The Golden Bull

The world went dark.

I walked down the street, wind whipping my curly hair in a frenzy so that it was impossible to see two steps in front of me. Using a hair tie I blindly fished from my pocket, I tied my hair back to keep it out of my face, though a few strands came loose in the unforgiving gales.

Garbage tumbled across the road like moving obstacles that will stop at nothing to prevent me from reaching my destination. As I adjusted my scarf to block out the biting cold, a crumpled soda can tumbled into my path. I stepped on it, losing balance. Next thing I knew, I was face to face with the rough sidewalk.

Brushing off my knees, I rose from the ground and looked around to see if anyone noticed the little mishap. I was such a klutz and had probably just added another bruise to the collection. I breathed a sigh of relief when I confirmed that the street was deserted and devoid of any witnesses.

I continued walking to my apartment after the ol’ nine-to-five when I noticed a small building out of the corner of my eye. That’s odd, I thought. I must have walked this street hundreds of times on my workday route, but this was the first time I had taken notice of the quaint red-brick building, abnormally tucked amongst the metal skyscrapers of the cityscape. The building was covered in ivy which added to the oddity of its location. There were no identifying address numbers on this structure, unlike those surrounding it. Instead, hanging above the door was an antique sign dangling from chains on an iron bar that jutted out from between bricks. It looked like it could have been hanging above a pub on some cobblestone street where Shakespeare frequented in a documentary on Elizabethan London, not in the outskirts of Manhattan. Painted onto the sign in gold was a bull, which would seem to indicate the name of the establishment written below: The Golden Bull.

Black shutters surrounded white windowpanes with an eclectic arrangement of flower pots sitting on the wooden windowsills. A strong wind blew down the street as I contemplated the irony of planting flowers in a watering can and daisies in a ceramic pot painted with pink roses. Turning my head to look down the street, I saw litter blowing around in a whirlwind as abandoned coffee cups and plastic bags swirled around my feet, a few rogue ones hitting my shins. The clouds were growing darker by the minute, deepening into a grayish-purple hue. I searched, but there were no taxis in sight. Digging into my purse, I realized that I left my phone in the cubicle where it was still charging. I cursed into the wind and raindrops began to fall, softly hitting the pavement. It was clear that a storm was brewing, and I needed to find someplace to wait it out.

Turning back to the brick building, I took another glance to see if this was a private establishment or if it was open to the public. I heard a hustle and bustle inside and noticed a small “OPEN” sign propped in the window, which gave me my answer. The sign with the golden bull squeaked as its rusted chains swung in the wind and was painted in a bright red that matched the scarlet door standing slightly ajar, welcoming me into the safety beyond. Walking toward the door, I decided to wait inside until the storm let up. Perhaps I could use their phone to call a cab, I reasoned.

I heard the tinkling of a bell as the door opened wider, announcing my arrival.

Expecting an English Pub-themed restaurant, I was surprised to see rows of displays exhibiting miscellaneous merchandise and knickknacks. It was exactly what I imagine an old apothecary would resemble. The clerk even looked the part in a puffy, white long-sleeved shirt with a black vest and golden cufflinks in the shape of a bull’s head. A white handkerchief sat perfectly folded in his lapel, and a golden chain suspended from his belt with the other end disappearing into his pocket. I would bet money there was a pocket watch attached. He had a head of white hair resembling a blanket of freshly fallen snow, a genuine smile, and deep creases in the corners of kind eyes that only came from a lifetime of laughter.

“What can I help you with, miss?” I was so entranced in his appearance that he startled me when he spoke. There was a slight accent that I couldn’t quite place.

“I was wondering if you would let me use your phone. It looks like it’s about to storm and I left my phone at the office. I was going to walk back to get it, but I don’t want to be caught in the rain.”

A crack of thunder sounded, followed by the pounding of rain on the outside pavement. He opened his mouth, but before he could respond, I added, “Of course I would also buy something to compensate for the inconvenience. You have such lovely items here.”

A sympathetic smile bloomed on his face.

“Thank you for the compliment. I would offer you a call if I could, but there is no telephone here, and I do not carry a personal device. Now, it is I who must apologize for the inconvenience. You are more than welcome to stay and wait for the storm to pass, but by no means are you are obligated to make a purchase.”

I thanked him for his kind hospitality and began to wander around the store.

There was an assortment of items from hand-dipped candles to herbal teas to statues and paintings of bulls, but the display the caught my eye were rows of bottles labeled “DREAMS” and “NIGHTMARES”. The dreams came in an assortment of colors depending on the type—red glitter for love, green pebbles for adventure, blue viscous liquid for healing—but all the nightmares were a shimmering gold powder with the store’s golden bull logo etched into the glass. I picked up the bottle of green pebbles and tilted it from side to side, the pebbles sliding back and forth. They emanated a green light as they did, making my fingers glow with an ethereal quality.

“What are these?” I asked the clerk who was busying himself behind the counter.

Stopping what he was doing, he lifted the wooden counter and walked through the gap to where I stood, examining the contents in my hands.

“Those are dreams and nightmares,” he stated matter-of-factly, as though that explained everything. He saw the confusion creep across my face and continued, “They are used like herbs. Steep the contents in water to make a tea right before bed and you will have the dream as labeled.”

I raised my eyebrow. “And they work?”

“As far as I am aware, they have never failed. In fact, most customers who purchase these products come back for more.”

“Why are the nightmares more expensive than the dreams?”

“Nightmares are often the dreams people need most yet are the least requested. I do not wish for anyone to spend a fortune on what they want before they finally select what they need.”

By now, the rain had ceased it torment.

I should just leave and make it back to my apartment before another storm hits, but curiosity got the best of me.

“I’ll take one of each.”

The clerk grinned and helped me carry the bottles to the register.

He listed the items as he added them to the hand-written receipt.

“Plus, one rainy-day discount,” he stated at the end, winking in my direction.

I paid the clerk, returned his warm smile, and offered him a generous tip for his kindness. He waved it away, refusing to accept the money.

“Helping others is compensation enough.”

I gave him my thanks and headed out the door.

I was taken aback by the glaring light radiating from cloudless skies. If someone walked outside for the first time that day, they would have never guessed that it was downpouring only an hour ago.

_

Standing before the dreams lined in a row upon my dresser, I picked up the bottle with the glowing emerald-colored pebbles, thinking I could use a little adventure in my monotonous life, when the golden nightmare twinkled in my peripheral vision.

I thought about what the clerk had said and decided to give it a try. It was Friday night, so if I didn’t get any sleep from the nightmare, at least I would have two more nights of rest before returning to work bright-and-early Monday. If this even works, I thought, still not quite comprehending how dreams and nightmares could be bottled.

Following the instructions, I concocted a tea from the shimmering powder. Before I brought the contents to my lips, I expected the nightmare would taste bitter and unpalatable, so I was surprised to find that it had a salty flavor, like newly shed tears.

When the tincture was consumed, I placed the empty mug on my nightstand, laid down, and let the waves of deep sleep carry me away.

_

I awoke from the nightmare the next morning shedding tears of joy.

_

The bottled dreams from The Golden Bull were all I could think about at work Monday. I was already on my way out the office when the clock struck 5:00pm.

I half-walked half-jogged down the street to where the store was nestled in all its peculiar glory. This was my first chance to speak with the clerk as they were closed for the weekend. I was almost giddy for answers.

The bell revealed my entrance, the clerk smiling at me like I was an old friend.

“Hello again! Back so soon?” He inquired merrily.

“Yes, I was hoping you could explain to me why the nightmare wasn’t a nightmare. I think it was mislabeled. I tried two dreams after the nightmare, yet the nightmare was the happiest of them all.” The happiest dream I’ve ever known, I mentally added.

He smiled knowingly and began his explanation, “People have different nightmares the way they have different dreams, but nightmares always reveal our greatest fears.”

“But I wasn’t afraid. I felt pure joy,” I tried to explain.

“True happiness is often what people fear most. Desire and fear are not usually separate. What a person wants desperately also tends to be what they fear to obtain—for to gain something of value, one must lose something of equal value. Happiness often comes at a loss, and that concept alone is terrifying, even if what they must give up is bad for them. Sometimes they fear the end of the journey they have long traveled, or they are afraid of being happy because they feel as though they do not deserve it. Either way, if you weren’t afraid of that nightmare for any reason, then you would already be living it. Does that make sense?”

Fighting back angry tears, I blurted out, “No, it doesn’t. I want to be happy. I want what that dream showed me.”

Before I said something I would regret, I turned and rushed out the door, the bell signaling my departure.

_

After work the next day, I went back to the store to apologize for my rude behavior. This man had shown me nothing but kindness and generosity, and I shouldn’t have stormed out the way I did. But the store wasn’t there. It was just a narrow alley between two large skyscrapers. There was no rubble to even indicate a preexisting structure was knocked down in the night. It was as though it never existed.

I returned week after week, but I never saw that store again—not until many years had passed and I was the one with snow for hair, happily living my nightmares.