You Can’t Dream If You’re Unconscious

Caleb Cash has been commuting from Mount Kisco to New York City for so long that he no longer needs an alarm clock to roust him at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m.

He fights his way to the express train like an eager trout swimming upstream. He then takes the subway to 14th Street, where the car is so crowded that a passenger who passes out can’t fall to the floor.

Caleb gets off the subway at 8 a.m. Every weekday, he buys the Daily News, the New York Post, a bear claw, and a regular cup of coffee at the same newsstand, then gives the man with the dog tags he calls “Soldier” his two dollars in change.

Soldier always sits on the ground, a few feet to the side of the newsstand. He has an unkempt salt-and-pepper beard, rheumy eyes, brown teeth, and a body so thin that a slight breeze could blow him away. He’s worn his Beatles T-shirt for so long that some of the letters have faded, leaving a cryptic message -- “eat.” He smells like week-old garbage, and his skin is so grimy that Caleb can’t tell whether he’s white or black.

Caleb asks Soldier the same question every day: “Good morning, sir. Is everything okay?” knowing full well it isn’t.

Caleb places the money in Soldier’s Styrofoam cup. Soldier grunts, and Caleb can’t tell whether it’s out of gratitude or anger at what fate has done to him.

And every day, Caleb promises himself he’s going to do more for Soldier than toss him a couple of bucks.

Caleb is surprised by the lack of sympathy his co-workers in Con Edison’s engineering department show for Soldier's downtrodden life. “Probably a meth head,” says one. “You’re wasting your money,” says another. His supervisor, Ben Anger, warns him to stay away from Soldier. “He’ll stick a rusty shiv in you one day, take your money, your credit cards, and your life.”

Having survived his own rough patch in life, Caleb is convinced that beneath the filth lies an honorable man worth saving.

One Wednesday afternoon, Caleb tells Anger he needs a few hours of flex time to take Soldier to lunch.

“You’re as soft in your head as in your heart,” Anger says. “If he really is a veteran, he can slit your throat before you can say ‘oops.’ Don’t trust him, and don’t turn your back on him.”

                                               ***

“Good afternoon, sir. How about some lunch?”

Soldier’s dry voice cracks, as if he hasn’t used it in a while. “…Need the money for beer…”

“I’m buying. Nothing fancy. How about a gyro or a burger at the Greek diner?”

Spiros Mykenaios, the diner's hirsute owner, blocks their way in.

“What’s the matter with you, Caleb? You can’t bring that bum in here.”

“Give us a table in the back.”

“He pukes, or worse, and you’re cleanin’ it up.”

Soldier gulps down his glass of water.

“This isn’t beer.”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Have they got any?”

“It’s still a little early for booze, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. I left my Rolex in my Mercedes.”

“So, you do have a sense of humor.”

“And you do, too, if you think this will save me.”

“You can’t travel the road to recovery without feeding your engine,” Caleb replies.

“Cute. I’ll save you from the awkwardness of asking how I got like this. You ever serve?”

“I was in the Coast Guard for four years.”

“The minor leagues. I enlisted in the army to impress my parents. My brother was a lifer, a captain who could do no wrong in their eyes. I was a young punk who boosted stereos. I had a taste for beer and brunettes. I stupidly thought, we’re the United States, the greatest country on Earth, so I blindly walked into the desert thinking I’d be home in three months with a chest full of medals. The first week I was there, I saw my best friend step on a mine. What was left of him splattered on my face. Then a little girl, couldn’t have been more than eight, walked up to our Sergeant and set off the bomb she had in her backpack. They put me in a tank that got hit by a rocket. We cooked like franks on a grill. My uniform was melted to my body…You see and feel stuff like that day after day, and your mind either takes on the traits of a stone killer or turns soft as putty. Guess which way my mind bent?”

“So, beer takes the edge off the nightmares.”

“You can’t dream if you’re unconscious.”

“I can get you help.”

“I’ve talked to shrinks. I’ve been hypnotized. I’ve been drugged. Here’s a rhyme that sums it up: The ghosts in my head don’t want to stay dead. Lately, they’ve been screaming at me to join them.”

“What about family? Friends?”

Soldier scoffs. “My wife, Ingrid, threw me out of the house I paid for in blood. I can’t say I blame her. I was abusive, and I treated detox centers as if they had revolving doors. I haven’t seen or spoken to Ingrid in five years. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a friend. Pathetic, eh?”

“You could do worse, I suppose. Listen, when I was seventeen, I did something horrible that I’ve always regretted. Instead of diving further into a bottle, I decided to make things right.”

“Explains the goody-two-shoes attitude. Listen, bro. I know the only thing that chases away the nightmares will kill me. I can’t wait.”

“Can you at least try to get help? There are plenty of ways to treat PTSD, including Cognitive Processing Therapy, desensitization, and reprocessing.”

“Beer’s cheaper.”

                                               ***

Caleb continues to hand his change to Soldier, who acknowledges his presence with a grunt. “Let me know when you’re ready for some help,” he whispers.

Caleb stops by the newsstand a few weeks later and is surprised to find Soldier isn’t there.

“Where’s Soldier?” he asks the owner.

The beetle-browed owner replies, “Gone, thank God. That fruitcake’s cost me a lotta business.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“The psych center. The cops took him to the nut hut yesterday. He got too far into his cups. He tore his clothes off, screaming he was on fire.”

A few days pass before guilt and concern force Caleb to visit the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. He realizes he doesn’t know Soldier’s name, but he gives the front desk nurse an accurate description of Soldier.

“Sounds like the dude who ran out of here yesterday,” she says. “A real whack job, even for someone with PTSD.”

“Where did he go?”

“To hell.”

“He was already there.”

Weeks dissolve into months. Caleb still gets his newspapers and breakfast at the newsstand, but Soldier remains A.W.O.L.

Caleb comes to work one morning to find a dapper-looking man in a tailored suit sitting in his office. Caleb is struck by the man’s confidence in wearing such an ostentatious bright red tie decorated with toothy smiles.

“Mr. Cash? I’m Epsom ‘Smiley’ Justice. I represent the estate of Everett Archer.”

“Who?”

“Oh, that’s right, you didn’t know his name. He haunted Union Square Station for years. You kindly gave him two dollars every time you saw him and tried to help him. He passed away last week from cirrhosis. The police found him in a flea-bag hotel room not far from where he hung out on 14th Street. He named you in his will.”

“Must be a mistake.”

“If it is, it’s one you’ll like.”

“After getting out of the army, Mr. Archer sued the government and won 6.5 million dollars, which he never touched. I guess it was all about the principal, rather than the money, which is now yours. Oh, I almost forgot. Mr. Archer wanted you to have these.”

Reaching into his pocket, Smiley Justice pulls out a pair of dog tags.

                                               ***

A short-haired woman, disguising her sharp features with sunglasses, steps into Spiro’s Diner. Caleb waves her to his table.

“Thanks for coming, Mrs. Archer.”

“Ingrid will do. No one’s called me Mrs. Archer in five years.”

“I know. My lawyer had to track you down by your maiden name.”

“Your message said you were a friend of Everett’s. I didn’t think he had any friends left.”

“Your husband was a troubled man. He couldn’t shake the demons of war. But at his core, he was a brave man who realized he couldn’t repair your relationship until he got help.”

“You’re giving him too much credit, Mr. Cash. He didn’t want help. He wanted another six-pack. Did you know he was a champion amateur boxer? I did. I was reminded every time I said something he didn’t like or asked him for money to eat. I should have known. He was such a wild child, but I thought the army – and our love - would straighten him out. It almost worked. I remember how proud his parents were when they saw him in his uniform. For that brief period before he deployed, he was the most responsible and thoughtful man I ever knew. I thought the happiest day of my life was the day we got married. It turned out to be the day I threw his stuff on the lawn, and the police slapped him with a restraining order. He couldn’t catch a break in life. His lawsuit against the army took so long to settle that it grew hair. I don’t think it was ever settled. Maybe he’s at peace now. I am.”

“I’m sorry you suffered so much. That’s why I’m here. The lawsuit was settled, and he also named me his benefactor in his will.”

Ingrid’s head drops. “You mean, you get the money. Figures. Even in death he’s still slapping me in the face.”

“No. I think he gave it to me because he knew I’d share it with you.”

Caleb pushes Soldier’s dog tags across the table.

“I’m sure he wanted you to have these too.”

                                               ***

Caleb quits his job at Con Edison. He and his wife, Eunice, visit Greece, Egypt, and England, while his daughter, Jasmine, goes from the prospect of attending a state school to the Harvard School of Law.

Jasmine uses her parents’ newfound wealth to become a popular party girl. Instead of a phone call from Jasmine telling Caleb she’ll be coming home for the holidays, he gets a call from the hospital with the grim news that his only child has died from an overdose.

Caleb and Eunice lean on each other for support. Their bond is tested when, three months after Jasmine’s death, Eunice discovers a lump on her breast. Caleb’s millions can’t save Eunice, who dies six months after their daughter.

Caleb figures his bad luck is payback for his careless past.

Throwing away twenty years of sobriety, Caleb finds solace in whiskey. His townhouse, the Porsche, and his country squire lifestyle blur into burdens he abandons. Caleb’s health and appearance deteriorate. He grows a long beard and takes to wearing T-shirts, wandering the streets of Manhattan with a bottle of Jameson in his hand and a bad attitude toward anyone who tells him to sober up and get on with his life.

One day, he stumbles into Union Square Station. He sits down next to the newsstand he used to stop at every morning, closing his eyes.

***

Mila pauses the latest episode of “Stuart Fails to Save the Universe” to answer the door.

A man in a double-breasted suit, wearing a bright red tie decorated with smiles, grins at her.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Jolee. I’m Epsom ‘Smiley’ Justice. I represent the estate of Caleb Cash. May I come in?”

“Sure. But I don’t know anybody named Caleb Cash.”

Smiley Justice sits on the couch, opening his glossy leather briefcase. “You were born in Bedford Hills, New York, right?”

“Yes, but I was only six when my parents died in a car accident. I grew up in foster care, and, as I said, I don’t remember a Mr. Cash.”

“Well, he knew you. You’re his heir, to the tune of 3.5 million.”

The brunette’s chubby features brighten.

“There must be a catch. What do I have to do?”

“Just keep living your life the right way and do your best to help others.”

“Why would a man I’ve never met want to give me three million dollars?”

“Three and a half. You work for the state, placing orphans with families…”

“Yes, it’s my way of helping kids like me. The first two families I stayed with treated me horribly. The first family never fed me, so I had to root through dumpsters and garbage cans for food. The second family fed me, but they’d lock me in the closet for hours if I so much as looked at them sideways. The third time was the charm. I ended up with a loving family who treated me like their daughter and even sent me to college. Not having or knowing your parents is tough enough. Kids should grow up in loving, supportive environments, and I do my best to make that happen.”

“I guess Mr. Cash appreciated that. He was an engineer at Con Edison, but he was obsessed with helping others. He donated to many causes, including Mothers Against Drunk Driving and Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“And with this money, I can continue his passion for helping others. Maybe I’ll open my own orphanage, one that feels like a home rather than an institution… Can you do me a favor? I’d like to know more about Mr. Cash. Maybe I could meet some of his relatives to thank them.”

                                               ***

Mila uses the money to start The Jolee Foundation for Adoption, an agency that helps place children in good homes. She also starts New Horizons, an orphanage on 200 acres with a zoo, swimming pool, playground, and ball fields. 

When Smiley Justice visits New Horizons, he’s greeted by the sight of kids playing tag, making arts and crafts, learning to play instruments, and playing video games.

“I came to see how things were going. What I’ve seen so far answers my questions. From what I’ve read and heard, you’re not only successful at finding homes for kids; you’re also a great advocate for all orphans.”

“Did you know Marilyn Monroe, Ray Charles, Alexander Hamilton, and Eleanor Roosevelt were orphans? And twelve presidents, including George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Bill Clinton, and Barack Obama, lost their fathers while they were young. My goal is to help these children see that not having parents isn’t a stigma and won’t hold them back in life, and that there are plenty of people out there who will cherish and love them for who they are.”

“Commendable.”

“We’ve only been in business for three months, but we’ve already notched a dozen success stories, like Daryl. His father deserted him and his mother when he was an infant. His mother died of a heart attack two years ago, and he was abused by his stepfather, so he ran away. We recently found a family for Daryl to live with. And we’ve helped a lot of kids like Louise. Louise’s parents died when she was just six years old. We recently located a half-sister she never knew she had, and she’s going to live with her.”

“So, you’re staying busy, then?” Smiley jokes.

“We’re taking care of nearly sixty orphans and average placing five kids per week. And we’re not fobbing them off to get rid of them. We do our homework. Our kids are going to stable homes. Some are even going to private schools. And we have Mr. Cash to thank for all of it. Speaking of which, have you found out anything else about him?”

“Just that he was a good person. A lot like you.”

***

A week later, Smiley Justice requests a meeting with Mila.

Mila looks around the office at the imported mahogany desk, Persian rugs, and elegant artwork.

“Impressive digs. Your message said you had some news about Mr. Cash.”

“This might be difficult to hear. I’ve struggled to find a way to tell you.”

“Just tell me. I’m an orphan. I’m tough.”

“About that… Mr. Cash told me that when he was seventeen, he did something he regretted for the rest of his life. The records were sealed because Mr. Cash was a minor. I managed to get them unsealed… Keep in mind that he spent his life trying to make up for his crime. Because of what happened, he gave up drinking and donated money to charitable causes.”

“Don’t tell me. He was a bank robber, and I have to return the money. The joke’s on you. I spent it all on the children.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then what is it?” Mila asks.

“Caleb Cash was responsible for the car accident that killed your parents.”