My subconscious must lack confidence in my dream interpretation skills because last night’s message was about as subtle as a 16-pound sledge to a freshly painted toenail.

The dream begins with a blatant simile of our current project:

Eric and I are roommates.  It’s a drab one-room studio with leaky faucets, no heat and twelve flights of steps.    

Eric typically walks (or bikes) to work each day, but this morning the winter weather is particularly nasty.  “Work” is Amigos, of course.  It’s the only job between the two of us and pays the rent since I sit at home on my ass all day, clipping coupons and pecking away at the novel. 

So, this morning Eric needs a ride to work.  Actually, I insist on it (even in dreams my OCD/mothering gene cannot be suppressed).  He’s wearing his usual tee-shirt, gym shorts and sandals and a blizzard has been forecasted by our 12-inch black and white with rabbit ears.

We traipse out to the parking lot where BB sits under a blanket of ice.  In real life BB was … is … was … my prized possession.  A black Mazda Protégé with sharp custom wheels, a snappy stance, and predictably reliable engine.  My first car.  I sold BB to Eric two years ago and ... for those of you not quite following the complexity of this dream analysis ... I've regretted letting her go ever since.

Five minutes later we have BB scraped clean.  The roads are clear enough.  It’s a straight shot to Amigos.  Eric is due at work in fifteen minutes.  We should get there in ten.  But I have important business for us to discuss, which we do while standing beside the car, stomping our feet to stay warm.  There’s a scene in the book that’s just not working.  We’ve been over it a hundred times.  I have to finish the scene today while Eric is at work.  The deadline is looming, our editor impatiently waiting with a scowl on his face.  I have never actually seen our editor scowl.  I’m not sure he’s capable of it.

Eric patiently listens, only occasionally and politely mentioning his need to get to work.  There is a huge letter “M” on his tee-shirt which, as everyone knows, stands for “Martyr”.

“We have plenty of time,” I say. 

“It looks like the storm is almost here,” he says.

“Have I ever let you down?”

“Well, no, but maybe we can talk while you drive.”

“Can you just pay attention for a minute?  Let’s finish out this scene once and for all and then we’ll go.”

“Okay, sure.”  His letter “M” begins to glow red.

And just like that, in a manner possible only in dreams, the sunny sky turns dark, heavy snow presses the clouds low over our heads and they let loose their burden.  The wind speed jumps from 5 to 35 in the space of a heartbeat.  And by the time I turn to gauge our exit from the parking lot, it’s covered in snow piled five feet high.

Yes, I understand clearly that leaving five minutes earlier would have gotten Eric to work on time.  Of course he can't go now.  I've likely gotten him fired.  But, it's too late to worry about any of that.

Without a word, we turn and head for the studio.  Nothing left to do now but work on the novel. 

Pity. 
 


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