Spicy Dreams, Episode 2

I am freaking out. FREAKING. OUT. I have a job interview 10 minutes from now and I'm at least 30 minutes away from the place of the interview and I haven't even left the house yet. I'm getting things together, shuffling papers into my messenger bag, throwing it in the blue Astro van that I drive, and I'm pealing out of the driveway. 

This isn't good. My first job interview in months and I'm going to be late. There's no getting around it. I'm going to be late, and that's that. Should I even go? What would the point even be? I should just get back in bed.

Yes, I think I should. But at least if I show up late, and try to explain, that will show them I follow through with commitment, and if I am humble enough, that will show I'm willing to take responsibility for my mistakes. Or, at least, that's what I hope.

I had no idea the Astro van could even go this fast! And why does it sound like a Formula One race car? This is weird. 

Even now I know this is just a dream, and weird things happen in dreams, but my subconsciousness, for whatever reason, can't accept that this van could ever do anything impressive, besides not blow up or cost ridiculous amounts of money for gas.

Despite the fact that I was just driving like 200mph, I'm still late by half an hour. But I'm here and it's time to bite the bullet, be a man, and get a job. 

Just explain what happened, be honest, be genuine, if they don't understand that, then they aren't people you want to be working for anyway. 

I grab my messenger bag, exit the Formula One Van, and head for the door of the building where my job interview is, which is oddly featureless… Problem is, I can't find the door… 

What the heck?! Where is the door?

I begin walking around the nondescript building looking for a way inside. Finally, I find a door. Above it reads, Lee's Famous Recipe Chicken. 

What the crap! I'm interviewing for a job at Lee's Chicken… This dream is stupid. I hate this dream. I just want to wake up. Why couldn't I work someplace cool where I'd be successful and respected… I hate my life and my dreams.

I enter through the double doors and I am assaulted with the aroma of fried chicken. It almost knocks me to the ground, it is so overpowering. Struggling to regain composure, I am confronted by a little old lady who asks, "You here for some fried chicken?"

"No, I'm here for a job," apparently. 

She's not alone. In fact, there are about 6 or 7 other old people and they're all licking their lips ominously. I look down, and I am now unreasonably dressed for an interview at Lee's Freaking Recipe Chicken. I have the most expensive pair of shoes I own, shiny, black, fancy and what not. I have a white dress shirt and tie, and a grey v-neck sweater over that. My messenger bag is now a full on leather suitcase, and apparently I'm trying to get a job frying chicken. 

"Oh, I see, well let me take you to your interview."

What? I honestly just thought she was a customer, since she was just amongst the ravenously geriatric chicken eaters, moments ago. Now she works here? Whatever. This is weird.

She leads me along, across the building, my fancy shoes clopping with every step. 

Gosh, they're so fancy and loud! I know they're fancy because fancy things are always loud. That's how you draw attention to the fanciness of things. You make them loud!

Everyone is looking at me now, I suppose its the shoes and all the noise they're making on the… marble floor? Wow, they spared no expense for this chicken place, in particular. Fancy shoes; fancy floor. I can't complain, I guess: it is quite pretty after all.

Suddenly I'm being led down a staircase to where I'm guessing the interview will be. Case after case of stairs passes by. 

How far down does this go? Good lord, they're making chicken in a bunker... This is weird. 

Finally the stairs lead to what seems to be a waiting area outside of what I'm assuming is the office of the manager whom I will be interviewing with. I take a seat and try to collect my thoughts. I glance at my watch. I'm now 40 minutes late. It took a really long time to get down those stairs. I pull papers from my suitcase and begin scanning my resume. My eyes fall upon actual facts from my real life resume; colleges I attended, degrees I've earned, the honor societies I was inducted into, my class standing, my GPA; each detail seemingly impressive in my own eyes.

I was so certain these accomplishments would have taken me further than the bunker basement of Lee's Chicken… This dream is depressing. I am depressed by this stupid dream. 

I bring my eyes up from my resume and find that I have now been joined by other people who are apparently also interviewing for the lucrative opportunity to fry chicken… And they're just kids… One of them even brought his parents, and he's laying across his father's lap, seemingly nervous about his interview. There are kids everywhere, and they all want this job… I should leave, this is getting weird.

"Mark, we're ready for you."

Crap. I should have left. Wait? Where did that voice come from? I have no idea.

Slowly the door to the office swings open in the most menacing manner imaginable. I get up and clop on in with my fancy shoes. Inside I find what is little more than a makeshift office. There is no actual desk, just some file cabinets pulled together in a cluster to provide a broad surface to work with. There are piles of paper everywhere, it is so disorganized. There is a man sitting at the desk and he has absolutely no distinguishing features, almost like the building itself; the only thing I know is that he's a man; no hint of a personality, barely a semblance of humanity; just some guy. The only thing I can tell about him is that he is tall; really tall; taller than me by half a foot.

"Thanks for coming, Mark. Please take a seat." 

Instead of going right into my explanation of why I'm so late, I seek to give him my contact information, for some reason.

"Here's my cell number in case you ever need to contact me," I say with the upmost confidence. I pull from my pocket a ripped up piece of paper, and suddenly regret the offer I have just made. This is so friggen embarrassing. My phone number is scribbled out on a crumpled up Post-It note, accompanied by a crudely drawn cartoon of a duck with a shotgun. 

Whatever. I don't even care anymore. 

I hand him the paper and he studies it in fascination. Then he offers me his info. It's on a white piece of paper, and none of the numbers make sense. They aren't phone numbers, I know that for certain. But I try to not betray the fact that I have no idea what these numbers mean.

"Thanks," I say, hoping my gratitude will convince him I know what is going on.

"If I asked you to tell a lie about the paintings on the wall behind me, what lie would you tell?"

What? What does that even mean? Wait, where did those paintings come from? Why is this dream so freaking weird?

"Umm, great question! Let me study them for a moment." I'm trying to buy myself some time here so I can figure out what the heck is going on. I focus on one of the paintings. It depicts what appears to be a tea party to which animals dressed in tuxedos have attended. I look at a pair of toads which seem to be deeply involved in a conversation. I try to imagine what they are conversing so intensely about. 

"The market share for the crude exports of horse flies have yet to accrue the dividends we expected they would at this late point in the fourth quarter… Whatever shall I do? My portfolio is quite simply rubbish at this point…"

"Quite right," says the other fancy toad.

I focus back on the larger picture. The location of the tea party is by a gentle stream. Surprisingly round stones the size of grapefruits line the bottom of the stream. And there, lounging in the center of it is a giant dragon, grinning maniacally as the gentle current laps against his serpentine body. 

"What I wish people would understand is that when I say 'lie' what I'm really wondering is what the unifying theme is in all these pictures," the nondescript man interposes between my thoughts.

"Right, of course. Well…" I'm struggling to come up with an intelligent answer. "It seems to me that the unifying factor here is that the dragon is the host of the party in each of these paintings."

*interrupting music* 

My phone is ringing outside the dream, and I'm suddenly wakened from the madness. 

Thank God that's over! I never want to dream again!