George Waldorf fears sleep; a recurring dream infiltrates his slumber. This nightly occurrence has George, a single African American man living in Philadelphia, on edge. And his life becomes more complicated when by chance he meets Tina Lawler and realizes that she plays a significant role in his dreams. He feels a special connection to her, but Tina is unwilling to accept George's strange explanations about their bond, and she rebuffs his advances. Eager to discover the truth behind his haunting dreams, George agrees to visit Dr. Gupta, a parapsychologist who researches reincarnation. George is doubtful that his dreams may have a link to the past and is skeptical that anything will be gained through hypnosis. What Dr. Gupta discovers dates back 170 years to a small town in Georgia; the revelations change the way George looks at both his past and his future. A love story caught between two different centuries and two different races, Is It Me? explores the themes of slavery, mixed marriages, and love while celebrating the power of memory.

Is It Me?

By Rathan Kumar

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Rathan Kumar
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-595-51757-2

Chapter One

An African American male lives in his two-bedroom apartment, a kind of affluent area with basic furniture and a bed, TV in his bedroom, the second bedroom he uses as his semi-office room. His living room has a couple of sofas and a big-screen TV, a telephone, and a glass table, not much because he's single. He works for Computer International Incorporated, located in Philadelphia. He works 9 to 5 primarily as a consultant programmer. He's a hard worker and his boss trusts him a lot; a lot of stress comes with the job.

After the long hours of his stressful day, George Waldorf went home late, opened his refrigerator, and ate some leftovers; he wasn't in a mood to prepare any dinner. Afterwards, he crashed on his bed and within a minute went off to sleep. Dreaming, he saw a man sitting under a huge tree looking at the clear blue, motionless sky, seriously thinking. George could tell the man was tall even though he was seated. He had smooth brown skin, the color of a Brazil nut. He looks a lot like me. A white horse was walking toward the man, ridden by a lady with a long, white dress; abruptly, the horse galloped and disappeared into the clouds.

George woke up and looked around in the dark room and looked at his alarm clock. 4:00 AM. He shook his head and fell asleep again. As the alarm went off, woke hastily and got ready to go to work. A couple more weeks went by and nothing unusual happened—he was a happy-go-lucky guy. He went to bed as usual but started feeling a little nervous. He rolled over again and again as a couple hours passed by, then got up, took two sleeping pills, and sat on his bed. He glanced nervously in the shadows of his medium-sized bedroom and slid back into the bed, watching the rotating ceiling fan for a while, before he drifted into a fitful sleep. Maybe a few hours more passed, and there was the man, sitting under a huge tree again. George realized it was the same man, now on a black horse riding as fast he could, slashing through a dense forest. That's me, he realized, excited. White men were chasing him on horseback. As they came closer and closer, suddenly George woke up, sweating and scared. He wiped his eyes and sat up for a few minutes, then realized it was only a nightmare and said to himself Thank God. He went back to his bed, but he couldn't sleep, the clock was ticking and time was passing by. It was 7:00 AM.

George got up the following morning, trying to ignore that he was thinking about the dream as he showered and brushed his teeth. The windows were opened onto a nice, sunny day; a warm breeze was making everyone comfy and sleepy in the office at the Computer International. It was Friday in the second week of June, and everyone wanted to get out of work, especially after lunch—it was eighty degrees outside; they were ready to have fun. Summer fever had started to grow with everyone and in particular with Richard. In the late-afternoon, Richard cranked up the stereo, started shaking his plump waist and shouted, "Boogie, boogie. Hey everyone, the boss says we all can leave a little early today."

"No I don't," said the boss, sticking his face out of his office. "Back to work." There was a sheepish grin on his face. Richard dropped back on his chair; he looked at George, a few desks away. George never paid attention to any of Richard's commotion. He was too busy looking at his computer screen and messing with the keyboard. Richard could not stand this, so he picked up the phone and dialed extension 234. After a couple of rings, it got George's attention and he answered.

"Hi, this is George. May I help you?"

"Sure you can. This is Buddy Rich." It was a name joke they'd shared since childhood apparently. Neither of them could remember when it started, or why—as they grew older, so did the joke and their friendship.

Richard did have this strange way of speaking. He said he'd had a speech impediment when he was younger—younger even than when George met him—but sometimes it was like he just liked messing with how he sounded. The upshot was, it was like he didn't use contractions, or only sometimes, or inconsistently. It was hard to put a finger on, except often enough how he said things just would come out off a bit. Even without meaning too, George sometimes picked the habit up, as if sympathetically. George had read once how a couple of twins, stranded somewhere, had learned their own language that no one else could understand. It wasn't anywhere near like that with Richard, but sometimes it almost seemed that way to George, at least a little.

"What're you doing, Rich?" George asked, scowling off in Rich's direction.

"What are you so serious about, not paying any attention to anything? Loosen up; it's Friday, okay? After work let us go and chill out. What do you say?"

"No man, I am trying to finish up work so I can relax this weekend."

"What, you have a hot date for this evening or for the weekend?"

"No. Listen, buddy. If I had something I'd've told you," George giggled. "But you never know. I may get a surprise. Why? What do you have in mind?"

"Susan has a company meeting and I guess she won't be home until ten or eleven tonight. I thought, maybe we can have a couple of beers and after that get a bite, do some male bonding, what do you say?"

"'Kay, bud, that sounds good. See you later."

They both hung up.

The Santa Monica Club

George and Richard walked into Center City, heading toward its posh restaurant with the outdoor bar. Many people had come out to relax on this beautiful Friday evening. George watched many small groups of people—men and women alike—walking by with beer bottles, as if born with that extra attachment on their hands. People came here for fun and hoping to find somebody new, hoping to wash away the taste of the old, but it was still always the same drinks. Their eyes would roam all over the vast expanse—someone told George once it was 3000 square feet, as if that might mean something to him—trying not to miss anything moving or sitting. Everyone behaved so differently here—some talked business, some were attracted to someone but shied back and became losers, some didn't care and approached everything that crossed their path, male, female, or waiter. It was a good place to hang out.

Richard was still babbling as they sat down at a table with a fine view.

"What do you think about Larry?"

"From the office? He seems all right, but quiet. Why?"

"He dresses weird, and sometimes gives me creepy looks."

"Don't waste your time on it," George said, sipping his beer; he had an attachment too. "Who cares, as long as he's not bothering us? But while we're on this, what do you think of Julie?"

"Which one? Aren't there two?"

The good-looking, kind of thin one, you know who I am talking about."

"Why do you ask me that? I'd've told you if I thought so."

"I happen to know she likes you, and she wanted me to ask you."

"She's a nice girl, all right, but I'm not interested," Richard said, looking out over the crowd.

"Do you like anybody? I've never seen you interested in anyone."

"I am not gay," George said sharply, turning back to glare at Richard. "You know that."

"Why bring it up? Even if you were, it wouldn't bother me. Come on. Let's go somewhere else."

Richard and George were walking toward the club, only a block away from the Santa Monica. They could hear laughter and loud noise echoing through the sky...