Arthur Engleston, 30, hails from Buffalo, New York.
I stand outside his Brooklyn apartment.
Arthur opens the front door. “I love cold weather and I love buffalos,” he tells me as he gestures to come in, “so being born in Buffalo was a match made in Heaven.” He laughs. “In Heaven,” I hear him whisper.
I walk into the vestibule. A dream catcher is pinned to the wall.
“That’s my dream catcher,” he tells me, “it’s supposed to catch the nightmares.” He has a distant look in his eye. He un-pins the device and puts it in his pocket.
We walk into his apartment. Arthur trips.
“I just tripped,” he tells me.
We sit at the kitchen table.
Waking up nightly, Arthur is stricken with paralyzing “Night Terrors”.
“I’m in the woods. I’m running. I’m running so fast,” he says. He stands up and takes crackers out of the cabinet. He places them on the table in front of me. “Then they catch me.”
“Who are ‘they’?” I ask.
“The dogs,” he responds, “the Husky. That’s when I wake up.”
I pose as a neighborhood doctor.
“I have a few medical house calls to make after this,” I say to him. I eat a cracker. It’s Ritz.
In reality, I am a reporter. I travel door-to-door looking for a good story. I sell the good stories to the Tabloid. I scrap the bad ones.
“As a kid, I was attacked by a she-Huskie,” he tells me.
“What is a she-Husky?” I ask.
“A female Husky,” he says.
I write in my notepad. Arthur thinks I am taking notes. I am drawing a picture of a she-Husky.
