Forecast (A Premonition)
Today I took a nap
for only an hour,
set an alarm
and all that.
-and in that hour,
I had the most
surreal dream:
FORTY-FOUR
By J. Rand
I’m me. Young me.
The me I am now.
Only- it’s the future,
and I’m getting a
free glance at
what’s going
to happen.
-and somehow,
I KNOW-
this is all true.
I’m standing in a grocery store,
a massive Wal-Mart, warehouse-style
and I’m flipping through DVDs on the wall.
They’re collections-
a single disc holds:
“The Complete Lord of the Rings Series”
“The Full Works of Stephen Spielberg”
“The Daily Show; 1997-2017”
Suddenly I’m walking down my driveway-
in the middle of the woods, springtime,
and it’s this ranch-style house, built
into the side of a hill by a river.
This snub-nose bulldog is barking at me,
there are cats everywhere, all over the place.
I walk in through the back sliding door,
and there’s this big guy waiting for me.
I call him Bob, but that wasn’t his name-
he’s got white hair, weighs about 300 lbs.
-reminds me of Tony, but it wasn’t him.
“You’re late for work- you gotta get on air!”
he yells, dragging me to the bathroom
where there’s a big screen on the wall-
with a bunch of digital graphs and charts.
On the radio- there’s a guy with an accent
shouting real loud, like Mussolini or somethin’
I’m forced to push a button, and suddenly
I’m on the radio, broadcasting LIVE.
-but there’s this number, a percentage
and every time I say something,
it rises and falls- like a rating system
only it’s a fraction of a percent;
(somewhere between 0.15% - 0.20%)
-I don’t know what to do, so I say:
“Is this it? This is what I do?
Sit around and get ratings?
What a waste of time!”
(The percent goes up)
“I… I can’t do this,
I’m sorry.”
(The percent drops
down to red)
-and I sit on the can,
dumbfounded.
Bob shrugs and turns on the shower,
right there in front of me, he climbs in-
fully clothed, mind you, so I leave.
In the livingroom, I find my wife.
She’s this petite blonde,
looking great for her age,
sporting a neo-beehive hairdo.
She’s with this fat, acne ridden
teenage kid, who’s clearly Bob’s son.
-they’re both eating crackers, watching TV.
I go to say something-
cause she’s my wife,
and it’s not every day
you get to meet her
before you MEET her-
you know?
But I hear laughter in the other room,
so I go to see who it is-
and it’s my daughter.
She’s with this kid- a boyfriend,
they’re in the media room, a second TV.
She’s about fourteen, and absolutely gorgeous-
she could be a model, y’know? Long brown hair,
slim figure, the kind of laugh that would make
anyone go see who it was.
-heartwarming, right?
The boyfriend’s okay-
the kind of kid I would
let date my daughter.
It seemed so real.
-so I left them alone.
I go back to my wife, who’s
in the livingroom, by herself, eating crackers.
-and of all the things I could ask, I say:
“Honey… what do I do for a living?”
“Hm?”
“What’s my job? What do I do?”
“I’m not really sure. Something in marketing.”
“Am I good at it?”
“Better than Bob.”
-and I don’t know what to say,
so I wander into the bathroom
to stare at the screen on the wall,
watching the percentages rise and fall.
I grab a towel, bury my face in it,
slump to the ground, and curl up.
-and I’m there, alone in the bathroom
when I hear someone come in,
and I know it’s my wife.
She tiptoes over, and
spreads her crackers
across my back.
-and I cry.
I haven’t cried in years.
Never in a dream,
and ever in the real world.
But it was the realization that
all my effort had been reduced
to pushing a button and
getting a grade.
I couldn’t see my wife,
but I could feel her
lean into me-
that pressure on my side
as I slowly wake up.
-and discover a pillow
had fallen onto me.
So I sit up in bed,
to think about
what I want
from- everything,
I guess.
-and the alarm goes off.
for only an hour,
set an alarm
and all that.
-and in that hour,
I had the most
surreal dream:
FORTY-FOUR
By J. Rand
I’m me. Young me.
The me I am now.
Only- it’s the future,
and I’m getting a
free glance at
what’s going
to happen.
-and somehow,
I KNOW-
this is all true.
I’m standing in a grocery store,
a massive Wal-Mart, warehouse-style
and I’m flipping through DVDs on the wall.
They’re collections-
a single disc holds:
“The Complete Lord of the Rings Series”
“The Full Works of Stephen Spielberg”
“The Daily Show; 1997-2017”
Suddenly I’m walking down my driveway-
in the middle of the woods, springtime,
and it’s this ranch-style house, built
into the side of a hill by a river.
This snub-nose bulldog is barking at me,
there are cats everywhere, all over the place.
I walk in through the back sliding door,
and there’s this big guy waiting for me.
I call him Bob, but that wasn’t his name-
he’s got white hair, weighs about 300 lbs.
-reminds me of Tony, but it wasn’t him.
“You’re late for work- you gotta get on air!”
he yells, dragging me to the bathroom
where there’s a big screen on the wall-
with a bunch of digital graphs and charts.
On the radio- there’s a guy with an accent
shouting real loud, like Mussolini or somethin’
I’m forced to push a button, and suddenly
I’m on the radio, broadcasting LIVE.
-but there’s this number, a percentage
and every time I say something,
it rises and falls- like a rating system
only it’s a fraction of a percent;
(somewhere between 0.15% - 0.20%)
-I don’t know what to do, so I say:
“Is this it? This is what I do?
Sit around and get ratings?
What a waste of time!”
(The percent goes up)
“I… I can’t do this,
I’m sorry.”
(The percent drops
down to red)
-and I sit on the can,
dumbfounded.
Bob shrugs and turns on the shower,
right there in front of me, he climbs in-
fully clothed, mind you, so I leave.
In the livingroom, I find my wife.
She’s this petite blonde,
looking great for her age,
sporting a neo-beehive hairdo.
She’s with this fat, acne ridden
teenage kid, who’s clearly Bob’s son.
-they’re both eating crackers, watching TV.
I go to say something-
cause she’s my wife,
and it’s not every day
you get to meet her
before you MEET her-
you know?
But I hear laughter in the other room,
so I go to see who it is-
and it’s my daughter.
She’s with this kid- a boyfriend,
they’re in the media room, a second TV.
She’s about fourteen, and absolutely gorgeous-
she could be a model, y’know? Long brown hair,
slim figure, the kind of laugh that would make
anyone go see who it was.
-heartwarming, right?
The boyfriend’s okay-
the kind of kid I would
let date my daughter.
It seemed so real.
-so I left them alone.
I go back to my wife, who’s
in the livingroom, by herself, eating crackers.
-and of all the things I could ask, I say:
“Honey… what do I do for a living?”
“Hm?”
“What’s my job? What do I do?”
“I’m not really sure. Something in marketing.”
“Am I good at it?”
“Better than Bob.”
-and I don’t know what to say,
so I wander into the bathroom
to stare at the screen on the wall,
watching the percentages rise and fall.
I grab a towel, bury my face in it,
slump to the ground, and curl up.
-and I’m there, alone in the bathroom
when I hear someone come in,
and I know it’s my wife.
She tiptoes over, and
spreads her crackers
across my back.
-and I cry.
I haven’t cried in years.
Never in a dream,
and ever in the real world.
But it was the realization that
all my effort had been reduced
to pushing a button and
getting a grade.
I couldn’t see my wife,
but I could feel her
lean into me-
that pressure on my side
as I slowly wake up.
-and discover a pillow
had fallen onto me.
So I sit up in bed,
to think about
what I want
from- everything,
I guess.
-and the alarm goes off.