The actor has graduated from a prestigious conservatory on the East Coast. Owing to a family emergency, he finds himself back home in California for a time, and must find temporary employment in order to fund his return to New York. Casting about for theatrical work that pays, he finds a teaching opportunity in a small town not twenty minutes from his family's home.
He is interviewed by a man several years younger than himself, who seems to doubt the actor's training and qualifications. The actor leaves the interview somewhat shocked that the interviewer only asked if he could teach specific classes and never asked what he could teach. He takes a job with an outfit called, "TheaterSmartiez Theater For Kidz!!!"
Smartiez is run by a somewhat desperate woman in her late forties. Her name is LouAnne. She likes to be called Ann. She specifies, "Ann, A-n-n. Don't pronounce the E."
"Isn't it silent, anyway?"
Long silence.
"I can see you've got a lot of training," she smiles. Genuinely pleased, for some reason. He's uncomfortable, having borrowed his sister's car to drive to this very hot little alleyway in San Jose to pick up the supplies for this theatre class he's supposed to teach. There's no air conditioning in this building, but she is not sweating. On his father's advice, he has worn a suit. It does not fit well. He can feel his sweat soaking through his undershirt, shirt, tie and jacket. But he is afraid to take any of it off in case he has to beat a hasty retreat.
"You've read my resume? That's a relief, the last two people I interviewed with didn't even glance at it," and here he pauses, having looked at the envelope he sent with a fancy resume printed on fancy paper, sealed in a fancy presentation folder with a wax seal. An unbroken wax seal. She hasn't, in fact, seen his resume. The only thing she's read is his cover letter; it's there, on her desk, his phone number circled in red. There's a coffee stain on the resume. She glances at it and she blushes, but it looks more like a spiderwebbing of varicose veins and gin blossoms pulsing across her face under her skin. She laughs and her gums look like she is cultivating plankton under her lips. He is deeply alarmed.
"I didn't need to read your resume, I know you by reputation, Mr. ..." a glance at his last name, "Mr. X."
He is genuinely surprised and a little pleased. "Who did you talk to?"
"The guy at that theatre over there in ... what's the name of that town ... ?"
"Livermore?"
"Yes! Nice man."
"Yes, he is. Want to see my impersonation of him?"
"Sure, another time. Anyway, he said to hire you, so here you are. Now: the box of supplies requires a forty-five dollar deposit on your part and if you don't return them, I keep that forty-five dollars. You'll arrive at the Cherrywood Preparatory Academy in Newark at 3:10 pm, you'll check in at the office and proceed to the cafeteria where you will run a theater program. This is Monday through Friday 3:10 pm to 5:10 pm. If you miss a day, you're fired; if you're late, you're fired; if you swear or blaspheme or touch a kid, you're fired. Miss Smith will be there with you every day as your assistant, and she will watch you like a hawk. Miss Smith reports directly to me. Miss Smith hates homosexuals, so watch yourself."
He's a little shocked, and sits silent for a minute. Then he says, "If Ken had such good things to say about me, why would you think I'd touch a kid?"
She grins. "Standard fare. I have to say that to all of our instructors. Nothing personal."
"Don't you require fingerprinting?"
"Not for after-school programs," she's all business now, putting forms in a folder and putting the folder in a plastic bin full of crafts supplies.
"Why not?"
"The instructors are on campus, the school is there to watch out for the kids, if something goes wrong, it's their responsibility."
She shoves the tub at him.
"Fill out the forms and send them in when the class is complete, you'll get your check 90 days after that."
"Should I sign a contract?"
"Oh! Right, of course," she looks around, a little perplexed. "Where did I put them?" She starts rummaging, mumbling about the newly reorganized office. It does not look reorganized to him. The only newly-anything about it is the newly-settled layer of dust on the piles of paper on the table and file cabinets behind her. She searches for so long, knocks over so many things looking, that he decides to cut it short:
"You know what? Send me the contract. I'll sign it and send it back to you. Here's my money-order for the supplies."
She ceases her search immediately and grabs the money-order, perusing it thoroughly, her beady eyes screwed up like Buddy Hackett. In fact, she looks and acts so much like the old comedian that he chokes back an involuntary laugh. She bends down to put the check in a drawer and farts.
The laughter dies in his soul. The fart has a thick and meaty sound to it, as though it's been squeezed through two very wet slabs of salted beef. It ends with a high, liquid squirt that leaves little to the imagination. The room is filled with the smell of old, old cabbage and musty pumpkins and something deeper, something darker, something like what one would expect to find in a recently-raided crypt.
He can't breathe, he's afraid he'll vomit. He is smiling as hard as he can, pretending he didn't notice as she flaps some papers around in the drawer. He wants to leave, and he can feel the vomit rising as he begins to feel faint from the heat. He is certain he will die if she tries to revive him. Her ineptitude is only surpassed by the odor of her undead flatus.
"Thanks so much, bye!" he gasps out, then turns and runs smack into the door, falling over and hitting his head on the desk, biting his tongue hard as he hits the floor. The last thing he hears before losing consciousness is, "Smith! Get in here!"
He isn't out for long. Or perhaps he dreams it. But Miss Smith, svelte and twenty-something, comes in from another place and there must be air conditioning because the room is cool and it smells nice and she is wearing a white ankle-length skirt and when she steps over him to get water from the cooler he sees that she is wearing no panties and she is a real redhead, au naturel. He is instantly aroused but cannot do anything about it. He's unable to move. Or breathe. Sudden panic hits: he's knocked the wind out of himself! Struggling to breathe, afraid of smelling that fart again, he despairs of ever escaping this small, hot, dusty place. He closes his eyes again, every bad fall from childhood clear in his mind as he fights the panic and makes gasping noises like a dying frog in Death Valley.
The pain eases. He can breathe. He opens his eyes. Miss Smith is indeed a redhead, quite lovely and very hot-for-teacher with her green cat's eye glasses. She is mopping his brow. He smells oranges. He takes an exploratory breath, his lungs aching.
"Where's --"
"LouAnne went to the bank. Thank God. Are you here to pick up your paycheck?"
"No," he tries to move his hands to cover his embarrassment, but there's no way without being obvious or grazing her inner thigh with his knuckle.
"Are you sure? Because I can write you the check right now, I'm authorized," she says, still mopping his brow.
He sits up slightly, she hands him a cup of cool water.
"I haven't started teaching yet. I start Monday," he sips the water and looks at her face, her freckles, her green eyes, her full lips. He wants to ask her to marry him. Instead, he tries to adjust his pants, only enhancing the appearance of his excitement. Her eyes follow his hand, her head tilts and her eyes widen. There is the briefest of deeply pregnant silences. She takes a breath.
"I'll get you your check," and she is gone. He hears typing in the other room as he adjusts himself, tucking it under the band of his boxer-briefs.
Five minutes pass. He sips the water. He feels better. Miss Smith returns and offers him a hand up. She's smiling.
"Here's your check. Take it to the bank today," she hands him an envelope with the check inside, the flap folded inward. She grasps his hand, looks him in the eyes. His pulse leaps. "Today," she says.
He picks up the plastic tub and says, "Thank you, Miss Smith."
She walks him to the door, opens it for him. He is trying to think of something to say. He cannot. He turns once he's outside. She's got the door half-closed, he can only see the right side of her face.
"You're welcome," she says, unblinking eye contact lasting a full ten seconds. Then the door is closed and she locks it. He stands there in the dusk of San Jose, wondering idly how hours had passed. The sun has just set. The OPEN light switches off, the blinds are already closed. The small, brown cinderblock building looks as though it has been abandoned for years.
He walks to his sister's car, hoping to see Miss Smith in the lot. His is the sole vehicle in the freshly-painted lot. He puts the tub in, gets into the car, rolls down all the windows and cranks the air conditioning.
As he is driving North on 880, he begins to feel better. Miss Smith will be at every class, "watching him". He will see her again. He will make a point of never mentioning his angry ex-girlfriend or the broken hearts, mostly his, of his years in Arkham, MA. He drives North with all the windows down, air conditioning off, enjoying the dry heat of a California summer evening.
Consequently, he does not notice that the check flies out the window somewhere around the Tennyson exit.
© 2010, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
Showing posts with label waking life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label waking life. Show all posts
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Ganoderma Lucidum, Part II
Night the First:
I dreamed that I was part of a secret brotherhood like that in Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes, and that I entered the headquarters of this order through a theatrical library (wherein there was a workshop taking place, to which I was not invited; this did not matter, as my goal was the library). The transition is hazy, but next I was in 19th Century clothing, as were the two older gentlemen with me; one was a sort of Grand Master, the other of a slightly lesser rank. Mikado and Pooh-Bah for those of you fond of G&S. Anyway, some huge power was building on the altar, a raised dais with a white podium on it. Whoever stood at the podium when the power reached its zenith would be filled with the power. I realized as I stood there that I was the inheritor of this power, it was meant to come to me. Because of my grandfathers and my father. But I didn't want the responsibility, so I stepped down and then the Mikado jumped up there and began to draw the power to him; it was then we realized that he was evil; perhaps we knew this; I think that the Pooh-Bah was wrestling him away from the dais so I could get up there and when I declined, he took his chance. Pooh-Bah and I had to run, because if we were in the room when the power was released, we would have been destroyed. We ran to the door and into the hallway leading to the street. We were in a building in a city, it felt like San Francisco; the hallway was more modern than the room we had been in. The farther we ran, the harder it became to move. This was because the power was building and would hold us unless we reached the street in time. Pooh-Bah told me this. We had to reach the street. We struggled through the energy -- like running in molasses in January -- and pushed through the glass doors just in time. We were safe. And we were outside in what felt like a warehouse district or Harrison Street in SF near the various onramps to the Bay Bridge. The Pooh-Bah fellow seemed to be a farmer, now, wearing both overalls and formal 19th Century ritual garb. We walked over to his beat up vintage blue truck and I think he told me it was best we get away from there, that we would meet and discuss anon. I went to my car, and was buckling my seatbelt -- or struggling to do so -- when I awoke.
Night the Second:
I was going into a building in New York or SF, hard to tell; it was raining outside, lots of umbrellas, may have been NY. Near the Port Authority, but also elsewhere. Anyway, I had an umbrella and for whatever reason was standing in a green marble hallway making silly with the umbrella, doing tricks and making people laugh when Jack Black walked by. In a very nice tailored grey plaid suit. Only he was also Phillip Seymour Hoffman. And his eyes looked like Matthew Broderick's. So I said, "Hey, Jack Black, has anyone ever told you that you should or could play Matthew Broderick's brother? Because it's true. You should."
Jack said, "Oh yeah, my brother? Why's that?"
"It's the eyes, baby, the eyes!"
He was laughing as we both walked into the office where he was headed; it was his agent's, and his agent and someone else with clout were in the lobby of the office talking; when they saw me talking with Jack, I could feel them wondering who I was. I talked one sentence too long, did not introduce myself; Jack Black seemed a little embarrassed by me. I beat a hasty retreat. I tried doing more silly tricks in the hallway, but did not seem to be able to control the umbrella. And nobody was watching. It was very sad. Then I woke up.
Night the Third:
Driving somewhere in a group, very tired on a winding road, I am in the front of a boatlike car (Cadillac?), but I am waking up. Possibly we are caravaning for some theatrical purpose, and there are two people in the back of the car. They are talking to me, and I am very very sleepy. Having a hard time waking up. Nobody is at the wheel, and I can feel the car drift to either side of the road as I struggle to open my eyes and take control of the car. I know that getting my hands on the wheel and my feet on the pedals is going to help wake me up, but I keep falling back asleep -- it is almost like I am lying down in the front seat, fully prostrate, lifting my head and trying to see over the dashboard at first. The more awake I become, the more upright I am. I begin to panic a little, as the car really is veering slowly from side to side on this downhill, winding road which seems to be in a forested coastal area north of San Francisco; Jenner/Point Reyes somewhere like that; as I force myself up and over into the driver's seat, I am awake and I take control of the car as we come down the road to a fork; I turn right, heading inland, further into the winter forest of coastal California: lots of bare branches, some evergreens, misty, hazy; it is either early morning before sunrise of just after dark; feels more like morning. The two people in the back of the car, who seem to be people I know, congratulate me on taking control of the car.
I am in a Montclair-like neighborhood. I am driving down a street and then walking down a hallway in the house which is our destination; it is where we are staying tonight, and as I walk into a room where two beds (one is perhaps a sofa bed), I know that the two women in the room are topless, possibly in panties. I say, "Ladies? Are you decent?"
"We're decent," says Katie, the redhead. "I would say we're more than decent, Edward Hightower, but we're also quite topless. But you can come in anyway, and rate our decent racks." Something to that effect.
I walk in and they are, indeed, topless; both have lovely breasts. But I am very tired and it's bedtime and I get into the bed which is in the far right corner of the room. I lie down, sleepy again and ready to go to bed. The brunette, who is quite lovely and has smaller breasts, is going to crawl into bed with me. She starts pulling the blankets off the bed,
AND I CAN FEEL -- LITERALLY FEEL!!! -- THE SHEETS COMING OFF THE BED, PULLED AWAY FROM MY LEGS AND TORSO! HOLY SHIT!!! Someone is standing at the base of my bed, pulling the sheets off the bed. And --
**snap**
I'm awake, in bed, eyes closed, realizing it was a dream, wondering who is pulling the sheets off the bed. Is it Veronica? No, I can feel her laying next to me. But, wait, I'm still warm in the bed. The sheets are not being pulled off, but I can still feel where they were sliding away toward my feet.
And suddenly I realize how close I was to lucidity.
Ladies and Gentlemen, join me in this experiment. Let me know if Ganoderma Lucidum has this same effect on you and your dreams. Join me in adventurous lucidity, let us explore the uncharted realms of our dreams. These are places no government can legislate, no dictator can control. All things are possible. And if a hot brunette is crawling lucidly into bed with me, so much the better.
***
Update, 1/11/10:
Small dreams last night, nothing amazing that I remember. No lucidity. Spent yesterday doing mundane tasks, shopping, laundry, dishes. Wonder if this has an effect? Perhaps if I exercise every day, my lucidity factor will skyrocket. A worthy addition to the experiment.
© 2010, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
I dreamed that I was part of a secret brotherhood like that in Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes, and that I entered the headquarters of this order through a theatrical library (wherein there was a workshop taking place, to which I was not invited; this did not matter, as my goal was the library). The transition is hazy, but next I was in 19th Century clothing, as were the two older gentlemen with me; one was a sort of Grand Master, the other of a slightly lesser rank. Mikado and Pooh-Bah for those of you fond of G&S. Anyway, some huge power was building on the altar, a raised dais with a white podium on it. Whoever stood at the podium when the power reached its zenith would be filled with the power. I realized as I stood there that I was the inheritor of this power, it was meant to come to me. Because of my grandfathers and my father. But I didn't want the responsibility, so I stepped down and then the Mikado jumped up there and began to draw the power to him; it was then we realized that he was evil; perhaps we knew this; I think that the Pooh-Bah was wrestling him away from the dais so I could get up there and when I declined, he took his chance. Pooh-Bah and I had to run, because if we were in the room when the power was released, we would have been destroyed. We ran to the door and into the hallway leading to the street. We were in a building in a city, it felt like San Francisco; the hallway was more modern than the room we had been in. The farther we ran, the harder it became to move. This was because the power was building and would hold us unless we reached the street in time. Pooh-Bah told me this. We had to reach the street. We struggled through the energy -- like running in molasses in January -- and pushed through the glass doors just in time. We were safe. And we were outside in what felt like a warehouse district or Harrison Street in SF near the various onramps to the Bay Bridge. The Pooh-Bah fellow seemed to be a farmer, now, wearing both overalls and formal 19th Century ritual garb. We walked over to his beat up vintage blue truck and I think he told me it was best we get away from there, that we would meet and discuss anon. I went to my car, and was buckling my seatbelt -- or struggling to do so -- when I awoke.
Night the Second:
I was going into a building in New York or SF, hard to tell; it was raining outside, lots of umbrellas, may have been NY. Near the Port Authority, but also elsewhere. Anyway, I had an umbrella and for whatever reason was standing in a green marble hallway making silly with the umbrella, doing tricks and making people laugh when Jack Black walked by. In a very nice tailored grey plaid suit. Only he was also Phillip Seymour Hoffman. And his eyes looked like Matthew Broderick's. So I said, "Hey, Jack Black, has anyone ever told you that you should or could play Matthew Broderick's brother? Because it's true. You should."
Jack said, "Oh yeah, my brother? Why's that?"
"It's the eyes, baby, the eyes!"
He was laughing as we both walked into the office where he was headed; it was his agent's, and his agent and someone else with clout were in the lobby of the office talking; when they saw me talking with Jack, I could feel them wondering who I was. I talked one sentence too long, did not introduce myself; Jack Black seemed a little embarrassed by me. I beat a hasty retreat. I tried doing more silly tricks in the hallway, but did not seem to be able to control the umbrella. And nobody was watching. It was very sad. Then I woke up.
Night the Third:
Driving somewhere in a group, very tired on a winding road, I am in the front of a boatlike car (Cadillac?), but I am waking up. Possibly we are caravaning for some theatrical purpose, and there are two people in the back of the car. They are talking to me, and I am very very sleepy. Having a hard time waking up. Nobody is at the wheel, and I can feel the car drift to either side of the road as I struggle to open my eyes and take control of the car. I know that getting my hands on the wheel and my feet on the pedals is going to help wake me up, but I keep falling back asleep -- it is almost like I am lying down in the front seat, fully prostrate, lifting my head and trying to see over the dashboard at first. The more awake I become, the more upright I am. I begin to panic a little, as the car really is veering slowly from side to side on this downhill, winding road which seems to be in a forested coastal area north of San Francisco; Jenner/Point Reyes somewhere like that; as I force myself up and over into the driver's seat, I am awake and I take control of the car as we come down the road to a fork; I turn right, heading inland, further into the winter forest of coastal California: lots of bare branches, some evergreens, misty, hazy; it is either early morning before sunrise of just after dark; feels more like morning. The two people in the back of the car, who seem to be people I know, congratulate me on taking control of the car.
I am in a Montclair-like neighborhood. I am driving down a street and then walking down a hallway in the house which is our destination; it is where we are staying tonight, and as I walk into a room where two beds (one is perhaps a sofa bed), I know that the two women in the room are topless, possibly in panties. I say, "Ladies? Are you decent?"
"We're decent," says Katie, the redhead. "I would say we're more than decent, Edward Hightower, but we're also quite topless. But you can come in anyway, and rate our decent racks." Something to that effect.
I walk in and they are, indeed, topless; both have lovely breasts. But I am very tired and it's bedtime and I get into the bed which is in the far right corner of the room. I lie down, sleepy again and ready to go to bed. The brunette, who is quite lovely and has smaller breasts, is going to crawl into bed with me. She starts pulling the blankets off the bed,
AND I CAN FEEL -- LITERALLY FEEL!!! -- THE SHEETS COMING OFF THE BED, PULLED AWAY FROM MY LEGS AND TORSO! HOLY SHIT!!! Someone is standing at the base of my bed, pulling the sheets off the bed. And --
**snap**
I'm awake, in bed, eyes closed, realizing it was a dream, wondering who is pulling the sheets off the bed. Is it Veronica? No, I can feel her laying next to me. But, wait, I'm still warm in the bed. The sheets are not being pulled off, but I can still feel where they were sliding away toward my feet.
And suddenly I realize how close I was to lucidity.
Ladies and Gentlemen, join me in this experiment. Let me know if Ganoderma Lucidum has this same effect on you and your dreams. Join me in adventurous lucidity, let us explore the uncharted realms of our dreams. These are places no government can legislate, no dictator can control. All things are possible. And if a hot brunette is crawling lucidly into bed with me, so much the better.
***
Update, 1/11/10:
Small dreams last night, nothing amazing that I remember. No lucidity. Spent yesterday doing mundane tasks, shopping, laundry, dishes. Wonder if this has an effect? Perhaps if I exercise every day, my lucidity factor will skyrocket. A worthy addition to the experiment.
© 2010, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
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