Which Is Where We Are Now

I’m driving late at night behind a utility truck. At the Gallows Road and Hummer intersection, the truck lifts up some low hanging wires. I realize there has been a power outage as I go through the intersection. Then, I realize I have my lights out. I turns my lights on, that doesn’t help much.

I see the road in infinitesimal detail. At this rate, I’ll never get home.

I’m in a small, quiet testing facility: something like a hospital room.

I’m the subject of a psychiatric evaluation. There is a young woman doctor administering the tests.

I press buttons on some radio. I listen to some jazz music. There is a button labeled “Jazz”. When I press it, it accentuates the bass in a pleasing way. Is it the button that does this, or is it just the song? No, it’s the button.

Disco music now plays.

Confidently, I approach her and begin to dance with her. It is alright? Yes, we are laughing at life.

She is so light and soft. I spin her round and round in my arms. She is so happy; we are carefree. We know, at one and the same time, how precious life is and how stifling circumstances make things, and we are putting that aside.

I’m at Pizza Hut, eating alone. Should I just leave? I get up to go to the bathroom. When I get up, I see my meal has been bussed.

I’m about to complain when some other people come in and make it hard for me to get a word in; they urgently need to have their order taken. I’m glad I didn’t say anything.

I see Dora. I’m glad to see her and her way. She is studying to be manager. She has packaged up my dinner; it’s just a couple slices of white pizza. I give her a couple reassuring words before I go.

I slog through another day at the Daily Show. I edit word documents. It’s very tedious work.

Then its evening. I’m in the hotel room of Stuart and Colbert doing some menial tasks. Occasionally, they wisk in and out, busy with the show.

Then, I’m in a large airport mall, very posh. I must be on the fifth floor. I look at a new phone to buy. I pick one out, looking at my own phone to view the opinions. Colbert is in the ads for the phones. He talks of the 4th dimension and I crack up because I get the inside joke: it’s a dig a 3dsi, doing one dimension better.

I swipe my card on my own phone to pay. The authorization screen indicates Claudia Anderson. Something is wrong. I tap on the authorization pad. It takes this as a signature.

I’m dismayed. A new saleslady gets a different model phone, one I really want, and takes my card.

“I work for the Daily Show,” I say.

“Oh, is that so. You know Jon Stewart was just given a commendation by the Pope.”

“Well, I used to work for it… not directly, through an office in Fairfax.”

In my parent’s basement (simultaneously on elementary school grounds), I’m teaching a football class. At first, we just play football for a couple downs, which goes pretty well. Then I get a clever idea: I’ll have each student contribute to teaching the class about football between downs, the least knowledgeable teaching the basics (they can be assisted as they teach) and the most knowledgeable teaching the interesting details.

The first forced teacher is one of a couple of Latina women. She can barely speak English. I tell her we are talking about football. Then I realize that that’s confusing because she might be thinking of soccer when she hears football. I say “American football”, but I’m not even sure she understands that. Meanwhile other students — the young, strapping men all ready to play — are getting bored and antsy. They just want to play. Everyone just wants to play and are just stifled being forced to play parts as teachers, especially when fun and the independence of simply playing a game is so close at hand, especially when this little teaching idea is so not working.