food – Page 28 – Michael Seidel, writer

I’d arrived in a foreign country, traveling as part of a group of men, except for one pre-pubescent boy. We were white, except for one black. I was neither leader nor follower. We dressed down a little, in jeans or khakis, and shirts or sweaters, as American tourists. We were going through a large gift shop and museum, killing time, stalling, building our cover. Every now and again as we walked around, I’d look out the large plate glass windows at a flat, featureless landscape under a flat diluted gray sky. Small features, hints of tall buildings and industrial smokestacks, hinted at the world. A few lonely black birds winged through the sky.

Inside, we walked around, gawking like tourists, murmuring at displays of giant stuffed brown bears, cut geodes, and pieces of fossils, evidence of the life that was here before humans took over and dominated. I remember bending down to the young boy to point out a display about a volcano that once erupted in the region.

Then, time for us to move on. We separated. I got into a rental car and drove down a wide, empty road, again killing time until we were to rendezvous. At this point, it becomes a little obscure. I drove across a large, arched bridge to an intersection and parked off to one side by a food truck. I went to the blue food truck where I purchased two chicken sandwiches in flat bread from a swarthy, friendly man. Ice covered the chicken on the sandwich. I met with a small, blond woman and furtively explained to her my theory that the sandwiches being sold at the truck were being used to pass code between foreign agents.

I returned to my car to await the rendezvous, holding onto the sandwiches as my evidence. But I was hungry, so I heated one up on the car’s heater. After tasting it, I thought it was warm enough and was pretty good, so I ate one, and then, as I was still hungry, heated up and began heating the second one. But then I realized that I needed to hold onto it as evidence, so I stopped after two bites. Examining that sandwich, I concluded that I still have the evidence.

Dream end.

I awoke at about half past darkness with a dream in mind. Realized that I was writing in my dream.

I went over what I’d written. Considered rising to capture it. Decided not to. Resumed sleep.

Awoke in the morning. Went through dreams while doing light exercising and stretching. Daily ritual. The cats assumed the position. Stared fixedly with misery. Tucker seized a more active approach. Moved over and sat on my foot. Looked up at me. Eyes big. Waiting. Expectant. Give a little, “Mello,” in a friendly baritone.

Done with exercising, feeding cats was necessary before starvation took them. We went down the hall, they with eager anticipation, me with resignation. Cleaned out bowls — “You never even finished what I fed you last night” — opened a can. Doled out the wet food. Refilled the kibble stations. Cleaned and filled the water stations.

Coffee was brewed. Before it finished, I was back with the dream writing stuff. Headed to the computer. Wrote for an hour. Surprising how fresh and clear it had remained. Got up when my Fitbit reminded me that it was time to move. Remembered my coffee. Now cold. Drank some anyway. My taste buds immediately sent notices that this was unacceptable. I nuked the coffee hot. The taste buds were appalled.

Writing in my head was still happening. Hadn’t eaten yet but the muses were strong. So, despite the stomach’s increasingly vocal demands, I made fresh coffee and returned to the keyboard. Got back into the rhythm.

Half the coffee remains. It’s almost cold. Mug radiates an ant watt of warmth. Taste buds are not overly pleased with the dark fluid’s progress over their realm.

But it all works. Coffee and dreams. At least, today. Time to eat, according to my stomach. Get some real coffee, too, the taste buds request. Something hot and dark, please.