Part Two of what I am calling my “stress dream related the upcoming NaNoWriMo and perhaps everything else in my life.” Part One can be found here.
Because the alternative of being left half naked in a parking lot with the wild, book club/intellectual crafter-chasing paparazzi after me, sounds much worse, I climb into the back seat of the behemoth of a vintage Cadillac – but make sure I sit by the door.
Survival through this strange night hinges on a right moment meeting a quick exit strategy. I’ve lost my voice; no one will hear my requests, so my hand clutches the door handle ready to make a move. The cover of darkness allows me to pretend to be the same age as my fellow passengers whom I realize now to be very young. The big phony best not draw attention to herself.
Every now and then the Cadillac dispenses one or two of us on a corner, as if it were a city bus. I am unaware of a driver and only assume there is one. Vaguely familiar street signs flip by, as if in a flash book. Aren’t all street signs vaguely familiar and alike? Black skyscrapers loom overhead. Apart from the occasional light emitting from a high floor window, the buildings are unrecognizable as being apart from stars.
At a seedy city convenience store, the driver confidently wheels his vehicle into a parking space as if he owns it. Florescent lighting throws a bluish cast on the scene and in the silence emits a discernible hum. The driver leaves. I am left with the same guy I did not trust to hide me from the paparazzi back at book club.
I pull my phone from my pocket and check to be sure it’s really dead. Reluctantly I ask my reluctant hero if I can borrow his. Just as reluctantly, he answers by handing me a shiny blackberry that must be made of 24k gold. This must mean this phone is important to him, so I am extra careful. For privacy I walk out of his earshot and dial my mother.
My parents live in this city -I’m almost positive. When my mother answers I try to describe to her where I am. I drift towards the street sign on the corner, but it is bent in such a way that I can’t read it. I ask her if she could please pick me up in front of my father’s old office building. which I’m almost sure is only a few blocks a way. I know I am failing at conveying the gravity of my situation.
Out of character for her, she says, “no.”
I go into the convenience store looking for the owner of the Blackberry. I describe him as if I know him better than I do, to the cashier who wears a blood stained apron which I assume means that he is also be a butcher. He holds a corded phone receiver to his ear, and his eyes come to rest on the shiny Blackberry that I hold in my hand.
He says, “Never mind. Nothing’s been stolen and the police don’t have to come.”
I wake up. I’m alive; and I know where I am.
Amateur Translation: I’ll just say I recognize some familiar themes
Good heavens, don’t I sound like the life of the party?
Sometimes I think people can see things better about others than they can themselves. Any thoughts on what kind of book you’d like to see me start for NaNoWriMo?
What kind of books do you read?