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The Dream

The Dream

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Published by Jason Bourgoin
The moment by moment account of a man's bizarre and harrowing dream - and his own, psychiatric, self-analysis.
The moment by moment account of a man's bizarre and harrowing dream - and his own, psychiatric, self-analysis.

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Published by: Jason Bourgoin on Nov 22, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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THE DREAM J.Bourgoin
he soggy and bending saw-toothed edge of this Tofutti Cutie wrapper – two soft and warm rafts of chocolate cake, buoyed in a foamy puddle of dairy-free, melted mint chocolate-chip tofu ice-cream – sitting half eaten and fully forgotten on my once beautifully finished mango desktop; a reminder of how the night ended and how and from whence this crazy dream began… One never gets up from a streaming basketball game (Portland vs. Milwaukee, if you catch my drift) to simply “lay down for a second.” A desk is rarely worthy of genuine comfort – a poor appraiser of fatigue – and a half eaten frozen treat is hardly the guilt-laden motivator worthy of keeping the sirens of sleep at bay; the impending threat of a damaged wooden table top being the equivalent of a licorice whip and a
Philippe Starck Ghost Stool 
 to tame the feral lions of exhaustion. My last thoughts before I slipped into this dream were how I was excited to use my new Boscia face wash before bed, how John Salmons should trim his goatee and how horribly thirsty I was... I woke up with a greasy face and fist of fingers so fat and dehydrated it was like I worked the bouillon belt at the McCormick’s food plant. THE DREAM Maybe the best dreams are the ones that come when you’re least expecting them – mostly because you didn’t realize that you’d fallen asleep… The universe presenting you a gift in the most awkward way possible; a small wrapped and ribbon’d box resting in cosmic palms – the creator’s fingers stretching long and flat, as if feeding Time’s most revered quarter horse an ironic birthday apple. It began with me sitting behind the wheel of a 16’ box truck. It’s the kind of rig you’d pack your best friend’s apartment up in –
artfully painted across the back of her – license plate, inexplicably, from Arizona. The cabin was large for this sort of thing (it felt like there might be an ice bucket for champagne behind me; strange for a two door) with a well-kept herringbone bench seat and a steering wheel like a school bus.
(It’s always been a dream of mine to drive a school bus – I dreamt a “dream come true”… The irony abounds.)
THE DREAM J.Bourgoin
As if I’d had a camera crew, the shot wrapped around the exterior of the truck as I drove, illuminating some of the more unique qualities of my vehicle: 1)
The back of the truck functioned like the back of a small ford pickup, only upside-down. Usually these trucks are equipped with a roll-down door in the back, so the flatbed “gate” style was  jarring, to say the least, not to mention that the gate was hanging from the top of the truck and not at the bottom – the way you’d hang a stop light or a saloon sign. I remember thinking; “how the fuck would you move any kind of lumber in this thing?” Strange imaginary thought…I’ve never hauled any kind of wood in my life.
The dashboard had a potted ponytail palm tree planted in the passenger’s side. 3)
The windshield was tinted – completely. As this epic sweeping camera shot finally settled on a first person POV, I was driving my box truck to an unknown location, delivering a load of carnival foods and wares to an upstate New York “circus-themed” party – with only my iPhone to guide me. Because the windows seemed to be permanently locked in full roll down, the ponytail palm fronds kept whipping me in the face - my eyes red and watering from the tropical tree lashings, the incessant squinting to find the road through this obnoxiously tinted windshield, and the cabins constant cyclone of rushing air. It was quickly becoming impossible to drive in these conditions and I had the sneaking suspicion that, although this dream had just begun, I’d managed to get myself lost. I called out to Siri, glowing out from my shirt pocket, for directions. She came back at me with the voice of Penelope Cruz in
 Her over enunciated plosives were friendly and playful, but it soon became clear that her glowing voice was clueless. Hell…she barely spoke English. I’d had enough and decided to pull over to a construction site so that I could call my boss for directions. Although I was headed to a circus party in upstate New York, I pulled over in downtown Miami – Biscayne Boulevard, to be exact about it.
THE DREAM J.Bourgoin
I made the call to my boss, who then gave me the address to a home in Coral Gables that seemed to serve as some sort of jump off point for the company. It was like the home of Harvey Keitel, from
Pulp Fiction.
 I was headed to see “the cleaner” who’d set me up and send me on my way. In true fantasy fashion, I hung up the phone and was instantly pulling into this fixer’s driveway. The house was in the Florida suburbs, single story, probably 3 bedrooms and 2.5 baths, with a terracotta-tiled roof and a ’95 black Ford Mustang, hood up, parked in the garage. Without any direction or reason, I pulled my rig around, through the front yard (tearing the lawn to shit), to the back of the house where I parked it in front of a large banyan tree, in the shade – slam door, “blip, blip” goes the alarm – and we’re all locked up. I circled back around to the front of the house and walked through the open garage where the man I presumably was there to speak with was having a phone conversation on his landline cordless. It was a white Conair-brand telephone with a silver telescopic antenna that I’d had when I was in high school. He didn’t acknowledge me and I didn’t acknowledge him, as I proceeded to walk into his unguarded house and through his American Colonial kitchen. His wife was chopping ribs of celery at the counter. Her short blond curls sprouting from her dark brown roots like bleached little weeds from a flower bed - were clumped to the edge of her forehead from sweat - her bangles chiming as she pressed and lifted her knife. We noticed each other but didn’t say hello. I opened a brown wooden door that led to the basement – it was a long trip and I needed to pee. I remember thinking, “I hope she’s making egg salad,” but had no intention of staying for lunch. After using the basement bathroom, I left the house the same way I’d come in, without speaking to a single soul. My emergency phone call for directions took me, mystically, to another state so that I might use a middle-aged suburban families toilette. When I returned to the truck parked in the backyard, it had transformed into a John Deere Gator. Essentially, it was a green golf cart, void of any cargo, which should have sounded the alarms – should have demanded answers to the question, “what’s the point of this mission if you’ve nothing to deliver?” – but it did not. OF COURSE my giant and

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