Quality Snacks

Always the Same Dream

Always the Same Dream In the dream, I’m always eating a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich on the green-line L train when a woman carrying a boa constrictorgetsonatthirty -fifthStreet.Shesitsacrossfrommewearing a bobcat-print pair of stretch pants and a tiger-print top. She has her hair pulled up in an alarmingly vertical ponytail, kind of like PebblesFlintstone,andgetthis,aftersheputsawayhersmartphone and lets the snake wrap itself around a pole, she busts out a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich—just like mine. Ialwayswakeupinsidemybody,onthebed,intheindentation I’ve made in my side of the mattress. My wife and I lie next to each other like Iowa and Nebraska. It takes me hours of driving across myself to reach her, sometimes. There is a cyst in my brain in the left front-temporal region. It appears to be growing. My neurologist is keeping an eye on it. He’s been talking of draining it via needle aspiration or burr hole. If necessary. The doorbell rings and I’m down the stairs in my blue jeans quality snacks / 176 and a T-shirt that I’ve laundered to translucency. I have a job as a metallurgist, but I am home today, taking a breather. At the door is a tall, brown-haired woman with a zig-zagging part down the center of her head. She’s wearing a powder-blue, short-sleeve shirt with navy khakis and a mannish belt. Her tan arms go nicely with the powder-blue. She’s beautiful in a straighthaired , smiley-eyed sort of way. “I’mheretoreadthegasmeter,”shesays.Hernamepatchreads, “Sherrey.” “Never seen it spelled that way,” I say. “Your meter?” she says pointedly. “It’s down in the basement,” I say. “It squeaks when it lets the gas in.” I lead her to the basement door, flick the light switch, and let her go down first. “Watch your head,” I say. In my dream, I am always about to get head from my wife, but something intervenes: all the cupcakes must get frosted, the plane must come to a complete stop at the gate, the jar of tea must steep in the sun. The previous owners walled off a darkroom down here, using up most of the floor space. She squeezes sideways between the laundry table and the staircase to get to the meter. “It squeaks when our gas comes in. I don’t know if that’s a problem or not. It probably isn’t—” My work as a metallurgist often involves determining whether certaincoatingsoncertainmetalswillfailundercertainconditions. It’s possible that the mind-set I cultivate to do this work has contributed to a hyper-conscientiousness, in all things. “It’s the dials on your meter that squeak,” she says. She reads the meter and punches the numbers into a handheld electronic device. “Thank you for helping me make sense of things,” I say. Always the Same Dream / 177· · · When things start to go wrong, there are signs: shouting in the car—check; wishing death for your enemies and massive windfalls for yourself—check; holding yourself hostage until the Stockholm Syndrome kicks in—check. Who would have thought that metallurgical work would pale, after a time? Who would have thought that my efforts to promote positive interpersonal relationships among my colleagues would backfire? Now the break room has become hell and my coworkers have taken to calling me “The Poet,” although I do not read or write poetry. This all started when I asked certain individuals not to bully me or others at our place of work. I have become a sort of interpersonal whistle-blower, on the premises. I fear my expertise in the areas of ferrous metallurgy, heat treating, coatings, nondestructive testing, and failure analysis may not be enough to preserve my job.· · · Everynightit’sthesamedream:Iamjugglingfiresticksinmyliving room when the ceiling catches ablaze. I realize my wife is on the second floor. I yell up the stairs, “Honey, the house is on fire! Time to ramble!” No answer. I leave and walk four blocks to the nearest Walgreens, get a bag of Nacho Doritos, and sit on a concrete wheel stop out front. I call my wife’s cell phone. No answer. Overcome with guilt, I don’t even finish the Doritos. Always the same dream.· · · Every night it’s the same dream: I’m playing in a charity softball game, batting against Abraham Lincoln and Mother Teresa. He’s a rightie and she...