The Dream Machine

Vivid dreams are part and parcel for my sleeping cycle. Here is last night's...

Part The First

Invited to a yacht party, I meet Harrison Ford. He's nice, and listens to me compare and contrast powered yachts to sailboats. He seems to agree that sailboats are superior, or at least more fun. We retire to a boardroom on the yacht for a more private discussion.

"You know," I say, "the first time I saw you I was twelve years old." I wonder why I say this, but I continue. "No, that's probably not true. I have a vague recollection of seeing American Graffiti before Star Wars."

He laughs politely.

I press. "Do you have a production company?"

"Yes." he replies.

"Well, I'd like to come work for you. I don't know what I'd do, but anything would be better than working for the House of Horrors."

He smiles, "Mid-life crisis?"

I shake my head. "Not exactly. Just mid-life non-crisis. I'd welcome a crisis. A crisis would be exciting."

"What can you do?" he asks.

"Well," I dissemble, "I don't know. I can write, maybe, but I don't have a screenplay or anything." I gently lie. I do have a screenplay, or at least an idea for one. Doesn't everyone? But I decide maybe he'd be more interested in me without a screenplay. The very novelty of the idea...

"Hollywood's pretty terrible. Do you want to be famous? Famous sucks."

I shake my head. "Yah, I understand Hollywood's awful. As for being famous. Not really. Revered by my peers or the chic-geek set, perhaps, but not recognizably famous to Billy Joe Bob and Wilma Sue."

"Famous sucks." He repeats. "Look at me."

"You look great, for, what, a hundred and two." I reply.

"I don't live in Hollywood. But, still, look at me." He opens his jacket and his guts spill out.

"That's famous." he says, looking at his intestines on the floor. "It sucks."

Part The Second

I am sitting with a crowd of expectant people on rusting, metal folding chairs in a parking lot. A white satin drape has been pulled across a open garage in the side of a on old red-brick warehouse. A beat-down drummer sits besides the drape, smoking a cigarette. In front of him stands a lonely snaredrum.

A hand appears from behind the satin drape, making an elaborate "OK" signal. The drummer flicks his cigarette away and begins a bombastic drumroll.

"Ladies and gentlemen, members of the International Julie Andrews Fan Club," he begins to shout, "I present to you, live and in-person, Ms. Julie Andrews!" He lifts a kazoo to his mouth and blows a dum-ta-da-dum-ta-dum and the satin curtain is pulled aside.

A matronly plump Julie Andrews in a red gown steps out into the afternoon glare in front of us. We clap. No one stands up.

"Thank you, all." she begins, "Thank you for coming to see me today."

Someone shouts "I love you, Julie!" I look around to see who shouted, but everyone is sitting in stoney silence.

"For my first song, I'd like to sing I loves ya, Porgy."

The drummer-kazoo player pulls out a pianica and begins to blow Gershwin's tune. She sings.

I loves ya Porgy
Don't let him take me
Don't let him handle me
And drive me mad
If you can keep me
Porgy I wanna stay here
With you forever
I got my man

She moves close enough that I can see her liverspots on her arms clearly. I study her matronly arms. They are fleshy, but betray strong muscles underneath. She lifts heavy objects with those arms. I can count the freckles and trace her sinews.

Someday I know
He's comin' back to call me
He's going to handle me and hold me
It's gonna be like dyin' Porgy
But when he calls me
I'll have to go

She's crying now. She comes right up to me and presses her face to mine, transferring her tears to my cheeks. I sit there, frozen. How does one respond to a singing, weeping Julie Andrews when she touches you? I elect to pretend I am dead.

I loves ya Porgy
Don't let him handle me
With his hot hands
If you can keep me
I wanna stay here
With you forever
And ever ever and ever
Ever and ever
Porgy I got my man

She finishes the song, the pianica whimpers off the coda. With the back of her hand, Julie Andrews wipes the snot dribbling out of her nose and snorts.

"That was written by George and Ira Gershwin." she informs us. But now it's just me, Julie Andrews, and the drummer-kazoo-pianica player. It's getting dark.

She sighs and sits down on a rusty chair beside me. Reaching up behind her head, she pulls off her auburn wig, letting her naturally grey hair tumble out. Her mascara is smeared, and that and her wild grey hair make her look very much like a Japanese ghost. The drummer lights another cigarette.

"Did you like it? The song?" she asks.

"I loves ya, Porgy? Yah, I liked it."

"Makes me cry."

"Me, too."

She begins to dismantle herself. The earrings come off and her earlobes fall down and touch her shoulders. She pops the blue contacts out of her eyes, revealing cataracts beneath. With a sharp click, she removes her sparkling white teeth, revealing yellow-grey stumps.

"Did you like the yacht?" shes asks.

"I prefer sailboats."

She turns her back to me and motions for me to help her unzip the dress. I give it a yank, and she steps out, not naked but wearing a flabby grey fleece jogging suit.

"Sailboats are slower." she says, sitting back down and turning her melted face back to me.

I agree. "Yes, but they make you part of themselves. Like riding a horse or playing guitar."

She nods. "Very poetic. Did Harry give you that job?"

"I don't think so. Maybe we're still talking about it."

"Well, did you take a good look at me?" she glances at me. Her cataract-dimmed eyes widen. She smiles, crooked, yellow, black. "I'm famous."