waiting for the lights to change, Daniel leaned towards me. ‘I was contemplating upon adverts.’

‘And where did these contemplations take you?’

A man wearing a bright green helmet and a logo-covered bike-racing top looked back over his shoulder at us, amused.

‘Adverts make you miserable, right? Without the product they want you to buy, you won’t be satisfied.’

‘Right.’ There was a social movement in response to this view of advertising: Adfree Dublin.

‘What if …’ Daniel dropped his voice so the cyclists who had been listening could not hear him… ‘the DreamAds hood makes you unhappy? Makes you dissatisfied?’

With the lights turned green, I pedalled off ahead of Daniel still considering this possibility. My first thought was that I was no more susceptible to becoming discontented as a result of advertising in my dreams as I was from listening to adverts on the radio or looking at the hundreds of adverts currently in my field of vision. Perhaps, though, their effect in creating desire for a product was stronger in dreams. In which case, their negative consequences would be stronger too. How could I measure this effect? I resolved to start a diary and try to keep track of any dissatisfaction.

While cycling along Nassau Street the lights near KC Peaches which had favoured pedestrians changed, making the man red and a moment later the light facing me green. Good. I wouldn’t have to check myself. No! A middle-aged woman belatedly hurried into the road at the crossing and looked me in the eye as if to dare me to keep on cycling towards her at my current speed. Precious distance was used up before I understood that we were going to collide. Grabbing the breaks hard, I screeched to a stop, just a metre short of her and barely able to prevent myself going right over the handlebars. A second later and I got a huge jolt as Daniel banged into my back tyre.

The woman shook her head and tutted before stepping away.

‘You fool,’ I called after her, furious and hot.

Head high, she walked off in triumph.

‘What the fuck?’ shouted Daniel. Then his voice dropped, ‘are you okay Cyn?’

‘I’m fine.’ And I really was. What a wagon that woman was. What a sense of entitlement was shown in her belief it was all right to run across the road after the lights had turned red for her.

‘I’d better go, I’ve only got five minutes.’ He waddled up to bring his lips as close to mine as our helmets allowed. I laughed at his puckered expression and that warmth renewed my energy as I watched him pedalling fast away from me. Daniel’s old bike was stuck in a high gear and he rode it like a duck: with vigour in his feet and serenity in his head and upper body.

I was just two turns away from The Sackville Gallery, where Victoria, a recent Art History graduate now working for the gallery, asked me to wait and said that Mr Costello would be delighted to see me. There were two thin, wooden chairs and a short bench to sit on. I opted for the bench because I wanted to be able to swap sides as I surveyed all the art on display: some thirty paintings including two more of mine. Nymphony was no longer visible.

‘Ms Sweetwater! What good timing. I’m expecting your framed painting to be collected shortly.’ Mr Costello came down a curved, metal staircase and gestured to Victoria’s desk, against which leaned a cardboard rectangle.

Julian Costello – not that we ever used first names – was at risk of being a caricature of a gallery owner: tall; immaculately dressed in a grey suit with waistcoat and pink tie; sideburns with a touch of grey; sweeping leonine hair; and a clipped, British-sounding accent. I had been warned, however, that he was as predatory in business as a spider.

‘After your sensational appearance in the newspapers – there is no such thing as bad publicity, as they say – and the success of your mural – well done indeed, a sumptuous and erotic work of the highest order, such a shame it is to be painted out – I had the idea of raising the prices on your works. No sooner had I done so than Mrs Walker came in asking about you and bought Nymphony for…’ he paused and with a bird-like twist of his head seemed to be inviting me to make a guess.

I obliged him and kept my answer low so that he could enjoy his triumph. ‘Nine hundred?’

‘A thousand, three hundred and fifty! I didn’t tell you in my email, I thought I’d save the pleasant surprise for your visit.’

‘Well done.’ And it was well done. Less commission that was a thousand and eighty Euro. My concerns over the rent and the studio rent, low as it was, were gone for another month. And I’d be able to replenish all my art supplies. On the way home, I’d buy a bottle of champagne for Daniel.

‘Here. I have prepared your earnings.’ Mr Costello still wrote cheques and he handed me a white envelope. I was tempted to leave right away and bank it. The sooner I did so, the sooner the money would show up in my account.

Perhaps sensing this, Mr Costello smiled at Victoria and said, ‘Victoria, could I trouble you to make us all a tea? A green tea, I believe for Ms Sweetwater.’

Gathered around the one desk, teas in hand, Mr Costello was asking me about my other works and if I had anything new for him when the bell above the door to the gallery chimed and in walked the woman who had provoked me on Nassau Street.

‘Ahh, Mrs Walker. You’re very welcome. I’m delighted to be able to introduce you to Ms Sweetwater.’

Taking the moment in her stride, Mrs Walker carefully removed her gloves, then her navy, felt hat and shook loose her grey hair. ‘We’ve met,’ said she, with such coldness that a startled Mr Costello lost his smile and his next intended civility failed to escape his lips. ‘This young woman rode her bicycle at me while the pedestrian light was green.’

‘Red,’ I corrected her.

‘My recollection is of you running me down without hesitation.’

Mr Costello looked at me. I looked at Mrs Walker. Ms Walker seemed to be looking at the prospect of being able to triumph over me and her expression – Hallelujah! – said she was witness to a radiance of authority pouring upon her from the windows. Poor Victoria didn’t know where to look.

‘There are far, far too many young people riding their bicycles through the city. The motorised ones are the worst. Why, only two weeks ago my friend Betty was struck by one and when the bruise came up on her thigh, you could see the tyre markings.’

Mrs Walker walked over to me, leaning close with malice in her eyes. ‘I shall not be buying your painting after all Ms Sweetwater. I do not forget that you called me a fool.’

Cup rattling on its saucer as he put it violently down, Mr Costello protested, ‘But the frame. You chose it and we fitted it as part of the price.’

‘It is an excellent frame. It will add value. You will not lose by it.’

‘Do please reconsider, Mrs Walker. You have an investment here in an artist whose status is rapidly rising. I’m sure Ms Sweetwater is sorry for the incident.’

The word investment had some success in altering the state of Mrs Walker’s mind. Like a lizard, whose crest has flared up for battle but which soon settles back down, there was a kind of deflation of her sturdy chest and limbs. ‘Very well. If Ms Sweetwater apologises and promises never to ride through a red light again, I will take her painting.’

‘I did not cycle through a red light. And I don’t agree with you at all. We need more bikes in Dublin, not less. And more cycle lanes.

‘But far, far worse than your opinions on bicycles and your lying about the lights at the crossing is what you are doing right now. Those words you just uttered are the words of a bully.’

‘Oh no,’ said Mr Costello. Victoria, however, suddenly ended her look-at-the-ground-and-pretend-to-be-invisible mode of being to catch my eye with interest in hers, respect even.

‘Me? The bully? It’s the hoard of youths who think that rules do not apply to them that are the bullies.’

‘You demand I apologise and make a promise to you.’

‘I do.’

‘Otherwise, you will not buy my painting.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Can’t you see, you’re acting out the age-old injustice, in which those with money force those without to grovel?’

‘I’m not asking you to ‘grovel’ Ms Sweetwater. Simply, that you conform to the minimum requirements for civility and safety.’

‘Safety. Says the woman who nearly made me crash.’

‘Ladies…’ Mr Costello spread his hands in some kind of conciliatory gesture.

‘You do realise we are being recorded on camera,’ I looked at Mrs Walker and indicated upwards with a movement of my head. ‘Now suppose the recording was released on Instagram. Do you think people would sympathise with you as the champion of road safety? Or me as someone you tried to force to kneel – metaphorically – by using your money? Personally, I think you’ll come out of this very badly.’ I folded my arms and stared at her to observe the effect of my words.

Flushed red, Mrs Walker seemed to view herself as being on the barricades in defence of civilisation. Pulling on her gloves once more, she took a deep breath, regained control of her emotions and said, ‘Mr Costello, you will delete that recording and refund my payment.’

Then she walked out of the gallery with head up, shoulders back, and decisive steps.

Plucking the white envelope from my coat pocket, Mr Costello tore it slowly in half.

I tried to supress a pang of dismay and although I had no regrets about having refused to apologise (Nymphony didn’t belong in her home anyway) I knew I would really miss that thousand Euro. ‘Oh well. At least I have gained inspiration for a new painting. I’m going to call it The Wagon.’

When I left, Mr Costello was still glowering. Victoria, however, gave me a smile.