Comparing your life in New York, New York to Maycomb, Alabama is like comparing your life on Earth to Jupiter. Maycomb would definitely be the Earth because you would know what to expect. When I tell people where I'm from, they give an estimation as to what my surroundings were growing up and in most areas they are unfortunately right. It always seemed to me that the acceptable normalcy of the deep south was downright uninspiring in the city that never sleeps. Native New Yorkers don't believe they are really anything special from what I can see. I would sometimes say out loud incredulously how the people were so free up here. "Honey, try Los Angeles if you want true free spirit," would be my usual response. I can only imagine what the townfolk in Maycomb would say about that; I don't think they will ever get over me living up here let alone out there.
Yet, I can't really say anything too bad about Maycomb because that tiny little town laid the foundation for who I am today. For the most part, the adults that helped raise me were strong people: Calpurnia, Maudie, Atticus and Jem. I would think about them everyday and especially at dinnertime. While I would have my usual slice of pepperoni pizza and Pepsi; I would imagine Calpurnia turning a bargain roast into something that royalty would be glad to have with heaping helpings of potatoes and vegetables swimming in butter and salt. I would especailly miss Atticus around my childhood bedtime when we would read together. To ease this particular case of homesickness, I would make my neighborhood library my number one hangout.
I love New York City libraries; they have books of topics unimaginable and sinful back home. I especially love the New Age selection where I have found more peace in the eastern world philosophies than the bible-thumping theories that were shoved down my throat growing up. A new book about dream interpretation caught my eye and I flip through it with interest. I don't dream often but when I do, I never stop to think of them. This left me intrigued enough to check it out and bring home with me.
"Having any unusual dreams lately?" The friendly librarian asked me.
"No, I just thought it looked like an interesting read," I replied, honestly.
"I believe dreams can help change your life. I once had a dream about my deceased father and he came to me and I never felt sorrow for him since. He told me he was okay."
"That's nice," I say. I hope I sound nice enough because I really don't care. "Thank you."
"Have a wonderful night," she tells me so sweetly that I feel bad for not having compassion for her dead father.
I went home to my usual nightly ritual of running a bubble bath and lighting vanilla candles while I read a new book. Nothing makes me want to go to sleep better than that. The warm water soothes my tired body, the scent of the candles gives my senses pleasure, and the book gives my restless mind something to feed on.
Only twenty pages in and I can tell that this book wasn't what I thought it was. Myths about being awake at night in real life is because your awake in someone's dream? Ridiculous. This Austrian psychoanalyst, Sigmund Freud, seems like a real pervert and I can only take his dream interpretations with a grain of salt. I guess according to him all our dreams are about our desire for slutty sex and wanting to kill someone; Jesus! I blow out my candles one by one and drain out my bathwater and think too bad that the book wasn't better. I immeadiately crawl into bed even though I'm still naked and my eyes are closed by the time my head hits the pillow.
"Scout," Jem's voice calls out to me. He is right in front of me with a big smile on his face. I was not expecting to see him and the fact that he's obviously happy is making me happy.
"Jem," I say as I wrap my arms around his neck for a hug. I look around to see that I'm actually back home at Barker's Eddy. I must be dreaming because there's no way in hell I'm actually here. "How did I get here?"
"What do you mean?" Jem asks, pulling me off him. "You've been here the whole time."
"No, I haven't," I gasp. Jesus, my brother is crazier than I give him credit for. "I've been in New York."
"This is your home. Home is where your heart is."
"Crazy much?"
"I got you something," he says as he hands me a red, oriental looking box. I take it in my hands and hold it up to my ear because I hear a funny ticking sound. I immeadiately wonder if it was a bomb. When I open it, it was a bomb all right.
"I'm giving you my heart," he said as I stare at the beating, bleeding heart that was in the package he had given me.
"Why?" I seriously had nothing better to ask.
"You deserve it. This one works real good; you should have it."
"What are you going to do about yours?"
"Nothing to do about it. Just take it and know that I gave you my good heart."
"You always had a big heart, doofus," I say, ribbing him and then hugging him. This was so strange but so nice at the same time.
"I got to go," he said, a little sad.
"Well, okay," I replied. Who was I to stop him if he had to leave?
"I love you so much," he said to me so genuinly that I wanted to cry.
"I love you too, sweet," I say back to him, using our family term of endearment.
A neon light flickering from across the street woke me up. I realized that I had actually been sweating and I was now using my bedsheets to wipe myself with. I should look up what it means to see a beating heart in your dream. I end up flipping the pages too fast and I ended up in the section where they describe dreams you have right before a loved one passes. I would be up the rest of the night reading different stories of dreams other people had before a loved one's death and being agast how similar they were in spirit to the one I just had with Jem. They helped soften the blow for that phone call I had recieved long distance around noon that same day.