Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
The coffee shop is full of refugees, if you will. The roads heading south into northern California, Interstate 5 and Highway 101, are closed for a blizzard. Several groups exchanged tales. They expected rain — it’s spring, you know — but they didn’t expect this snow. I feel for them and their disrupted plans, but they have phones and computers, and a comfortable place with okay food and good coffee.
The place has become packed, and of course, their vibe is totally different from the rest of us.
Several friends, Bob and Ellis, were in the coffee shop, sitting at a table a few feet away. Both are regulars. Bob comes in and does the Times crossword puzzle every day.
He shouted to Ellis, “I can’t get this clue. Can you help? It says, James Coburn film, In Like. I don’t know what it is. Do you know?”
“What is it?” Ellis shouted back.
Bob shouted his request again.
Sitting nearby, Michael shouted, “In Like Flint, Bob.”
Ellis said, “Let me think.”
Michael shouted, “In Like Flint.”
Bob and Ellis looked at Michael. “What’s that?” Bob asked.
“In Like Flint.”
“Flynn fits.” Bob looked at Ellis. “You ever hear of that?”
“It seems familiar,” Ellis replied.
Bob beamed at Michael. “It fits. Thanks, Michael.”
“You’re welcome,” Michael answered. “Sometimes it takes a community.”
He and his wife have a friend, Heather, a fake name for this tale. Heather is an actor. Heather’s best friend in New York, where she lives, is also an actor. Heather’s friend is a regular on a TV show he and his wife enjoy watching. Whenever Heather’s friend comes on for the first time on the show, one of them will say, “There’s Heather’s friend.”
Three dreams recalled from last night.
Bottle of whiskey.
The stone-lined path.
Wanted.
Bottle of whiskey. I was with dreams friends — folks known in a dream but not in RL. My dream wife was with me, and we were visiting in one of their homes. It was the collection point, for we were going out to dinner and then have some drinks and fun somewhere. It was a small group, just six or seven people, and the place where we met was a tidy but small, modern apartment.
We were sitting around a table with a white cloth covering it. The host entered. Opening a package, he said, “I got this in the mail today. It’s a prize I won.” He unboxed a crystal bottle of whiskey.
All were impressed. He poured his each a tumbler of his prize for us to sample. I drank mine and thought was amazing. So smooth, and slightly sweet. He offered more, which I accepted. Then, time to go. We walked down to a restaurant with my buddy taking his prize whiskey along. When he reached the restaurant, he poured other fluid into his whiskey bottle, appalling me. I wanted no more after that. Then, the, the bottle changed, with the bottle’s bottom growing rounder, until it would no longer stand upright, but tipped over. After the bottle was straightened three times, it fell over and broke.
The end.
The stone-lined path. I was out with my father, who was with others. I saw him and decided I wanted to avoid him. I could do this because we were outside, under an Interstate bridge. Huge pylons were holding it up. I kept hiding behind them.
Dad was busy doing something. Curiosity bettering me, I craned out to see. He had made a three-foot wide path in the dirt. Now he was lining it with rocks which he found. Seeing me, he called out, “Come help me, Michael. You’ll be good at this.” I went and began helping him lay the stones. While I was doing that, he took me and held me close to him. I felt embarrassed. He said, “I know that you avoid me but I want you to know how much I love you and how proud you make me feel.”
Dream end.
Wanted.
My wife and I were living in a small and cluttered apartment. We delivered a disagreement about how things should be arranged, so I said, I’m going to live in another place.
I left and went down a broad staircase, looking for another place. Women began approaching me, appealing to me to have sex. Some became very aggressive, shoving themselves against me, grabbing me, or passionately trying to kiss me. I kept telling them, “No, this is not going to happen.” They would give up and others would show up.
I went back up to my apartment with my wife. She was happily going about, doing something, dressed in her sweat clothes. I remained irritated with her and asked why she was acting as she was. She didn’t answer, so I left in exasperation. Another woman, in a white sundress with auburn curls highlighted blonde, told me that she wanted to take my clothes off and suggested with go back to her place. I told her, “No. Just leave me alone.”
Dream end
She said, “Where are my car keys?”
It’s a funny question these days. One car just has an electronic fob, a key contained within it for emergencies. Just one key, though. Her car, older, also has one key, with a fob. The house keys are separate — two, one for the house, and one for the mailbox — on a separate ring. They use garage door openers so she considers the house keys as superfluous and doesn’t take them.
He asked, “Why do you use the plural?” He knew why. He was just causing trouble.
She knew. “I don’t have time for you now. I’m already late. Help me find my keys.”
He went to her purse, opened it, and pulled out her key. “This it?”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Your purse.”
“I already checked it. Well, thanks, got to go.” She took the key and pecked his cheek. “Love you, bye.”
She was out and gone. He sniffed once. “Well, it is just one key, not keys.”
The cat looked at him and yawned.
“Some boy’s bike broke down in front of our house,” she said.
He looked out the window. “Or he pretended to break down so he can spy on us.”
A car pulled up. The driver and pax began chatting with the boy. He responded.
She said, “It looks like his parent is talking to him.”
“Or, some stranger is trying to pick him up.”
The first found me alone, waiting for my wife. She’d been with me and then went off with her friends without saying anything. Her absence deeply aggravated me. As time passed and she didn’t appear, I began collecting papers. Don’t know what they were in RL but they were real and meaningful to me in the dream. At one point, I thought that I would kill one of her friends, blaming her for my wife’s absence. Although I wrote up plans, I knew that was wrong. I wasn’t going to kill anyone else. Maybe I should kill myself, though, the dream me thought.
My wife returned, bubbly, happy, late. Outraged stirred me. Her friend saw my notes and said, “Oh my god, he’s planning to kill me.”
I threw papers aside. “I’m not. Don’t you understand? I was on the verge of killing myself.” Sobs hit me with that declaration.
My wife was stricken. She stared in shock for several long seconds, and then she was gone again. That infuriated me but the dream ended.
I was at work as some corporate drone. I complained to my boss and co-workers that I felt useless, underemployed, and dissatisfied, and that it was draining me. My boss responded by trading me to another company. As the trade was completed, I expressed disbelief, and then was told to go to my new place of employment, which was in another city.
I went there with two other people, who already worked for my new employer. Arriving, I was given a desk and equipment. I complained, though, excuse me, what is my role? Who is my supervisor? Do I supervise anyone? I was answered, “What do you want to do? What have you done in the past?”
I tried answering, enumerating my different positions, employers, etc., which just seemed to depress me. I finished by saying, “You moved me to another city. I don’t know if I want to move. I don’t know if my wife wants to move.” Someone suggested, “Maybe we can get her a job,” and then chatted about that.
The dream ended with nothing resolved.
He and his wife have stacks, piles, and cases of books. Some were bought at garage and yard sales because they look interesting, on deck, waiting to be read. Classics gather dust on shelves. Library books fill the TBR piles on nightstands and desks, along with books recommended by others, gifts, books written by friends, new releases by favorites, debuts which intrigue, and books waiting to be given to others, added to little libraries, or donated to charities. Finally are the books read and enjoyed, kept on hand for surviving the apocalypse.
Another coffee shop patron entered. Heavy cologne scents rippled out from him. After thirty minutes, he went out and smoke a cigarette. Now cologne corrupted by stale cigarette smoke spread from him like an environmental disaster’s odor.
Michael Seidel, writer 