I was with my best friend and this guy that was a friend of hers. We were going to his apartment which was in a not so good part of town. It was a very old red brick building and we passed a grizzly looking gray haired old man leaving.
Inside the halls were very dark. We went up a few flights of stairs. My friend plopped down on a couch in the hallway and asked if I liked it. They had dragged it up from the street. It was one of the ugliest couches I had seen. The cushions were a green and maroon plaid. The frame was wood. It was the type of couch you might put on a three season porch or possibly in a basement den right next to the fake wood paneling. Did I say it was in the hallway? It was in the hallway; we hadn’t even stepped inside the apartment yet. Apparently the couch did not fit through the doorway.
We stepped into the apartment and it was filled with all sorts of odds and ends. Other pieces of collected alley furniture. Things I would refer to as pop culture “Collectibles” none of which were in very good condition. There was a lot of debris and I’m sure no one had taken out the trash in a very long time. It was at this point that they told me he didn’t pay rent, because the building had been condemned. He didn’t bother to clean up, because it could all be gone tomorrow anyway.
For some reason, I felt a need to see the rest of the apartment and I went down the hall. I took a right and was in the bathroom. It was still filled with junk. There was a claw foot tub sitting on a dais and it was full of water that dripped from the ceiling. I stepped closer and the floor creaked. It caused the tub to tip and water spilled over the side. I retreated and went across the hall to what I’m assuming at one point had been a kitchen due to the blue and white linoleum tiles. The floor in this room slanted away from me. All the furniture and debris had slid to the back of the room and there was more water pooled on that side. It stretched halfway across the room.
I hurried back to the living room, climbing over books, magazines and baubles. I was said he can’t be living here. He will come home with us and we’ll figure out something, but this isn’t right. As I’m speaking my eyes fall on this set of…I suppose you’d call them workbooks. They weren’t books or magazines. Oh, let’s say they’re 11”x14” paperback books, but they’re made with really nice paper. *I remembered that my friend had borrowed them from this guy, but I never had a chance to read one.
The top book was Sherlock Holmes. Instead of reading the whole story in one sitting all the way through, it would be a page of text and then included the actual evidence (letters, building plans, maps) for you to scrutinize and solve the mystery yourself. You wouldn’t have to wait for the inevitable scene in front of the fireplace where Holmes recounts all the clues that he noticed along the way and never mentioned. My apologies, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, please don’t roll around in your grave. I’m sure that writing for The Strand had its limitations. It’s a very intriguing idea for a book if you can work out the details.
Of course, the guy agrees to come with us. What guy wouldn’t when made that offer by two girls. (We’re offering him the couch for chis’sakes!) I asked if I could take these books and he said to knock myself out and take whatever I wanted. After that I woke up momentarily.
*This was not a real memory. This was a memory in dreamland. I don’t know how that works, if I had this other dream where my friend had these books or not. This is not the first time I’ve had a ‘memory’ occur on the Otherside. Has anyone else had this happen? Note to self: research memories within dreams.