Unscrupulous Achiever Dream

A few nights ago I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details:

I am walking beside a woman friend down a long corridor. One side is all glass, and it is dark and stormy outside. The ferocious wind and rain beat against the glass like the dark primordial forces of nature are trying to break inside. On the other side of the corridor is a white wall with evenly spaced, locked doors. Though I never look directly at the friend walking beside me, I see in my peripheral vision that she is a tall, lithe, flapper girl with short, black hair largely hidden by a cloche hat. She is wearing 1920s little boy clothing: a white shirt with a black bowtie, black suspenders, and tweed jacket; checkered, knee length knickers, knee high socks, and laced Oxfords; and a walking stick that she uses to tap the floor rhythmically in the manner of a bored child with nothing else to do. I am her guide inside this meandering, Bauhaus mansion, but she does not seem to be especially impressed. I talk incessantly about the “many important people” who have walked down this same corridor, but she just taps her walking stick. At one point, she yawns and leans into my side like a child who is ready for bed. I try to ignore her childlike indifference and instead push open the first unlocked door that I see and urge her to step inside with me. We step into a spacious, white, banquet room with high ceilings and rococo trim. There is no furniture on the marble floor. The banquet room is lit by an overhanging chandelier that holds up a number of flickering candles. The candlelight flickers ghoulish shadows on the white walls. On the far wall is a World War I era poster that depicts a very pretty, young, French woman in a beret. There is a subtle grin on her face, as she looks off into the distance. The caption beneath her face reads: “Notre Dame de la Guerre.”

I am walking alone on a playground beside the San Francisco Bay. There is a rusted, old, swing set that is creaking in the cold bay breeze. There is also the corroded remains of a jungle gym slowly withering back to the elements. The bay splashes up against the slope of jagged rocks and wet sand beneath me, and now and then an iced cold spray of ocean foam slaps a bit of life back into my face. Further inland are the vandalized remains of an old high school. This building is now the office of the Mayor, and as I continue to stare in that direction I see a tall, thin, vaguely Asian man in white shirt and trousers walking by himself toward the old high school. He is taking his time, and so I have plenty of time to reach him before he steps inside one of the abandoned classrooms. When I am closer to the man I see that he is the Mayor. His face is abnormally round, and his slanted eyes dart every which way like he is nervously looking for an attacker. He sees me, smiles just enough to let me know that he recognizes me, and then stuffs his hands into his pants pockets. While we walk side by side, the Mayor tells me that I should be very proud of my work in his office. Indeed, I should take ownership of all that I have done the next time I am speaking with the press. I listen carefully to what the Mayor has to say, but I know that I shall do no such thing. Political operatives should never be the focus of any news stories, good or bad, and the Mayor certainly knows better than to advise me this way. I sense that he wants me to be the fall guy for some issue that is about to go south.

I am seated in a Volkswagen Bug in a parking lot. There is a pretty, young, black haired woman beside me. She is wearing a T-shirt, skirt, and knee high, black, buckled boots. The Bug is idling, and the radio is on. I recognize the song at once: Turn! Turn! Turn! by The Byrds. To everything there is a season… The pretty woman is seated behind the wheel of the Volkswagen Bug, and she is grading a typed paper on her lap with a red pen. She is marking up the paper, and as I am seated on the passenger seat beside her I am more than a bit concerned about where my grade in her class is headed. Unable to take the pressure, I gently slide the paper off of her lap, and drop my head. I am resting my head on her lap, while she playfully caresses my hair.

A tall, handsome, athletic, dark haired man in a gray suit walks up to the Volkswagen. He taps on the driver’s side window, and the woman rolls down the window. I look up, and I am attracted to him. I am quite careful not to express anything, though, since that is the love that dares not speak its name. He invites me to go to dinner with him. I accept in as casual a manner as I can, but the look in his eye suggests that he is on to me. He informs me that the restaurant is several hours away further up the coast. He wants me to get to the restaurant before he does. I sense that something will go terribly wrong if I fail to do as he requests. I ask the teacher to get out of her own Volkswagen. She leaves without a fuss, and I start to drive the car up the coastal highway at breakneck speed. At one point I nearly swerve off the highway and crash into the ocean waves below, but I just manage to stay the course.

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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