Dream S

by zenquaker

I screwed up at work so they have me working retail at a convention to make up for it. Our booth is like a yard sale table on the side of Rose Hill Drive, which everyone uses to drive out of the convention. I’m working there with the younger of my two sisters, my brother, and Possible Substance. It’s Possible Substance’s fault that I screwed things up at work, and I’m still mad at him.

Somehow I’ve been roped into playing a game with him. It’s got a stadium and straight track outside the stadium. I don’t understand the rules, but my brother does, so he’s adjudicating. The outside of the stadium has numbers on it, which you have to have to hit by shooting shaving cream out of a can. Then you can roll a die which is like two dice glued together and stretched out, which can modify the number you hit. That determines how many squares you move on the track.

It’s the second turn of the game and I did really badly on the first turn. I look down at the track and see that I need a seven. Looking at the stadium, all the numbers are over ten (which I know is bad), except for the seven. The numbers are embossed in the plastic, and the seven has little blue arrows pointing at it. I aim carefully, realizing I was too close when I shot on the first turn. This time I manage to hit the seven exactly, but now it looks like a six written on a little piece of green chalk board and attached to the stadium. This is odd, and makes me think that Possible Substance is cheating.

Before I can argue the point, my sister reminds me it’s time to pay up. She’s under the table, where she’s set up a rack under an adjoining table. It has a bunch of clipboards on the rack where she keeps track of everything. I give her two twenties. I have to pay her $40 every day so that my nephew (her son) can stay in school.

Right as I pay her I realize that I forgot to track data for the day. So I start running up the street, uphill toward Preston Avenue, but there’s a point where a wall comes up to the street and there’s too much traffic. Finally I see a gap and run around the wall, but there’s another car coming that I didn’t see. It’s a brown Morris Mini with a British flag on the roof in shades of brown. There’s another lane on the other side of the wall and I dodge into that, but the Mini drives into it too. But then he drives up on to the hill next to the road. I can see that the people whose yard it is have cut up two or three threes, leaving neat, conical holes in the ground, the bright brown of the earth contrasting with the bright green of the grass.

The Mini turns and drive back onto the road, coming right at me. But it’s only a Mini so I jump over it. I run about a block and a half up the street and cross over to the other side where the house I grew up in is. I go around the far side to the backyard, where the clipboard with my data on it is under a rusty swing set that we never had. I think I’ve forgotten a weeks worth of data, but comparing my watch and the clipboard I see that I only missed yesterday. My watch has some white cube spinning slowly around the outer edge, but I can’t remember what it means. I write down the date and the number (I don’t remember what it means now, but I knew in the dream). I know I’m supposed to write down something else, but I can’t remember what it is.

I’m trying to work out what I’ve forgotten when I wake up.

It should be noted that the house I grew up in is on Concord, not Rose Hill.