Orchid

I’m at home up north, speeding on a bike down a steep road that is one of the characteristic ‘landmarks’ of my home town. Somebody has sent me off to do an errand, but by now I have forgotten what it was.

An old man, with a yellow turtleneck sweater and brown corduroy pants, is crossing in front of me a little down the road, on a woman’s bicycle. I slow down to less than normal speed and let the man pass. A third of the distance across he suddenly stops and the tip of my front wheel touch the rear wheel of his bike. The old man explodes into a fury like I’ve never thought old people being capable of. He is yelling at me and claiming i have no respect for old people, and he’s trembling with anger. He gets back up on his bike and suddenly we’re both careening down the road at an insane speed, pedaling like crazy and occasionally bumping into each other.

I start worrying that this will all end horribly, and I try to tell him, but he ignores my fear. He desperately wants to win the race. I do the only sensible thing; I slow down to a halt.

Suddenly we’re at his place, in his livingroom, and the poor old man seems to have come to his senses. He’s smiling and now he introduces me to his son, a man whom I’ve met once before. He’s a roadie. He tells me we have to go buy cat food for the old man. He points at a painting on a wall - it’s a painting of a bright yellow, nearly white orchid. It’s painted in extreme realism and detail, and it appears almost wet. The man tells me this particular flower was lost from the old man some time ago.

We walk outside, and we’re being followed by dozens of cats. They know we’re off to buy food. Oddly enough, we fetch the cat food from an old shack right next to the house. The shack is filled from floor to ceiling with boxes of cat food. Behind one of the stacks of boxes I find the orchid. We go inside again, as the cats are really anxious to be fed.

Inside, the old man is standing in his kitchen, which is separated from the livingroom by a counter. His cats are all over the place. We sit down, and a cat jumps onto my lap. It’s got orange fur and I notice that there’s something wrong with it’s face. The old man tells me that this cat once had owners who so much wanted to see the cat smile that they brutally mutilated it’s face to make it appear as if it was smiling, constantly. I’m deeply shocked by this, so I reach for the orchid I found outside in the shack, and hand it over to the old man. He’s clearly moved and grateful and tells me he’s sorry he was so mean to me earlier.

I wake up.