A few nights ago I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details:
I am seated on an airplane with a female travel companion. She is a short, mousey, older woman largely hidden inside an oversized sweater. We stand up from our seats and walk down the aisle to the back. There is a hatch door that opens onto a balcony, and we walk onto the balcony to catch a better view from 35,000 feet up in the air. Since there is a lot of wind up there, we hold onto the balcony ledge, but otherwise have no problem taking in the view of clouds beneath us. We watch as our flight descends slowly into the clouds and then levels off again beneath them. The ocean below is as dark blue as the ink in an inkwell. God could dip his quill into this ocean to write the story of the universe.
Off in the distance we see Oahu approaching. It is time to return to our seats. We take our time in doing so, and we buckle up just as the airplane touches the runway. Some of the passengers applaud the moment the airplane tires touch the ground.
My travel companion and I are walking alongside Waikiki Beach. We notice that all of the women are tall, beautiful, statuesque models with impeccable postures. They keep their chins high and their steps pronounced like models on a runway. They are all wearing the same sexy Mrs. Santa Claus outfit: a red coat with white fringe that barely conceals their butts, nothing but pantyhose over their long legs, and high heels. The women maintain their affected stance even when the ocean waves crash over the railing and splash them with foam and seaweed.
I look over and see that my travel companion is reading a magazine while she is walking beside me. It is a magazine of “before” and “after” images of women patients of a famed plastic surgeon. She looks up at me, and says that she wants a “boob job” while on the island. Because of the size of her sweater it is impossible for me to see just how much she may need implants.
My travel companion and I are in the living room of a condo that is very close to Diamond Head. The decor is early 1980s including an Apple 2e computer on a desk. “Pong” is on the green computer monitor. There is a Jimmy Carter poster (picture of a big peanut with the words, “I’m nuts about Jimmy”) that is starting to fade.
A famed plastic surgeon walks into our condo. He is a young man with a smile that is too wide to be affable. He has a high forehead with a military crewcut and a dark, Hitler style mustache. He carries a curved knife by his side that looks like something one might have picked up in the deserts of Arabia. He is accompanied by six Christmas elves. They look menacing with their pointed chin beards, bulging eyes, and snarly expressions. They are wearing bloodstained aprons.
The six Christmas elves grab a hold of my travel companion – three nudging on one arm, and three nudging on the other arm. The famed plastic surgeon uses his knife to cut the oversized sweater off of her. She squirms, but the elves keep her standing upright in the living room in front of the plastic surgeon’s penetrating gaze. I step back from the living room and into the adjoining kitchen. I start to make a piña colada in a blender. The loud noise from the blender drowns out the horrid cries from inside the living room.