First dream: my wife and I are walking through a store. We come across a man. Bald. Sitting. Glasses. Middle-aged. White. Wearing a blue store vest. In front of him is a conveyor belt.
We stop in puzzlement. What’s this? Oh, it’s the bottle recycling site. As we realize it — talking aloud between ourselves — the man confirms that this is what we’ve stumbled across.
“I don’t have any bottles to recycle right now,” he says. “It’s really slow. Go get your bottles.”
My wife and I discuss. Should we get our bottles? The dream ends.
It’s a reflection of life and first world problems. The bottle recycling landscape has changed. We’ve gone five times to recycle our bottles over the past several months. The lines are longer each time. We arrived just after it opened one time, thinking, hey, we’ll beat the crowd. There wasn’t even parking space. Our bottles — these are the ones for which we paid a deposit — are piling up. People go around collecting them. I say, put them out for them, hon. Hon says, no. She’s tight-fisted; she paid for those bottles. The bottle battle goes on.
I’d finished a manuscript and was looking for a place to type so I could begin the next one. Some unknown person read the ms and said, “This is brilliant.” They asked questions to confirm I was the author.
I answered all of that. Then I said, “I have a million of them,” and continued searching for a place to work. I didn’t have a laptop. People offered me places where there were computers. I tried three different locations. I would start typing but encountered vexing interruptions at each one.
The three people who’d offered me writing sanctuary met with me at an intersection on a flight of stairs. They pressed me to use the facilities they’d offered. I turned them down. I had my laptop now. I said, “I have to go off and do this on my own. But thanks for the offers.”
Then I went off to write.