It isn't entirely understood where or why dreams occur in the human mind. Some dreams cast you into an epic odyssey with excitement around every corner, some may feel eerie and hazy and superfluous as if directly from a Lewis Carroll jotting, and some could be gut-wrenching a horrific, leaving you in a pool of sweat and uneasy. It would be almost impossible to tally the infinite possible dream variations of different people in any given night, but no matter what dream I have, when it comes time to arise from the ether, I ask myself," Why did I dream that?" Is it an introspective exploration of who you are subconsciously? Or is it your mind having some unharnessed fun without the chaperone judgement? Who knows. In any case, I started thinking about it all again this morning upon rising in the wake of a very strange and epic all-nighter that was oddly broken up into two parts. Here we go...
Where to begin. My good friend Jason calls me up one day. "Dave, I have this Fire Fighters meeting to go to up north. You wanna go?" I say sure. I don't really know why, my dream didn't allow for reasoning or details, but I would assume that I didn't have much of anything to do (otherwise, I couldn't see myself going to a fire fighters convention for the hell of it.) So we mosey on up to this meeting. Upon arrival at a large warehouse (about the size of a super Wal-Mart) I discover that inside there is many people and plenty of equipment and machinery that mainly look like implements of destruction, but surely must be for serving and protecting the public. I hope. The most curious and outstanding item though would be a mechanical platform, that was free-moving in all 6 orthogonal directions. If you've ever played Super Mario World for the SNES, and can recall the castle that stands alone after the Forest Stages about midway through the game, then you should remember that yellow moving assemblage of blocks at the beginning of the castle level. Yeah, exactly. Where the lava is. Aside from being made of yellow happy face blocks, this device served the same purpose similarly, but in three dimensional motion. So I'm looking around and see other things that are kind of interesting; a giant pick axe for cracking open brick walls like tuna cans; an item that was essentially an oversized hovering shower head to help lather-rinse-and-repeat the locks of giants (Or put out fires. Who knows). So once we were finished looking around, we were called to assembly by a very portly, proper, Southerner who ran the joint. I felt as though this wasn't the place for me, so I told Jason that I was leaving. It turns out, the Southerner was not gonna have 'no fool inte'upt' his monologue by leaving, so I was forced to sit and listen. While I was waiting, watching, trying to pretend to listen, I noticed another portly, thin-haired, younger fellow situated behind me. In the corner of my eye, I could see him fumbling around in my messenger bag for something. So I kept my peripheral view on him as to not seem distasteful with a blunt glare. But just as I had suspected, I saw him pull something from within the bag; that something was my cell phone, so I turned around, looked him in the eye balls and told him, Man, what are you doing with my stuff? Now, I got a very good look at the guy, and he was one of those cookie-cutter backwoods stereotypes. He had the sensibility of a tenth-generation pure-bread Labrador. He goes to tell me that that was HIS cell phone and he needed to make a call, but I keep telling him otherwise. He says to me, I'll make you a deal. You give me your phone, and I'll give you my phone. I look at his dumb face. Hard. I say no. He doesn't really know what to think at this point, and leaves me alone.
+So here's the point where I wake up. I think to myself, What the hell Dave? I walk to the kitchen, grab some water, go back to bed. You know that feeling of relief you get when you wake from an unsettling dream? I had it. That dream was awkward to say the least. Awkward in the most extreme sense of the word. I lay down, look at Dex. He's sound asleep. I think, Thank God that's over... +
Part II
My brain doesn't stop for a breather a picks up right where it left off. After some time and plenty of hot air had passed, the Southerner came to a closing point and we all disbanded. I couldn't wait to get the hell out, but to my surprise, over the course of the speech, the Honda I had driven to this place had changed over to my 12-speed Huffy (This dream would've been over had my damn transportation kept its normal form. Eff you, my brain.) To my dismay the rear tire had gone flat and I hadn't a pump nearby. The Southerner saw my predicament, and being a hospitable southern gentleman that he was, offered me his help. His house happened to be attached to the warehouse. When we got there, I was welcomed by a large group of people having a barbecue, like you'd see on the Fourth of July. Plenty of people, fire works, dogs, the whole shabang. This house was giant by the way. Imagine a multistory plantation-style layout with wrap-around porch and all. The house served dually as a restaurant so it accommodated parties nicely. We go to the garage where I lay down my messenger bag on a stack of tires while we service my cycle. We start chatting while the pump takes an unusually long time to fill my tire. He's telling me about his house and how he makes his livelihood and about the huge family he provides for, and all the while that little runt of a man form the meeting is rummaging through my crap again. Me, being distracted, he finds exactly what he wanted; my cell phone. When my tire is bloated with fresh air, we put the valve cap on and I see that the contents of the bag is spread across the floor and my phone had been replaced with an inferior model. My phone had a color screen; this one had a simple black-on-green LCD. My phone had speaker phone; this phone had none. My phone phone had MP3 playability; this phone had a cassette tape dock. I just want to get the hell out of here. I look all over the house with all the hustle and bustle of the party, to try to find this measly man, but everyone I spoke to and everyone who offered help was covering for the guy. It's like those horror movies about the red-necks that try to capture the protagonists by misleading them and killing them with a socket wrench or shot gun, except much less severe. They only want my cell phone.
So I finally catch the guy, and he says he doesn't have my phone. I call him a liar and show him his own primitive device that he swapped for mine. He denies all charges, then he tells me he's tired and is going to bed. I attempt to catch him but all the other folks are obviously helping him escape also and thwart my plan, allowing him to escape. I spend more countless hours searching and asking for the scoundrel, but no substantial help is given me. Finally, somehow, my chauffeur, who bares a strong ressemblance to Leslie Neilsen, decides to come pick me up. I'm exhausted and beaten down by failure, and he suggests to me to call my phone to make sure the man swapped SIM cards at least. I pick up the phone, take a close look at the stupid thing with its built in tape deck, and call. The ingrate answers. I say to him I thought you said you didnt steal my phone? He says I didnt. I say you're a moron! Youre talking to me from it! He hangs up.
FIN
If you're thinking, WTF? That was my initial and permanent sentiment as well.
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