Last night’s dream has me perplexed but no more than usual; I’m surprised by neither the content of my dreams nor their occurrence in the first place. I relate some of them merely as a service to students of abnormal psychology or other relevant scientific fields.
The dream began with Calvin and me entering an office building, on our way to the studio where we were to be guests on Jim Belushi’s radio program.
(I am not personally acquainted with Jim Belushi. I saw him in the Century Mall in Chicago, sometime around 1985, as he exited the video arcade in the shopping center’s basement, holding the hand of—I presume and sincerely hope—his young son. And eight or ten years ago I was in his company, and Governor Schwarzenegger’s, on an evening trip to rural central California for a political fundraiser.)
When we arrived at the radio station, someone pointed to a door and told us to go on in, which we did. Mr. Belushi sat behind a big panel of electronic equipment, large headphones covering his ears like Princess Leia’s buns. The room was ringed by sofas, chairs and tables…small tables such as Starbucks stores reserve for disabled people.
No one acknowledged us when we arrived in the studio, though Mr. Belushi looked up and appeared to nod in our direction as he spoke into his microphone.
I was surprised to see, sitting at a table on my left and absorbed in his laptop computer, a news reporter named Frank Stoltze. Mr. Stoltze, with whom I most definitely am personally acquainted, is an accomplished and well-known member of the news team at KPCC (89.3 FM), one of the public radio stations in Los Angeles.
I walked over and tapped him on his shoulder and said, “Hey.” He looked up at me but the flat expression on his face did not change. He looked back at his computer screen.
Calvin and I then departed the radio studio. Later, though, we somehow acquired the knowledge that were we supposed to return to Mr. Belushi’s studio, so we headed back. Upon arrival at the office reception area, however, we were surprised not to be led to the studio again. Instead, the receptionist told us that our assignment was to deliver a dozen cronuts, I don’t know to whom.
We headed through the reception area to the office’s service door where, sure enough, a white box, such as might be used when you buy a dozen donuts, sat on the counter. I opened the box and was aghast to see only six cronuts.
“There are only six!” I cried.
I looked up and noticed two young men—interns, likely—licking their fingers. “Sure, we ate ’em,” one of them remarked casually as he moistened a middle finger and used it to dab sugar from the bottom of the cronut box.
“Whaaaat?” I cried.
That is the point in the dream when I woke up.