Dream #280: The Corner of Roger and Fuzzy

01.12.2012 § Leave a comment

Ernest is crippled and I’m responsible for driving him around for the night. Our itinerary includes two parties. Unfortunately I forget where he parked. I can’t find his car at all. I can’t remember what color, what model, or anything. It’s hopeless. I’m a total failure.

I’m in the passenger seat of a car, riding around the parking lot. A tall white guy with a goatee and glasses which are not very hipstery is driving, and there’s a hot chick in the back. The driver won’t shut the fuck up. He is annoying the hell out of me.

I spot Linus. I had seen him when Ernest and I parked in the first place but hadn’t said anything about it to him at that time. This time around, though, we pick him up. He climbs in the back seat with the hot chick, who he promptly starts macking on. The annoying driver mocks Linus’s Singaporean accent. I want to distance myself from the driver for Linus’s sake, you know, at least say something to effect of I don’t know this fucktard, but the guy’s unfortunately mission critical, so I have to prioritize his morale. Ugh, it makes me sick inside, though, and I am so embarrassed.

Well, and to be fair, he and the hot chick have been undeservedly patient in regards to my ineptitude at locating Ernest’s car.

We’re finally at the party, a fancy affair with seemingly infinite long banquet tables. I scramble to find someone in a uniform, a caterer even, who might know where Ernest is. It takes only a moment, but we’re nonetheless too late. No no no, this informer says, Ernest must have already gone to the next party, because there’s rumored to be unlimited This and That there. The party is located at the corner of Roger and Fuzzy.

When I finally find Ernest, the party is at the airport. I try to put him in his wheelchair but I do it wrong. He’s rotated nearly 10 degrees off, which causes the fleshy part of his leg to get pinched against the thin, metal wheelchair arm, and his hip stretched too far up into his gut. He yelps in pain. I apologize profusely. Even carting him around after getting him seated properly, I apparently push him too fast, making him uncomfortable.

Ernest and I are in a boat on a creek. The world is flat, and there’s another flat world upside down on its underside with opposite gravity, which is a mirror image of this world. The other world begins immediately under the surface anywhere; that is, it is not only at sea level that the other world is within reach. In other words, the world is overall flat, yes, like a plane, but extremely rough.

I look off the edge of the boat, down through the film of slightly murky water, and make eye contact with Karin. She is just blown away by this, but nonetheless pissed that I failed the Ernest mission so badly. I’m trying to explain my failure to her in terms of how many more years Ernest has gone to Stanford, how many more of those were recently, and how many more of those were in a row; he would certainly know the layout of campus better. She seems to think she knows Ernest better than I do.

We took three kinds of popcorn back from the party: plain, chocolate and caramel. I never even got to try the caramel. Plain was completely burnt, and neither of us got to try it. The chocolate was mostly burnt and Karin ate most of it; I only got two pieces.

A Spanish aristocrat in her fifties is subletting Vince’s room. She’s had an all-night bonding session with a Mexican maid of about her age, who speaks the same language but comes from a totally different world. The maid had been a life-long smoker, and had such a jarring, monotone, hackraspy laugh that it demanded attention and one couldn’t be sure what emotion it expressed out of context. The sun is coming up when they emerge from Vince’s room. The aristocrat says goodnight and sends the maid home.

I climb into my bed. The corner of a plastic insect terrarium is peeled up, busted from bouncing around in the car. Some of the caterpillars and spiders in it have gotten loose. I spot one spider still inside, which is hiding under a rock. It’s the size of two hands, shaped like a glove, black and yellow spotted, spasming in impossible geometries like the Gantz Graf video. I turn to Karin and lament that I won’t be able to sleep with these guys loose in my room. She says it’s okay, as she squeezes my penis in a death grip, explaining that it’s part of her ex-boyfriend’s style of helping her dream recall, no not that ex-boyfriend, and no, not that boyfriend, the other other boyfriend between the two ex-boyfriends I know about.


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