As a bit of a preface to this - my first - dreamlog…
Working at an ice company not only includes delivering the ice to fill the ice merchandisers, but also maintaining and repairing said ice merchandisers, when necessary. Since it's winter time, we're delivering less ice (although more than you'd expect), so we have time to get other stuff done. This past week (and all next week, and most likely the following as well) my 40+ hours have been spent running ice routes, and cleaning the condensers on all the boxes we own, along with cleaning the outsides of the boxes, checking for any mechanical and electrical problems, and of course, making a mental note as to how much ice is left. This sucks, quite frankly, and anything going wrong only makes it worse…
My first stop on Thursday morning was a Rutter's convenience store in Fayetteville, PA. I was just finishing up work when the lights went out. "This is unique," I thought. Everybody else apparently thought the same. The gas stopped pumping, the cash register wouldn't open. Thankful that I was done and could leave, I chirped in, "And I thought this only happens in California." I laughed. Nobody else did. Maybe because I was working in BFE.
Anyway, I carried the first load of stuff out to the truck, and come back for my ladder. The doors are locked, I can't get in. I knock, not exactly expecting anybody to answer. I knocked some more, and finally go back to the truck to retrieve my master route list, which I used to get the number of the place, and proceeded to call them with my trusty StarTAC. The conversation was short and to the point, since I was pretty pissed off.
"I'm the ice man, standing outside your doors, which are now locked. You've got my ladder in there, and I want it back."
To which she responded, "Okay."
Knowing this… it won't be so odd as to hear what I dreamt up that night.
I'm sure I was dreaming other things, but my remembrance starts somewhere around this:
I'm in an old gas station, like those Gulf stations that dot the land. Big glass windows in the front, 2 pumps outside, really old pumps, with old people pumping gas into even older cars and trucks. The place was just plain old, and signs of its age where all over the place. Leaves piled around the edges of the lot, brown stuff on the windows, rust on anything that was metal, and white paint turned yellow with age. Lots of leaves too, there was a lot of leaves.
I'm also a lot younger than I am now, and I have 3 friends with me. Nate, Allen, and Evan, the 3 guys I used to hang out with a lot back in my grade school days. My bestest friends, if you will. I'd guess I was about 12 years old in my dream, which would make everybody else 11. Despite our young age though, we're in charge of this gas station - but not really.
We were all locked in the gas station.
At some point, I was on the phone with the boss, telling him the place was locked, and looking at the bolt that locked the door. And people were still outside, pumping gas, and leaves were blowing. The people would come to find the door locked, and they'd seemingly think nothing of it. They all put the money they owed into a drop box near the door, the door I was standing behind, the door that was locked. I'm still on the phone with my boss, telling him the door is locked, and telling him that the people are still paying for the gas, like the good souls they are. But my boss doesn't seem to care either, he's lost in whenever he does when he's not at work. For some reason, I don't want the people to see me, or Nate, Allen, and Evan, so I'm ducking behind the door. As if that really made any difference… they knew I was there, they knew the place was locked, but they didn't care.
Then, Nate, Allen, Evan, and myself, are running down the street, away from the gas station, having the time of our lives. Each of us carries some type of toy gun, mostly of the rubber band kind. We're shooting at each other, and yelling, and laughing, and leaves are still blowing, and there's an old man walking down the other side of the street, carrying a GAP bag (??).
And the background music to all of this was "A Reminder" by Radiohead.
If I get old
I will not give in.
And if I do
Remind me of this.
Once I was free
Once I was cool
Once I was me.
And then my alarm clock woke me up, as it always does, and I shook my head and wondered, just before my feet hit the cold, hard concrete floor.
How can you downvote a dream log? Is there such a thing as a dream not worth having?
I think not. I think maybe you, whoever you are, don't dream enough.