I was on my way to deliver a report to an office I’d never seen before. I meandered through a vast formal complex seeking the right door number. There it is. I entered and spied a kid of about ten behind a massive mahogany desk, he stood staring down, uncomfortable-like.
Donald Dickwad Drumpf stormed up behind me. “God damn sonofabitch, what did you see, WHAT DID YOU SEE?” Drumpf rounded the desk and grabbed the kid, engulfed his head and squeezed. Then softly, “What did you see?”
Drumpf looked up to find me staring at him, the report in my hand. The Orange Beast relaxed, and started petting the child’s head. As the kid’s face emerged, blood was dripping from his nose. With his thumb Drumpf began to wipe at it. The kid squirmed, wiped it with his sleeve and struggled free. The boy disappeared though a different wide doorway into a course of people moving through hallways.
I dropped my report in the bin, my eyes never leaving Drumpf’s. He narrowed his eyes but we both realized I had caught him. I followed the boy’s path out.
The complex opened up as I headed to my nook/cubicle. I dropped my bag there and noticed the garbage can was overflowing. My space, a darkened cubby along a line of other cubbies, was an easy target for passersby seeking a trashcan. I gathered the refuse by its plastic strings and headed out into a now expanding mall-like setting.
“Who have you told?” A man, who looked like Sam Elliot, paced my walk.
I shook my head, no one.
“It’s a shit show. The kid already emailed his grandfather, twice.” He sped ahead of me.
I wandered into a studio where an audience, lifted on risers, concentrated their attention on a floating set of screens arrayed around the area. Lights, noise, big black cameras surrounded the center stage. Being dazzled by the extravagant setting I walked right through the middle of the floor-level stage.
In the middle, a set of glass floor tiles shimmer with light. I strolled right across them. I bumped into something unseen. My hand reached out and touched a floating sphere, the source of all the projected images. I briefly fondled it and its smooth surface and all the lights went out. The ball, I could sense, settled into a lower pedestal niche.
“Get off the fucking stage,” someone yelled in the dark. I bumbled across toward the edge of the stadium seating. The lights behind me ka-chunked their electric breakers and returned. As I skirted the seats, a fellow asked, incredulous, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Sorry, I mouthed.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”
I stared straight into his eyes. “Sometimes sorry is all there is.”
Behind the bleachers, a line of small tables and chairs appeared and I sat to steady myself. I still retained the sack of garbage, it now resembled a flat collapsible store-bag.
A woman turned from near the seats and took a seat across from me, her beauty obvious. She worn a gold-colored tight dress and a pair of tear-shaped opalescent sunglasses that set into the orbits of her eyes.
“Anyone tell you you look like Mel Gibson?” she said.
“You mean a blonde Mel?”
“OK, a silver-haired Mel Gibson?”
She oozed seduction, her voice like maple syrup. I couldn’t resist the stare of those eyes, alien, sexy.
She licked her lips. “What do you know about porn?”
Ah, I thought, that’s the industry she represents. “I’ve watched a few.”
Around the corner a cadre of blue t-shirted security men marched up and stopped behind the woman. She rose and slipped away. I watched her go.
“You! You’re coming with us.” A shorter fellow, who didn’t look old enough to graduate high school much less control a fleet of government men, pointed at my chest. “We’re going to get this fucking thing sorted out, right now!”
“No,” I said, matter-of-factly, “If anyone asks I’ll tell them what I saw.” I paused and he and I tested wills. “We’re all toast, here. And this country is over.”
This was a dream I had this morning, I kid you not. I’ve fictionalized it to make it readable, but the virtual events occurred just as you find them above. Perhaps the heart medicine is screwing with my psyche.