A Dream of Freedom

Craig lays awake staring at the all too familiar ceiling, the same dream waking him every night for the last 2 months had become incredibly repetitive. It was an almost purgatory, limbo like state. The dream’s always the same. Mostly. Sometimes a little different, but always containing a bull. A jet-black, raging bull you’d see matadors fighting in the rings of Spain and Mexico. In the dream he’d be the matador, other times the bull. Sometimes a floating disembodied conscious with the best seat in the house. Even one time he was the bull, but in his human body while the matador and the crowd were all bulls dressed in human clothes. That one only occurred once thankfully, as when he tried to play amateur psychologist with himself, he couldn’t work out what that dream meant.

Life had changed a lot in the last 18 months for Craig. He’d moved away from Scotland, more specifically Glasgow. Events happened which meant he’d had to get away, start afresh, and leave his old life. He’d spent the last twenty years pumping iron by day and working door security at night for clubs. Plus sometimes as low-level muscle, enforcer work for individuals who didn’t get their own hands dirty. He headed for the states, specifically LA and Hollywood. Hoping he could start afresh in a new line of work, thinking you don’t have to be American to live the dream. If that didn’t work, his experience working door security would come in handy he thought. Maybe start a business providing bodyguards, or do private security himself for some A-listers mansion in the hills.

However within a few months of landing he’d burned through most of his savings.

He’d become friends with a few body builders down Muscle Beach Gym on Venice beach. They loved his Scottish accent and nicknamed him Craigheart. Soon he was everyone’s friend and was constantly invited out to bars and clubs. Mainly the most expensive places in town, where you don’t get much change from $20. He figured they liked these places as it increased their chances of getting work doing private security. Often the guys would be chatting and exchanging cards with some c-list celebrity. Other times he’d seen money exchange hands. When he asked them what was going down, it was actor’s looking to score some classic Bolivian marching powder before heading to party in the hills.

Another time he’d been told that it was an actor looking to score steroids. He was hoping to land the part in a new TV pilot. They needed someone physically bigger for the role. The guy was confident he’d land it if he bulked out. Some people just always want the quick fix now, paying the consequences tomorrow. He’d briefly considered getting involved in this go-between arrangement, but it reminded him of home and Glasgow. No real honest work he wanted. Marky, a spotter in the gym and one of the first guys he met down at Venice gave him a number,

‘call this...ask for Dex, tell him Marky passed it on. It’s a bar called Artic down off Melrose Avenue, near Paramount studios.’

Dexter or Dex as he liked and told everyone to call him was a decent guy. Balding, middle aged but carried a physique that showed he used to be security himself once upon a time. He never used it to his advantage and instead treated people with dignity and respect. He’d bought himself this little bit of pasture to tend until full retirement came. Craig could see himself in his shoes one day, with his own place to keep him busy and happy. The gig was simple, door security 4 nights a week Thursday through Sunday. It was a no brainer as they say, and he loved and enjoyed every minute of it. So for the next year it flew by for Craig or Craigheart as everyone, again, seemed to call him, ‘please call me Craig, or even Craigie'

but it was pointless. Dex, staff, customers and even Kiefer Sutherland who was always at the famous hot dog place down the street called him it. That tickled him, to think the guy from Lost Boys knew him even by a ridiculous, unimaginative nickname. Kiefer drunkenly told him one time, as he helped him to the hot dog place,

‘Mel’s a great guy.... all that shit about him.... chewed up by Hollywood....he should have known better...you can’t.... say anything, nothing....be outspoken - THEY don’t like it!’

‘Maybe the Braveheart stuff went to his.... HEAD took the William Wallace vibe too much to heart?! Know what I mean.... Craig-Heart!’

His mouth opening and nose snorting away with laughter, ‘this guy needs a hot dog in there ASAP’ Craig thought.

Dex had one mantra:

'live and let live...unless others don’t let live. Some asshole starts fucking with the vibe in the place, making people feel uncomfortable, thinks they’re untouchable, ignorant to how they are impacting others, they get one warning, then out!’

‘Don’t care if they spend $5 or $500 everyone's equal when they step in here, and they respect everyone is here to enjoy themselves'.

Occasionally some tested the limits when told politely to chill out or leave. But when they got the arm on the shoulder most crumbled, and left, sometimes giving the middle finger and a couple of ‘fuck you and your bar’ comments. Then one night some asshole high on signing for a new TV series, came in causing a scene.

Him and his girlfriend had come in with an obvious low simmering tension between them. She was the usual Hollywood type, like the rest of the young pretty air-head things trying to make it big. Spending more time taking and uploading pictures of herself to social media, portraying how amazing a lifestyle and time she was having, than enjoying what was Infront of her. Few drinks later and he’s grilling her over some guy who’s liking her posts

‘whats the fuck with this guy!? You know he’s a loser, right?! TOTAL LOSER he makes sure the lights are in the right fucking place on set, fuck him if you want - least he’d get the lighting right on your Instagram!’

The argument had started to become louder than the music at this point.

‘Why you so horrible? He’s done nothing to you. When I came to your set we talked, and because I’m your girlfriend, and he’s lighting your show he said he add me. Said it might help get me some work as he knows people and works lighting on lots of shows'

‘I FUCKING KNOW PEOPLE.... I CAN SORT IT FOR YOU... STUPID BITCHHH!!!’

That was tipping point for Craig,

‘calm down mate or leave!’

Asshole turns to the girlfriend, screaming

‘LOOK WHAT THE FUCK YOU’VE DONE NOW’

In one motion, like it was instinct for him, he smacks her clean across the face and kicks her in the gut as she plummets to the floor. The next few minutes for Craig get hazy at this point. Grabbing the guy in a headlock, he hauls him into the street, the girlfriend in hot pursuit, half spewing, blood coming out her nose and screaming

‘Leave him ALONE!’

Some of the other security crew from the bar are outside, as well as a crowd of passers-by forming a ring. He isn’t too consciously aware of details but can feel a crowd and voices,

‘he’s going blue'

‘Craig, CRAIG STOP!’

‘LET HIM GO, HE DOESN’T MEAN IT, HE ACTS OUT WHEN HES DRUNK’

He remembers seeing the guys face in the mirrors framing the bar entrance, it taking on a weird hybrid of mister assholes face, and another, from Craig’s past.

‘FREEZE’

two officers appear as the crowd parts like butter and a hot knife.

‘Let him go!’

Craig feels a wriggle and tightens his grip on mister asshole to point where it’s almost enough pressure to pop his head clean off like a champagne cork. In the struggle he falls awkwardly towards the cops. Two simultaneous sharp barbs hit his arm followed by his body arcing and spazzing. A feeling of being encased in concrete follows, then finally a dull thud of his head on concrete and blackness.

Awakening in a holding cell two plain clothed officers tell him he’s facing murder charges. In the chaos of the cops arriving, when he thought mister asshole was attempting to wriggle free he’d crushed the his windpipe. The wriggling was the death throws. Paramedics attempted to revive him, but he was dead at the scene. The court case lasted 2 weeks, at times it felt like an eternity and others the blink of an eye. He was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter. The prosecution originally wanted him found guilty of second-degree murder, the judge however noted that Craig had a clean record, and this along with his lawyer agreeing to him making a public apology reduced the sentence. 4 years in a state penitentiary, after which a 6-year felony probation order would come into effect.

Two months on he’d gotten used to caged living. First few nights were difficult, but he always believed that was the case with everything. He was an outsider, then when word got around, and people put 2 and 2 together from all those newspaper headlines: SCOTCH MIST. SCOTTISH STRANGLER. BRAVEHEART KILLER. he was treated differently. Two older guys, who obviously had pull in the place even came up thanking him ‘Some fucker ever smacked around my little girl like that, I’d hope someone like you would do the same. Mean I’d do it myself, but I’m stuck in here already for murder. No, my friend you done a national service offing that piece of shit. From now on you sit with us at mealtimes.’ Craig would openly say it was an accident, that he would handle it all differently. But when he was alone at night awake in his cell, he knew himself better than that.

The night in question when he’d seen assholes face in the mirror, it reminded him of his sister Dorothy’s ex-boyfriend, Barry. Another one who was ‘hands-on,’ and there was times his sister sided with Barry. Staying even when he’d beaten her black and blue. She eventually left after years of physical and mental abuse, but then he found out were she lived and her phone number. Stalking her at her new flat, begging her to take him back. He’d constantly phone, leave messages on her Facebook, basically became an ever-present disturbing presence in her life. One day it was too much, Dorothy went into Glasgow and threw herself into the Clyde river from the Kingston Bridge. Her body surfaced 10 days later, bloated, and unrecognisable. In that moment he’d known (or at least thought) he was rescuing that girl from the fate that befell Dorothy. He came to LA in respect to his sister, and to get away from the media circus that had followed the family. Dorothy had been a talented machinist, working as a costume designer for theatre productions and TV show’s. She’d wanted to head to LA someday and see if she could get work in the film industry, sadly due to another assholes actions it would never be.

Craig’s made his peace with the situation, accepting the punishment handed out by the judge, but when he’s awake at night after the dreams, he thinks on them. Is he the raging bull in the dreams, the police matadors taking down a bull who’d impaled a bystander? Is he the matador, and mister asshole the bull taken down at the joy of spectators? Or even stranger was he the bull who’d impaled the asshole matador? He supposed he’d never know and the dreams would fade in time. Or they wouldn’t. Perhaps Dorothy’s revenge he’d taken out on the asshole, would forever haunt him in the raging bull dreams night after night.

Maybe that was his real penance.

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