Paxton Quigley
Last night my subconscious wandered into 1968 and returned with Paxton Quigley.
Now there’s a man who never seems to enter through the front door. He has a habit of finding attics… and, apparently, unattended thoughts.
He leaned against the doorway with that look that has probably been responsible for more poor decisions than good architecture.
“You’re late,” I told him.
“I’ve been waiting,” he replied.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is how trouble introduces itself.
The strange thing about dreams is that they never tell you whether they’re exposing your memories… or simply dusting off old fantasies that were stored a little too close to the rafters.
Paxton smiled.
I smiled back.
At my age, I’ve learned there are only two kinds of men: those who tell you exactly what they’re after… and those who convince you it was your idea all along.
He offered me his hand.
I declined.
Not because I lacked curiosity.
I’ve simply learned that once you climb into someone’s attic, you’ll eventually discover what they’ve been hiding.
Sometimes it’s forgotten boxes.
Sometimes it’s skeletons.
Sometimes it’s an ego dressed up as romance.
Besides…
I’ve survived marriages, psychiatric nursing, raising children, a near-death experience, and decades of writing characters who behave far worse than I ever have.
Poor Paxton.
He never stood a chance.
When I woke this morning, the attic was empty…
…but I couldn’t help noticing someone had rearranged the furniture in my imagination.
Dreams are funny that way.
They always leave you wondering whether they were talking about the house…
or the occupant.
My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts 