The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1996. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

"My name is Rachel."

Her name is Rachel. I have to ask her, every single time I see her. For some reason that I don't know, the memory of people's names slip through and out of my system much like the iced coffee I drink here on Wednesday nights. It bothers me, but nothing I seem to do can fix the problem.

"My name... is Rachel."

Her name is Rachel. She's one of those types of women that seems to randomly come into my life once every nine months or so. She's one of those women that I'm dying to ask out but I know I will never ask out. She's one of those women I find beautiful, gorgeous, witty, bitter, vivacious. In other words, one of those women I'm sure would have nothing to do with me, regardless of whether or not this is actually true. One of those women who make my tongue not quite work when I'm around them -- (speaks gibberish for a few seconds, pauses, then speaks gibberish again for a few seconds). My reasons for thinking this way have to do with my overwhelming fear of women that I have had since a child and that I still battle on almost a daily basis. But this fear has been well-documented and detailed in other stories of mine, and I don't wish to go into it here.

(Sighs) "My name is Rachel."

What I wish to go into is the dream I had about her last night.

No, it's not that kind of dream. Jesus, I swear. Actually, I wouldn't mind having that kind of dream about her, but do you think there's a chance in hell I'd get up in front of you and tell you about it? No, this was a beautiful dream, an ethereal dream, a dream like out of the pages of a Mark Helprin novel, where all the characters are blithe spirits and it's a law that only poetic, symbolic things can happen to them. This was a dream that should have been shot by Steven Spielberg and synched with some moody, orchestral soundtrack by John Williams. This was one of those dreams you wake up from and you're still in it for an hour or two of your waking day.

(Pause, then quickly) "My name is Rachel!"

Through some minor amateur research into dream analysis I have done, I can now fairly accurately trace back most things I remember in my dreams to the original stimuli that made me dream it. It's not a difficult ability, it just takes a little practice to get used to it. I will now attempt to simultaneously tell you my dream and tell you about the real stimuli behind the dream.

It was night, and I was walking through an outdoor parking lot at the corner of Wacker and Madison. I dreamt of this because I'm currently temping in the building next to this lot, and every time I walk past it I am struck with the thought, "How odd that this prime piece of real estate is filled with nothing but a barren, one-story parking lot." Nothing big -- it's just something that's struck me as odd.

It was snowing, and the individual flakes coming down were being lit by giant orange sodium lamps lighting up the parking lot. I dreamt this because I was recently back in suburban St. Louis for Thanksgiving and happened to be in a parking lot just like this one night, and it reminded me of what a strange, silent, magical thing it is to be artificially lit while it's snowing. The cold air somehow gets crisper and makes you feel high, like the whole atmosphere was made of nitrous oxide. The unnatural calm and silence of the snow builds an invisible, movable wall around you and the person you're walking with, a little cone of intimacy that follows you no matter where you go. And the million individually lit snowflakes hover and float through the air as if they had been artificially made just for your enjoyment.

Rachel was at the far edge of the empty parking lot, standing under one of the orange lamps, waiting for me. She was pregnant -- I mean, preg -- nant. She had on a brown twill coat and her belly was out to... well, wherever bellies go out to when one is pregnant, that's where her belly was out to.

I dreamt of this because the very first time I ever saw her, she was up on a stage, talking about a child she had borne and had given up for adoption. The story was at once joyful and heartbreaking; she was at once prideful and full of lament.

I sat there and listened to her talk, and all I could think was... a baby. My God, she's had a baby. None of this bullshit theoretical talk around a coffeetable for her -- "Well, let's see, if I had a kid right now, blah blah blah..." This woman has held, in her hands, the creative output her boy is capable. (Pauses, then cups his hands and points them at the audience, gesturing from one side of the room to the other) She has held! In her hands! The only miracle that we as non-saints are capable to perform. And I don't even begin to know what that feels like, and I can't even imagine how it feels to... (acts like he's giving the 'baby' in his hands away, then slowly opens his hands, dropping them to his sides) Whenever I think of her I think of that. Which is why I dreamt about it.

In my dream, I crossed the parking lot over to her, and when I got there our heads reached out and our lips touched. It wasn't a sloppy, wet, open-mouthed lustful kiss like most of mine are -- it was a chaste, electrifying, touch-you-to-the-bottom-of-your-feet kiss, unlike any I have ever had in real life. And then I woke up, and I immediately closed my eyes again and tried to slip back into the dream, but it never works, does it? So I lied in my bed and was overcome with a crushing sense of loss, ache, and desire, for this woman I don't know, this woman that I've maybe said half a dozen words to in my life. I grieved for my lost dream like I would grieve for a dead relative.

(Long pause, then in quiet voice) "My name is Rachel."

(Long pause) I believe that she believes I'm an asshole. I believe that she believes I see her as yet another disposable waitress, another member of the serving class for me to use and discard. I believe that she believes I'm one of those guys you see at coffeehouses who snap their fingers to get her attention and shout across the room, "Honey, honey, another cappuccino over here? And could you get it to me while it's still warm this-time-thank-you-very-much?"

It's not her fault she believes this. When I'm around her, I get very... well, I get very. Ever since that dream, now every time she comes to my table and asks me if I need anything, I want to say, "Yes... (pause) Come home with me. Put down that coffeepot, get your coat and let's leave right now. We'll go to my apartment, we'll lock the door, and we'll take turns playing CDs on my portable stereo. We'll lock the door, you can stretch out across my bed and I'll lay my head on your stomach and try to change my breathing pattern to match yours without you knowing. Come with me, now, to my apartment, we'll lock the door, and we'll read passages from books out loud to each other, we'll read passages that say 'this is me and this is what makes me tick and you better pay attention 'cause I'll never be able to say it better than this person already did.' I know I don't know you and I know you don't know me and you have no reason to trust me, but come with me, come to my apartment, we'll lock the door, and we'll make love on pieces of furniture never designed for the task, we'll step on each others' feet when we shower together and we'll laugh about it and then we'll grab the soap and then suddenly we won't say anything at all for awhile, we'll lock the door and I'll worship the back of your neck and you will get over-tired and slip yourself in between my chest and my arm when I least expect it and we'll lock the door and we'll never come out, we'll never ever come out of my apartment just come with me, come with me now to my apartment."

This is what I want to say. What I do end up saying is, (in a loud whisper) "Uh, could I get another iced coffee? I'm sorry, I forgot your name."

"It's Rachel. My name is Rachel."