It started on a night like this. The rain drummed its endless rhythm on roofs, cars, pavements and windows. A howling gale accompanied its dull percussion, whipping through the streets with wanton abandon. Water swept along in rivers since rubbish clogged the gutters. My appointment at Coco’s couldn’t wait, and I found myself trudging through the deserted streets, beset by foul weather. At least I knew I wouldn’t get mugged – even the scum of the city avoids going out in rain that bad.

A flashing sign advertised Coco’s location, its gaudy arrow pointing down a narrow staircase to a basement bar. It threw sputtering neon across the slick pavement, flashes of pink sparking in the puddles like distress flares. At the end of the block, I could see a lone streetwalker standing under the only streetlight that worked. The rain plastered her hair to her head, and mascara streaked down her face. She looked thoroughly miserable. I doubted she’d do much business tonight. She’d just end up with pneumonia.

I gripped the rusty handrail as I picked my way down the stairs, keen not to slip on the trash washed down by the rain. I grimaced as I ducked through the low doorway. The staircase smelled of stale urine.

A wall of warm air hit me as I walked inside. Coco’s is a small joint, dimly lit with old-fashioned lamps. Its dark wooden walls and bare floorboards give it the appearance of a Frontier drinking den. The jukebox played softly in the corner, barely audible over the hum of the ancient heating system. Few patrons graced the bar on such a wild night, and I pulled up a stool at the bar. Coco herself played bartender that night. Once a successful dancer in Las Vegas, she ended up nearly broke after a bad marriage to a chronic gambler. She moved to the city and won the bar in an all night poker game. Talk about irony.

“Evenin’, sugar. What can I getcha?“

“I’ll have a Jack and Coke. No ice.”

Coco turned away to fix my drink. I looked around the bar, trying to focus on the old time decor to avoid looking at the other customers. Back then, I’d only ever been in the bar once before. It was business last time, too.

“You here for someone, or just wantin’ out of the rain?”

“I’ve got an appointment.”

Coco smiled as she took my money, that sad bittersweet smile that reminds me of wasted summer afternoons. She’s still a good-looking woman, and by far my favourite bartender in the city. She’s honest, and I know she’d leap over the bar brandishing a broken bottle if someone dragged you into a fight.

Another man entered the bar. I smirked to see that he’d been warding off the rain with the Wall Street Journal. It was now thoroughly sodden. The cut of his suit and the excessive product in his hair marked him out as a banker. It was nice to see even capitalism couldn’t stop him getting wet.

“You alright, sugar?”

“Do I look alright? Oh, what’s the use!”

A melodramatic sigh escaped from the banker as he sat on a stool, slumping over the bar. The wet newspaper fell from his hand, breaking apart on the floor. Coco silently slid a bottle of Corona in front of him, a quarter of a lime sticking out of the neck. Gratitude flickered in his eyes as he gripped the cold bottle, before his face crumpled. Great hitching sobs racked his body. I looked away, unsure what to do.

“Oh sugar, what’s wrong?”

He continued to sob for several moments, before he stopped just as suddenly as he started. He struggled to regain his composure, turning his watery eyes to Coco.

“I earn a ridiculous amount of money, I have a second home in the Hamptons, my apartment faces Central Park and I regularly sleep with supermodels,” he replied smoothly.

“That’s a problem?” I didn’t mean to speak to him, but I couldn’t help myself. If those were problems, I’d hate to hear what he considered a catastrophe.

“It means nothing! My life is empty! None of it means anything! Why do you think I hauled myself down here to this scummy neighbourhood, when I could be quaffing champagne at Nell’s? I want to experience something!” He practically shouted at me.

“Stick around long enough, I’m sure you will,” I said drily, returning my attention to my drink. I even considered relieving this guy of the weight of his wallet. If his life were indeed as bad as he said, it would almost be an act of kindness.

“I had such dreams when I was at college, such plans. Now I have nothing, my life means nothing.”

“I don’t know what planet you come from, but most people wouldn’t consider a huge salary, two homes and a supermodel sex life to be ‘nothing’.”

“But what is a man if he has no dreams? Dreams make a man...and if he has none, then he is nothing.” The man looked utterly dejected. I wondered if he’d accidentally lost the entire investment fund for a rich widow who would now cut him out of her will for his incompetence. I couldn’t understand why someone with so much would feel so low, unless he suddenly feared losing it.

“Whoa there, fella! That’s a little bit too philosophical for a place like this, isn’t it?”

“Lost dreams do not have to remain lost.”

I looked past the banker at the newcomer. A tall yet wide man had just entered the bar, rain glistening on the oilskin coat draped across his frame. He clutched a battered canvas hat in his beefy hands, and his bald head looked pink in the dim light. Such a soft voice didn’t easily fit a man as imposing as this.

“What do you mean?” Despite himself, the banker looked vaguely interested. I shot a look at Coco. The look she returned told me that she knew this man, and she knew his behaviour. I was to say nothing.

“Lost dreams can be returned to their owner. Failed dreams can simply be replaced with new ones.”

I rolled my eyes. I found myself wishing Hubert would hurry up so we could have our meeting and I could get out of here. Having to deal with a morose banker was one thing, but having to put up with this Hallmark nonsense was another thing entirely.

“You gave up on your dreams. But you can always buy new ones, dreams that will make your life worth living.”

“Are you a drug dealer?” I couldn’t help but ask the question.

“Forgive me for asking, but who are you? What business is this of yours?” The bald man looked faintly annoyed. I didn’t care.

“Hey, if you don’t want to answer the question...”

“Are you a drug dealer?” The banker took up the question. He still looked interested, the way a drowning man will even clutch a live power cable in desperation.

“No, I am not. If you must know, I buy and sell dreams.” A smile hovered around the bald man’s lips. I noticed a man at the far end of the bar watching our little melodrama unfold. I tried to catch his eye but he refused to return the look.

“You sell dreams?” I could see the dollar signs flashing in the banker’s eyes. Commerce, the process of financial transaction – these things he understood, and I could tell his problems had taken on a different form in his head.

“That is correct. Now, my friend! Let us conduct our business away from the good mademoiselle and her valued patrons. Let us discuss your consumer needs.”

The banker allowed himself to be led to the booth in the far corner by the bald man. His back faced me and I couldn’t see what he produced from inside his coat. It certainly captured the banker’s attention, and I saw something deep red and metallic flash across the table. A wad of money passed the other way, and the bald man pushed the bills into his inside pocket. The bald man shook his hand, pulled his hat onto his head and left the bar. He paused only to nod briefly to Coco on his way out. The banker left moments later, leaving a hundred dollar bill on the bar for Coco.

“That was one freakishly expensive Corona,” I said, attempting to crack a joke. Coco rolled her eyes and slipped the money into her bra. A hush settled on the bar, broken only by the dull hum of the heating.

I glanced at my watch. Hubert was ten minutes late. I tried to process what I had just witnessed, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I guessed Coco was mad at me for asking all those questions, but I had to know.

“What was all that about?”

“That was Mr. Mosephur. I guess you could call him a regular,” she replied.

“And you let him do business in here?”

“People do worse. I try, but I can’t stop them. He doesn’t bother anyone, and the people he helps leave happy. It’s better than them leaving with broken bones or worse.”

“What does he sell?”

“What’s with the questions?”

“I’m interested. I want to know what all that stuff about dreams was. Are you sure he’s not a drug dealer?”

“He’s a dream seller.”

I looked away from Coco to see that the bearded man from the far end of the bar now sat beside me. He drank water from a dusty wineglass, and blood-spotted bandages swathed both of his hands.

“He’s a what, now?”

“He sells dreams. He roams through existence peddling dreams to those who for one reason or another go without,” replied the man, speaking slowly and deliberately.

“Why?”

“A man cannot live on bread alone. He must have more esoteric sustenance. A fertile imagination and a heart that reaches for the stars will carry him far.”

“It’s true, Sam. It was never my dream to run a dive in the city, but it’s how I make my way in life. My dreams keep me going through the hard times,” said Coco, polishing glasses as she listened to our conversation. “Even you have dreams.”

I thought of my unfinished novel. It didn’t exactly fit with my line of work but I’d nursed a creative side since elementary school. I liked to think of it as my alter-ego, my own Clark Kent that never left the apartment, who waited patiently for the return of Superman every evening. It often brought a smile to my face in slightly darker times.

“So what does this Mosephur do, exactly?” I didn’t quite believe what I was hearing but I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to hear more.

“I told you, he sells dreams. Sometimes he can be persuaded to barter, taking the dreams that have outlived their purpose and handing out something new. Mind, I’m not talking about the dreams you have while you sleep, the dreams that dissipate upon waking.”

“Are you a professor?” I asked, taking in his tweed suit, the neat beard and the fierce intelligence that burned in his brilliant blue eyes.

“Not quite, though I am a teacher, of sorts,” he replied. His eyes twinkled with the smile that didn’t need to reach his lips.

“How do you know so much about this guy?”

“I have seen him before.”

“Where does he get these dreams from then? Surely he must get them from somewhere in order to sell them!”

“Why are you even asking, Sam? You don’t believe.” Coco screwed her face up at me.

“What can I say, I’m genuinely curious,” I replied.

“I’ve heard a lot of theories about Mr. Mosephur. Some say he buys dreams from dying men. Others say he weaves them himself in the depths of night or at the height of summer,” said the bearded man, sipping his water. “I’ve heard stories stretching back years – one man told me that Mr. Mosephur is the King of Dreams himself. Or there are the theories that speak of the true nature of death, that Mr. Mosephur is the Grim Reaper, swinging his scythe to sever a man from his dreams.”

“It makes a good story, but I’m a bit old for fairytales,” I said, knocking back the last of my drink. My gaze wandered to the door. Hubert was twenty minutes late. I left a note with Coco, instructing Hubert to meet me at the same time the following day.

I found myself thinking about the events of the evening for several days, if not weeks. I kept ruminating on the possibility that a man might exist who could actually sell dreams. I didn’t think it was possible since dreams were concepts, not concrete articles. The banker certainly seemed to think he could exchange his sizeable salary for something intangible but I couldn’t figure out how that might begin to work. I even considered that Mr. Mosephur was no man at all.

It completely escaped my notice that the meeting with Hubert never took place. I spent my nights doing my job for Mr. Desah, picking off minor members of rival families. I never knew why I did what I did, only that it paid me well and allowed me occasional access to the upper echelons of society. I spent my days sleeping off the night before. I soon forgot all about my appointment with Hubert.

He did not forget. I never knew why he was late back on that rainy night. I don’t know if he ever turned up, later in the evening when the rain got worse and the hooker outside gave up for the night. I don’t know if he turned up the following night, angry at my non-attendance. He didn’t make contact until tonight.

I returned from a hit out in the Hamptons. A playboy son-in-law to an unnamed family now floated on his face in a piano-shaped swimming pool, unable to regret bringing shame to Mr. Desah’s door. I had a spring in my step, my pocket loaded with a package of hundred dollar bills.

I could smell the smoke from three blocks away. Flames poured out of the windows of my second floor apartment, licking up the walls with the greedy lust of fire. The heavy rain that pounded the sidewalk did nothing to dampen the blaze. Other inhabitants of the building stood around outside, huddled under umbrellas, either shocked into silence or loudly discussing the possible causes of the fire. Police officers held me back as I tried to rush inside. I thought only of my unfinished manuscript at the bottom of my closet.

Eventually the fire fighters won the battle. The acrid smell of smoke hung in the air. My neighbours dispersed, going to stay with friends or family. A kind fire fighter agreed to check the closet when he went inside to assess the extent of the damage. I sat on the kerb, my head in my hands. I hoped that the fire had not been as vicious as it looked, and that the manuscript may yet be safe. I knew I could never re-write it.

The fire fighter touched me lightly on the shoulder. He handed me a sheaf of burnt pages, barely legible and crumbling to ash in my hands. I wanted to sob, to grieve my lost masterpiece. Instead, I found myself scrambling to my feet and heading down the street. I knew where I was going, and I let my feet carry me there.

Coco stands behind the bar, dusting the picture frames on the wall. A familiar bearded man leans over the jukebox, studying its playlist. Another man is hunched over a table, gazing into a glass of scotch. No one looks up as I enter. I feel like a ghost.

Coco finally notices me and fixes me a JD and Coke. Instead of sitting at the bar and swapping anecdotes with her, I shuffle to the back of the bar. I slide into the same booth used by the banker and Mr. Mosephur. I gaze into the drink, unable to recognise the broken man that gazes back at me. I never would have thought it possible to fall so far so fast.

“I need help. I’ve lost my dream,” I whisper to the man at the bottom of the glass.

“Well, well, well. I never thought that you would become a customer of mine.”

I look up at the bald man. He almost looks kind. He sits down, and we begin to talk business.

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