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The Dinner

You dream that you are invited to join Donald Trump for dinner at the White House. You are picked up by masked men in dark suits who identify themselves as The Special Guard. At the White House, you are strip-searched and administered an instant Covid-19 test. You are then escorted to the second-floor private dining room.

Trump greets you with the comment that he’s “heard great things about you”. Throughout the evening, he calls you Lenny. Your name is Larry. You enjoy a dinner of Big Macs together, washed down with a fine vintage Diet Coke. The conversation is sparkling, chock full of scintillating bon mots, and a surprising display of humility & self-effacement ("I didn't even know I was Number One on Facebook."). You laugh at what you believe are the appropriate moments and nod your head in agreement at statements that make no sense to you. You let him know that you were a big fan of the New Jersey Generals.

After dinner, entertainment is a screening of "Triumph of the Will". During the movie, Melania slips you a note with two words scribbled on it- "helf me".

At that moment, you have the cathartic realization that your bubble, the small world in which you have heretofore lived, resides inside a much larger bubble. You feel very unsettled.

As parting pleasantries are exchanged, Trump remarks that he knows you will do a great job at CBS. You do not correct him by telling him you are the new White House correspondent for CBC, the Canadian broadcaster.

As you are escorted from the White House by The Special Guard, you promise yourself you will look into taking extension courses at Liberty University.

You wake in the morning in your bed, fully-clothed. The events of the previous night are hazy and you are uncertain if they were real. You reach into your pants pocket and find a crumpled piece of paper. There are two words scribbled on it:

“Helf me.”

❖

Silverado

I dream of scenes from one of my favorite Westerns. The scenes, as they often do in dreams, are familiar and strange at the same time. I’m in the saloon where the bartender is Dr. Anthony Fauci, not Linda Hunt’s character, Stella. 

“Keep your distance, six feet,” Fauci says, “especially from the Sheriff”.

Suddenly, I find myself on a dusty street, face-to-face with the corrupt Sheriff Cobb. I am startled to see that the sheriff is Mitch McConnell, not Brian Dennehy. He pulls his pistol, but I fumble trying to draw mine. I wake before a shot is fired.

I never die in my dreams.