Dream a Little Dream…

I had a lover, many years ago, in whom I confided my every dream. Later, after we’d parted ways, I heard from a girlfriend that he’d claimed publicly that if he were to take scrapings from the underside of my brain, and throw them in a jar with a little cerebral fluid, he could sell it as a schedule one narcotic and make his fortune. Silver-tongued devil though he may have been, his point was that I am batshit loony, and that the crapola that comes out of my head, via my mouth, should be proof enough to anyone – even The Authorities - that my grey-matter is trippy. I, of course, beg to differ. He was hopelessly parochial; I am as stable as the next girl, probably moreso. While the next girl struggles with her neuroses, her inner demons, I have made of mine pets. Down, boy!

Last night I dreamed that I was chosen to be a contestant on a game show whose popularity was sweeping the nation. This game show was filmed in a huge, drafty warehouse of a place, in front of a live, studio audience, very ala Price Is Right. At the conclusion of this competition, the host - an amalgam of every game-show host in American television history (with black, plastic hair) -would take the winner up to a dais to be interviewed in a scenario that resembled something off Carson or Leno or Letterman. Don’t ask me how I was chosen; either I can’t remember that part, or my dream didn’t go that far.

My task as a competitor? I was to queue up alongside my fellow gamesters, each of us at the end of a long “lane” painted in garish pink-and-green hues, something like a bowling alley. Each of us was given a large bucket of oatmeal. At the other end of each lane there hung a mirror, about five feet off the floor, around which were a variety of cleaning products, paper towels, and kitchen cloths. The object of the game was to hurl a massive handful of this hot oatmeal as hard as one could, down the lane towards the mirror. When one had accumulated a large enough lump, one raced down the lane, careful not to slip in any oatmeal drippage, and clean the mirror. But! The trick? To clean the mirror, but not to get it so clean that no oatmeal would stick…because once one's image was visible again, one hurtled back to the other end of the lane to begin the process anew.

Don’t ask me what the criteria for a winner was; I don’t remember.

I was led into the warehouse by a cadre of network employees, through the studio audience. I was gratified to see some of my friends there, but could not for the life of me fathom why they were dolled up as they were. There was Velociman, of course, my nearest and dearest, accompanied by Yabu, Sam Moore, Dax Montana, Zonker, Bane, Elisson, Acidman, and my father and uncles – and each and every one of them dressed like a crazed football fan. Naked to the waist, the fellows had painted their faces and chests in the pink-and-green of the game-show logo. Velociman sported fake Halloween wounds (a mental remnant, I feel certain, of something I saw at That Party on Saturday night) and pom-poms. Sammy-baby had my name written across his back. Dax was wearing one of my bras on his head, and Bane had my contestant number emblazoned on each cheek. My dear, dear loved ones, along with the rest of the crowd, went wild as we entered, screaming with joy at the spectacle about to begin.

Friends, I hurled hot oatmeal down a lane all night long, blurring my reflection over and over and over again. Time after time I raced to the Windex and the paper towels, scrubbing my mirror squeaky-clean after each obliteration of my self. I discovered, about halfway through, a trick to getting up to the mirror, a wild half-leap that took me head and shoulders above where I could reach, allowing me to clean that fucker bone-dry every time.

And I won.

The host interviewed me, and as we made cheerful banter to laughs both live and canned, I noticed Key Monroe and Shoe had brought my mother. I waved and pointed them out to the host, who then insisted that my mother come up to the dais and bring with her my guitar, so that I could serenade the crowd. I protested, feebly, that I hadn’t played in years, but he would have none of it. So I plugged the Fender into one of the house-band’s Marshall amps, and let rip. And I sucked. I couldn’t hit a string, couldn’t pick, couldn’t strum. It was humiliating, as bad as one of those dreams where you showed up nekkid to elementary-school.

I looked down to try and divine the problem, and saw that my fingernails had grown to such prodigious lengths as to make me resemble a Dragon Lady, or one of those girls you see working in fast-food restaurants, the ones that make you want to run from your burger for thinking of the germs she must harbor under there. I mean, these fuckers were loooong, curling under and around and around, almost in spirals. I could not play. I held up my hands, sheepishly, blushing, expecting boooos...but the crowd went wild.

I was a Sensation, a Cinderella Story, America’s Sweetheart! I won a half a million dollars, a Brand New Car, a dining-room suite, and a trip to Jamaica. Plus…I was a star. Offers, the host informed me to the music of the crowd screaming my name, were pouring in. I was going to be...

And then I woke with a start, only to find that my house was a mausoleum, the furnace’s pilot light having gone out in the night. I drove to work, only to get my ass chewed, first thing, by Managing Partner, angry at something he only thought I’d forgotten to do, but which was, in fact, done last week. He didn't even give me a chance to explain, and then the cocksucker had the gall to act resentful when he'd finished his tirade and I told him that the task was actually long done. My oldest son had cleaned out my wallet the night before, so there was no coffee, and Mister MacFarland had absconded with my ATM card, so there was no recourse. My great-aunt died during the morning, and my paycheck didn’t come on time. Shit. Double shit. Can I go back to bed, where I was a Star?

Is there any wonder that I thought about this dream all day, basking in its glow?

Is there any wonder that my old lover thought I was a nutcase? I used to tell him my dreams, too. Now…I just tell you.

Posted by Queenie at October 24, 2005 11:32 PM | TrackBack