Keanu Reeves and me

No wonder I took a zopiclone every night for the next two months. But unfortunately the steroids were only half the battle. The anxiety about dying was like a brick wall. I had to find another way to fight it. It hit me worst at night, in the dark and quiet, lying in bed, when the only activity was my brainwaves. So I began a routine of imagining myself in a happy place. I don’t know how Keanu Reeves got involved but he was there right from the start. I shut my eyes and the same scenario played each time. I had written a novel that was being made into a movie and I was invited to a party at Keanu Reeves’ apartment. I don’t know what city I was in, maybe New York as the apartment was up a few levels and had a balcony overlooking a cityscape. It was cold outside but not winter. The lift opened into a living room like those loft apartments in TV shows. There were lots of people in the main living room and a bar in the far left corner. Someone walked past me with a tray of drinks, I reached out to take one but the server told me he was delivering them, and pointed to the bar. I went to the bar which was well stocked. Sometimes I got a glass of wine and other times a cocktail. Then I looked around but I didn’t know anyone. So I walked out to the balcony and looked into the night sky, sipping my drink. The couple who were already there went inside, and I was alone. Then Keanu came to the doorway.

      “Are you okay?” Keanu asked gently.

      “Yes.”

      “I’m Keanu.”

      “I know.”

      “I read your book. Congratulations.” (Hey, it’s my fantasy).

      “Thank you.”

      “Let me introduce you around.”

Sometimes it just ended there with Keanu introducing me to faceless guests. Other times it went a little farther:

      “I’d like to dance, would you join me?”

      “Of course.”

      “Simpson, open the dance floor.”

I don’t know why his manservant was Simpson. I must have been watching an episode of the cartoon that evening.  The dance floor was one level down. Sometimes it was lit up like in Saturday Night Fever and sometimes it was a checker board floor over a swimming pool. Sometimes it was just a plain white room decorated in ribbons and paper lanterns. When it was ready, Keanu invited everyone downstairs to dance and that is where the dream always ended.

      It was never sexual or even really interesting. But it was comforting as hell. I wondered from the start why I chose Keanu. Maybe it was from that whole sad Keanu thing where there were hundreds of internet pictures of him sitting alone eating a sandwich. It gave me a kind of bond with him. But the stronger reason was that I thought he’d be a really nice guy in real life. Like really genuinely nice.  

      The dream was lovely and Keanu was a gentleman. Until one night I had a panic attack at the doorway of my happy Keanu place. As I snuggled into bed all zopicloned and ready to meet up with Keanu as usual I had a sudden thought. What if I was wrong and he was a complete prick? I mean what if he wasn’t nice at all? What if in real life he was a total bastard? Like a drinking glass hitting a hardwood floor, my dream shattered. I ran out of Keanu’s living room, and got back on the lift to the ground floor. I was breathing heavily and my heart was pumping hard. I couldn’t sleep. Without Keanu’s apartment I had no happy place to go to. Instead of cocktails and conversation, my thoughts were consumed with my disease. The next night I tried to forget about Keanu altogether and find some other way of comforting myself. I put my arms around my pillow, shut my eyes, and hugged it tightly. I searched the blackness for someone I could be hugging instead of my pillow. It couldn’t be Alex or my children or anyone else I knew because they were reminders of my disease. It had to be someone who didn’t know I was sick, someone who was just naturally nice and comforting and had a great hug. I searched the universe but as I hugged my pillow tighter it instantly became Keanu. We were nowhere, not in his apartment, not on the dance floor, just floating in the blackness together. The hug got deeper and more satisfying. I could feel the weight of his arms and the weight of his body. The left side of my face was pressed against his chest. My hands were flat against his back, my arms crooked through his. Through my face and my hands I felt his cotton dress shirt, the warmth of his back, the curve of his chest and the comfort of burying myself. There was no passion or desire. It was just one human giving comfort to another. It was a hug I could disappear inside. Then I could feel my hands slipping away, the warmth leaving my fingertips, my face pulling away from him. It was not a feeling of loss. I was pulling away and into sleep. From then on I dismissed the idea that sad Keanu could be anything but wonderfully polite and comforting. Anyone who could hug me like that was in my corner. I needed him.