It’s afternoon. Or late morning? Or early evening? There’s light enough outside to illuminate the dust motes, and one of those hours of the day that’s so unremarkable as to seem timeless. I am standing in the foyer and in my mind I am saying ‘for yay.’ The house I am in is big and fancy in the way ladies at Civil War reenactments are fancy. There’s probably bunting somewhere. I haven’t seen it but I feel it in the same way the house feels Southern. I know that I have been here for some time, drifting in and out of each room on the first floor and I know that in each room I found like-minded-liberal officials, representatives, youths- Not because I remember them but because I am heading up the large oak bannistered staircase with the clear goal in mind of ‘hearing what the other side has to say’- The hallway is quiet but alive and I open the first large wooden door on the first landing. Inside is a group of people simultaneously talking excitedly among themselves and listening to Dick Cheney (who, for the purposes of this dream is played by Mitt Romney). A woman (all-teeth) is smiling next to him. I settle in to listen when my phone starts to ring
[I smack the nightstand twice before finding ‘snooze’]
Sorry, I grin sheepishly, I am so embarassed, I thought for sure I’d turned that old alarm off-
Oh no problem, no problem, friend. But y’know while you’re here, why don’t you tell us your thoughts on the situation, as a younghealthyAmerican?
Until now I have been determined to listen politely, enjoy my butter pecan ice cream, make no waves at this political rally cum icecream social- but I feel that this chance to speak candidly to someone with so much clout will never happen again.
I pause, hold up an index finger to ask for time while I extricate a pecan from my teeth-
Actually Dick, I’m glad you asked.
I begin to air my greivences, my belief in human rights, in freedom of religion, freedom of the press-
Then realize what I should say is-
Or maybe it would sound better this way-
Ooh, no I should mention this first-
I revise my monologue all the way through shampoo and halfway through conditioner before fully awaking to the day and to the fact that I have neither pecan ice cream nor an audience with MittDick.
An insight into my internal state? A brief glimpse into a possible future? The product of a porter too close to bedtime?
All I know, is after, all day long, everything said on NPR makes me feel tired.