Another exhausting week of work had gone by, another week of mindless television and microwaveable dinners, and I found myself sitting on that cold leather chair once again, staring mindlessly out the window. Rain pitter-pattered outside, barely visible if only for my neighbor’s porch light.

 

I was tired, but sleep evaded me, my nerves still coming down after the last weekday push to answers clients’ phone calls and “provide no-hassle, world-class customer service.” These conversations floated around in my head, the voices becoming a visceral collective din, an irritating mental pang.

 

While in my daze, I began to nod off until the whistling of the tea kettle interrupted me. I remember going over to the kitchen to steep my tea, taking a sip, and sitting back down. But that’s the last I can remember of that night, the last I can remember before the dream.

 

My memory often wanes, but this dream I recall quite well.

 

I remember because I was back on that Maine forest trail, the trail that climbed up 7,000 feet to reach the mountain peak. The conditions of that memorable day were recreated in the dream: once again, my feet were suffocating inside my damp socks, my khakis were torn where the jutting log had cut up my knee, and my back was hunched under the weight of the camping gear in my pack. Everything felt the same—except this time, I didn’t have a group eagerly waiting for me at the trail sign ahead.

 

There was no one and, even worse, I had nowhere else to go to evade the nagging discomfort.

 

So, I set my sights on the distant peak.

 

I began traversing aimlessly along the wooded trail, hopping from rock to rock to avoid puddles of murky water, occasionally slipping and falling when the mud became too slick. Eventually, I had gashes on both of my knees along with an arcing scrape on my left shin.

 

Yet, I continued to wander. I wandered until a tiny stream intersected the dirt path. Habitually, I stopped at the bank and stooped down to wash my face with the stream’s cool water. My cupped hands started a couple minnows. They quickly swam and rode the current away.

 

Up until then, I hadn’t thought too much about what was going on. But at this point, the stupor dissipated, and I became acutely aware of the dream, of its eerily-like resemblance to reality. This wasn’t just any dream, I thought. The absurd theatrics that often accompany dreams weren’t there: people weren’t peripherally dancing the tango, the sky above wasn’t melting like cheese, giant waterfowl weren’t accosting me with bills made of steel. It was just a normal day in the woods.

 

Slightly panicked and confused, I slumped under an oak tree, using its thick exposed roots as a recliner while a peculiar claustrophobia overtook me.

 

I sat here awhile, thinking, until a woman suddenly appeared before me.

 

In hindsight, I think she purposely waited until then to show up, waited until I realized that this dream was different. She appeared between blinks, placidly poised between me and the stream. The woman had a face in the dream, a familiar face, but I only recall her dark hair neatly tied in a bun and her small squarish glasses, the frames matching the color of her mustard tunic.

 

Her appearance didn’t startle me. Instead, I waited for her to say something, but my silence wasn’t met with a response.

 

I asked her who she was, and the woman answered enigmatically. She referred to herself as “a humble interlocutor” and claimed she was there because she knew what I was “looking for.”

 

I sat up. “I’m not sure what you mean. I’m not looking for anything.”

 

Silence again. Her stare was relentless.

 

“If…if anything, I guess you might say I’m looking for a reason why I’m back on this trail.”

 

The interlocutor was unmoved by my answer.

 

“I finished it a long time ago,” I added.

 

 “You don’t remember then, do you?” She grinned. “On your climb up, when you nicked your knee after slipping on that patch of mud, you winced as the skin tore open and the blood ran down the inside of your pant leg. Then, on the entire trip back down the mountain, you held your breath, waiting until you could sit back down again on that comfortable chair at home. My question then is: what did you finish?”

 

I didn’t understand, but I answered anyway. “The trail. I finished the—”

 

“You’re looking for Mr. White,” she said calm and resolute.

 

The name piqued my attention, but I didn’t know why. “Who’s that? Does he know why I’m back here?”

 

She looked away pensively for a moment and then returned to her riddles. “Mr. White is character and concept. He is everywhere you go, but he can be fleeting. On a mountaintop in Maine, a lake in Villa Traful, a market in Royapettah.”

 

“If he’s everywhere, then why don’t I see him here? How can I meet him?” I asked earnestly.

 

Her authoritative façade broke as she laughed at my query.

 

“Observe.”

 

Then, everything went dark, a prolonged blink. Until suddenly, the soles of my feet softened, my tense muscles relaxed as a cool breeze swept over them, my stern face now felt warm and I couldn’t help but smile.

 

Hearing a mellow whistling sound, I opened my eyes out of curiosity. In front of me, there were tiny birds, their walnut plumage contrasting with the fine, honey ginger sand they were pecking. Behind them, under the glaring Sun, the wind danced atop the water, conjuring waves that rode vivaciously atop the ocean and perished as they broke at the shore.

 

I looked down and realized I was now wearing swim trunks. I could see my desiccated feet and my shin and knees starting to scab.

 

Where is she? I finally thought.

 

Looking to my right, I saw her there. It seemed that the thought had called her to join me.

 

“So, where is he? How do I meet this Mr. White?”
 

“You just met him, but now he’s gone.”