Good dreams that make you wonder

Les Rolston
Posted 2/3/15

I was early to work in my office one morning. I had worked in this second floor office for fifteen years but I walked by a door I hadn’t noticed before. I was alone in the office and out of …

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Good dreams that make you wonder

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I was early to work in my office one morning. I had worked in this second floor office for fifteen years but I walked by a door I hadn’t noticed before. I was alone in the office and out of curiosity I turned the doorknob. There I saw a man sitting at a table wearing headphones, oblivious to my intrusion.

The man seemed content with his situation but suddenly turned in his chair and smiled at me. He said, “Don’t you just love Tommy Dorsey?”  Being somewhat of a musicologist myself I couldn’t help but reply, “I love the old big bands too.”

Quickly I realized this gentleman was a former co-worker who I hadn’t seen in a couple of years. He stood up and with a smile that I thought would crack his head in half he hugged me and said, “I’ve really missed you!”

Someone else entered the room as other employees were showing up for work. It was a friend named Bill. The three of chatted for less than a minute when it hit me – the man listening to Tommy Dorsey’s Band was John. But this couldn’t be because he had passed away three years previous to this encounter. It made no sense.

But I had to ask, “John, where do you live now?” He seemed confused for a moment but softly answered, “I live on a mountain. But all the trees look the same.”

Other people joined us in the same room and my friend Debbie asked me for seven dollars. I asked, “Why?” Everyone in the room laughed. She informed me with a smile, “It’s for John you Boo-Boo head!” All of us left the room never to see John again. I was wondering why he couldn’t come. “Weren’t we taking him to a party for him?”

I woke up but fell asleep again a few minutes later. Only once before in my life did a dream sequence resume after waking. But here it was – my friends and I are in a big room with ceilings that seem to reach into the heavens with the biggest windows we’ve ever seen.

I was carrying clothing, some shirts and pants, not in a bag but on my right arm. “Why am I here? What is happening to me?” I was handed a plate of pork ribs and Debbie asked if she could have some. It was awkward. I didn’t want her to know that I was holding my laundry but made the best effort to share our treat.

Someone handed me a tiny piece cardboard, which looked like it came from a cigarette pack. Written in pencil was a phone number. I asked, “What is this?” And I was told, “We don’t know but Mrs. Blaster wants you to call her right away.”

Mrs. Blaster! Who the hell is she and who has a name like Mrs. Blaster!

I had some difficulty manipulating the buttons on my cell phone because I was still holding my laundry in my right hand. Finally, I got a ring tone. Someone answered but didn’t speak. Anxiously I asked, “Is this Mrs. Blaster?” There was an unusually long pause as if there was a disconnection. A voice eventually came into my ear sounding disinterested in my call but responding, “Yes, this is Mrs. Blaster.”

“I was told to call you.” I was between consciousness and a dream state and was thinking that this is no longer a dream – this is real. What followed was another irritating wait for a response. “She’s not doing well,” Mrs. Blaster told me.

I thought of the months my mother had spent in a nursing home before succumbing to Alzheimer’s disease. “You are wrong. My mother died years ago,” I insisted.

I have been estranged from my only sibling, a sister, for several years. I seldom think of her but when I do it is always of our better moments when we were children.

Mrs. Blaster spoke without emotion, “No, it’s your sister who’s not well.” Every emotion I’d felt in my life raced through my heart and mind.

“Where is she?” I demanded. Blaster hesitated even longer to respond as if she was checking her records and being certain that she had the right person on the phone. It was like talking to a police dispatcher.

“It doesn’t matter. You’ve passed her,” the voice on the phone said. Okay, I get it, it is me who is the deceased after all. 

It was nearly dawn and the dream ebbed away, slowly.

“Was it a dream?” I rubbed a finger and a thumb together to feel life – something, anything.

At 7:30 that same morning the bedroom door opened. I was awakened by the person I love most in this world. She put a cup of coffee in my hands. Every day at this same moment I see her face and feel so at home, at peace, and loved. But on this morning it meant even more.

It was, after all, just a good dream.

 

Author’s note: The day of this dream I had seen an obituary anniversary memorial for my friend John in a newspaper laid open on a co-workers desk in my office building. Thanksgiving had passed a few days earlier, and I was debating whether or not to contact my sister after so many years.

 

Dream on everyone.

Editor’s note: Les Rolston works for the Warwick Building Department. He is a historian and the author of several books. He dated this submission, Dec. 4, 2013.

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