It’s been a while since I put a dream sequence up here, but then it’s been a while since I had one worth remembering — especially since this one was a product of Saturday-night insomnia.
Anyone who’s kicked an automobile tire knows precisely the amount of give the tire is supposed to provide: zero. The same applies to bicycles, but bike tires are hard to kick, being narrow and all, so the usual expedient is to give it a pinch. Upon finding a definite deficit of air pressure in the front, I decided I’d chance it for the first mile or so, and then push it the rest of the way. The bike, of course, handled like a raccoon on an ice floe, so it wasn’t too long before I dismounted. When the rain started, I ducked into a convenience store, which was probably rude of me since I was still carrying the bike; I made it most of the way down the main aisle before I passed out.
I awoke to find no sign of either the bicycle or my clothing; apparently I had died and was in some celestial Fort Dix awaiting Final Orders. They had issued me something tunic-y, about a hospital gown and a half, with just enough material to cover my back bumper but nowhere near enough to keep me warm. A staffer speaking some sort of mutant Esperanto, of which I comprehended maybe every sixth word, bade me accompany him, and after about four and a half changes in direction he left me in some sort of dorm room with three beds narrower than twin size and two occupants, one a guy who looked like he’d just been told he wasn’t getting the Glengarry leads, the other a girl who might make a nice hippie chick once she grew up. Neither of them acknowledged my arrival: the guy was watching whatever was on the television, and the girl was half-asleep.
Some unknown amount of time later, another lackey popped in, this time bearing a tray full of tiny wood splints. Both my roommates groaned in classic “This again?” fashion. The lackey brought me a couple of them and gestured toward my face. “Did I ask for toothpicks?” I thought, but didn’t say. The girl was fumbling with hers; the lackey attempted to show her how to use the tool, and it appeared to me that this was intended as some sort of gum-cleaning device: the absence of curtain pulls, shoestrings, and the like told me that whoever our keepers were, they weren’t likely to trust us with floss. I obediently began tracing the appropriate area; the lackey gave out with a smile, probably programmed, and in a burst of syllables urged the girl to follow my example. She did so, and in so doing earned another smile from the lackey, who then turned his attentions to the old guy. (He probably wasn’t older than I am, really, but I wasn’t, at this time, as old as I am usually.)
I’d slept for several hours when yet another minion showed up: apparently the girl and I had earned a trip outdoors. And “outdoors” looked like what Le Corbusier might have thought a Turkish bazaar ought to look like: it was disorganized, but it was neatly disorganized for most of its two-block length. Nothing looked at all familiar; apparently that convenience store, and my bicycle, were far, far away.
Apparently I would be allowed some quantity of goodies from the bazaar, but none of them looked particularly interesting: a double-sized thimble, various puzzle boxes, what looked like a Super Ball. I was about to check the ball for Superness when someone’s failure to negotiate the ice on the corner of my street woke me up.