Perchance to Dream
Last night I dreamed I was entering a beachfront bar when Susan Sarandon approached me and said hello. I was surprised she remembered me. (In the subtext of the dream, we had apparently met briefly or worked on a film set together once.)
After a moment it became apparent that she wasn’t merely being gracious but actually wanted to continue our conversation, so I asked if I could buy her a drink.
At the bar we ordered, and as I opened my wallet I discovered I had misplaced my credit card. So I reached for cash, and instead of a couple of neatly folded 20s, I produced a wadded-up fistful of small bills, counting to make sure I had enough, then handing the lump of cash to the bartender, as though I was a 9-year-old who had been saving up his allowance, not to put toward a baseball mitt or a new bike but to buy drinks for Susan Sarandon.
This has been a story about how even in my most sensational dreams I exude the same suave, worldly sophistication I possess in my waking life.
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