In The Airport Of Dreams

I never hang around airport bars so why I dreamed myself into one is anyone’s guess. I was in a small group gathered around the end of one of those horseshoe-shaped counters that stick out into a too brightly lit concourse, this one with an open-sky glass ceiling that was actually a continuous arch with the high walls looking out onto the tarmac. Everything was too white. I don’t know how that exact group had collected or what else we were talking about to pass the time, but a man with a Russian style of speech was more or less across from me and when I mentioned “during the Boston flu epidemic” (there has never been any such thing, as far as I know), he appeared a little baffled. “What is ‘Boston flu’?” “You remember — there was a nasty flu that got going in Boston, everyone there was sick, but of course people travel so it got around the country and it was pretty bad for a while?” “Oh! yes!” he exclaimed,  putting the picture together. “I spent the whole time at home, jerking off.”

I don’t make this stuff up. Consciously.


7 thoughts on “In The Airport Of Dreams

  1. Even your dream people are more interesting than a lot of real ones!

    And I know someone who used to clerk in a porn shop. I used to waitress in a topless dancer bar, but not much to tell there. Other than no, I did not get topless.

    • I have had clients who danced in topless bars. It’s hard work and you end up needing a massage.

      In another dream that I am still trying to parse, a woman who was frenetically jealous arrived, carrying a violin, at an entrance to the attic of my home, which was set into such a steep hill that she had to come down a short flight of concrete steps in order to get to said entrance, dithering about some boyfriend who must be inside cheating on her. I don’t know what to say to these people.

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