Tag: ticket

The Stolen Baby Dream

I was at a white counter buying a ticket for a train trip. As I waited at the counter, I saw a baby. Wrapped up in blue blankets and cap, it looked like a burrito and was only the size of a burrito.

The station was crowded and busy. Having procured my ticket, I realized no one was looking after the baby, so I took him and got on the train.

The baby was sleeping. Getting off at a stop, I set the baby down and ate lunch. The baby awoke, so I fed him. I was thinking about what I’d done. Guilt and shame seized me. What had I done? What did I do? What was I thinking? I needed to return the baby to his family.

But the baby was gone.

I didn’t understand how that was possible. A short, frantic search found him a few feet away in the grass. I gave him water and he went to sleep.

Although I didn’t want to get into trouble, I got onto the train and went back, arriving at the station as a search for the child was underway. I went to the station agent, a black woman. “I found this baby,” I said.

She was happy, telling me they’d be looking for him. I raced away before I could be questioned.

I wanted to buy a bag of candy. Cutting back though the train station, I heard the story about me finding and returning the baby. Avoiding everyone possible, I purchase a large bag of red licorice and left.

Rain was falling and it was dark. Cutting across the traffic, I went up a steep street toward a university. Buses were parked in the streets, blocking the way. Someone asked me where I was going. I replied, “I need to find a place to stop.” He answered, “You can’t park here. This is for school buses.”

Stopping, I fabricated signs with the name of a school on it. Then I found an empty space and placed the signs in it to reserve the space. The same man as before said, “You’re with a school?”

“Yes,” I lied without remorse. I was doing what I needed to do.

 

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The Ticket Dream

The Beatles’ “Ticket to Ride” started streaming in my head as soon as I awoke and thought about this dream.

To begin. I was alone in my car. My wife was away. I was going to see a local play. It was a big, annual event.

First, I was dismayed because I was waiting for a parking spot and someone else drive in and took it. As I complained about that, I discovered a lot more — and better — parking available. I was pleased as I parked.

I then went to a machine to purchase my ticket. That would reserve my right to see the show. I put twenty dollars in the machine and then realized that that would give me two tickets when I only needed one. Riding the roller coaster again, I frothed at myself and what I’d done.

I walked to the theater’s entrance see what plays were available. Two were running. After deciding which to see, I went back to the machine. I put my ticket in and selected my play. It spit out my new ticket, and five dollars. I didn’t understand why I was getting five dollars back but I was happy about it.

I headed for the door through the throngs of people. Most were moving slow; impatient, I cut around a group of four men, telling them, “Excuse me,” as I did, as one veered into my path.

That guy laughed. “Oh, look at this guy, hurrying, like he’s special, like we’re not all going to the same place.”

He, a bald, bearded, stocky white man, irritated me, but I put that behind me and got in line. We advanced until I was the next one in line. Then the ticket taker, a young, tall man in a red uniform, announced, “I’m sorry, everyone. I’m afraid that I have to announce that there are no more seats. The theater is closed. I’m sorry.”

Protests about having tickets rose. The young man spoke directly to me. “They do this every year. They oversell tickets and then people are turned away at the door.”

Disappointed, I made my way to the my car and then went off.

Using dream rules, I was now in a huge, crowded room. I had a twin bed with a light blue bedspread, one of hundreds, maybe thousands, of such beds.

I was kneeling by my bed when the four men came up who I’d passed before. The bearded one sat down on my bed. “Hey, get off my bed please,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I want to use it.”

“Can’t we both use it?” He had a large plate of food. Saying, “Here, have some food,” he pour a huge portion of spaghetti and sauce onto my bed.

I asked, “Why’d you do that? I don’t want that. I’ve already eaten.”

“I just wanted to share with you.”

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry. I’ve already eaten. Besides, if you were giving me food, pouring cooked food on my bedspread isn’t the way to do it. I have to sleep here.”

He was mumbling something back. I was attempting to move the spaghetti. Noticing some partially eaten chicken parm, I was tempted to eat some of the food but pushed against that idea.

The guy began cleaning up, but he made a mess of it. The ticket taker came by to chat with me. Seeing the mess, he summoned someone to help clean it up. As that was happening, he apologized for the ticket situation. He said, “They do this every year. They really need to fix it.”

A manager, a Hispanic woman in a skirt and white top came by to see what was going on. Seeing her, the ticket taker told her that he was just telling me about the tickets. “They really need to fix it.”

The woman agreed. “They do.”

A tall and bald white man wearing glasses, came by. The woman told me and the ticket taker that he was the senior manager. Then she addressed the man. “When are they going to fix the ticket problem? Every year, they sell too many tickets, and we turn people away at the door. Why does this happen? It doesn’t need to.”

“We are going to fix it. You’re in charge.”

The woman was taken back. “What are you saying?”

“I’m telling you that the board met just now, and they’ve delegated authority to you to come up with a plan and fix the problem.” The man walked off.

Pleased, the woman looked at me. “Well, there you go. I’m going to fix it.”

The dream ended. Cue the Beatles.

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The Ticket Dream

This was an ironic, humorous dream for me.

I was in a huge airport terminal. It was day. I’d been traveling all over, mostly alone, as was my case during my careers. Now I was going home. But where was home? How was I getting there? I didn’t know either of these answers.

As others left, I searched through my baggage to figure out where I was supposed to be going. While I was doing this, a female airline employee walked up and talked to different people. I prepared to approach her to ask for help. But as I did, she turned and pointed to me. “You’re going on the eleven nineteen,” she said.

I was impressed that she knew that, and thankful. After she said it, I discovered a ticket in my baggage. The ticket was one of those antiquated styles, with a card back and several tissue-thin layers separated with carbon paper. Pleased and relieved, I had my ticket. I just had to wait for my flight.

It was apparently going to be a long wait. Flights were called; people departed, and I remained. I kept losing my ticket in my paperwork. Back in paper days, I would create a folder for my travel. It would have my boarding passes, tickets, baggage claims, agendas, orders (when I was military), et cetera. As others left, I became anxious. To relieve my anxiety, I’d check my ticket. Each time I pulled out my folder to consult my ticket, the ticket was gone. Then I’d go through a mad hunt, emptying my bags and searching for my ticket. Each time, though, I wouldn’t find it, until – surprise! – I found it in my paperwork.

I moved closer to the customer service desk where the woman worked. At one point, she saw me, pointed, and said, “You’re going on the eleven nineteen. Your flight is soon.”

My wife arrived, surprising me. “How did you get here?” I said.

She was smiling. “My boyfriend drove me.” Her expression told me she was joking.

Tired, I wasn’t in a joking mood. “Well, did you boyfriend give you a way to get home? I’m on the eleven nineteen. My flight is soon.”

She held up a ticket. “I know. I’m on it.”

“How’d you do that? The flight was full.”

She didn’t say. At this point, I slipped into enough consciousness that I knew this was a dream. It reminded me a lot of some of my travels, but the part that struck me as ironic and humorous was that my ticket kept getting lost in my paperwork. I thought, that’s pretty funny for a writer.

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