Posted by: normanlgreen | October 28, 2012

Dream, October 28, 2012 Trash contract vs. playground

Dream, home,

thrown into the middle of a competition/reality tv show. The gimmick behind the series is that five families will compete for the waste disposal contract for an entire state. The families will live together in close quarters. If any of the cast murder or cripple any of the others, their entire family will be disqualified.

I am informed that I am to participate while I float on a thick air mattress that drifts down a river. Each night we will stay in a different home, spare space within a household that is already occupied. We arrive at the first house and are directed to do the best we can with the living room. The owners maintain a semi-discreet distance from us, occupying the back portions of the building. One family from the series has claimed a king sized bed that faces the front door. The man of that group, bald, of middle weight and average height, is a fuss-budget, he repeated straightens the quilt on the bed and has laid down decorative runners underneath it, so that the exceed the bounds of the bed to an exact degree. He insists that I help him get them just so. He natters continuously in a nervous manner. He says, “I despise alcoholism.” I tell him that I have no love for it, myself.

Meanwhile the other cast members have arrived and laid down bed rolls, trying not agitate the disturbed man. When he feels he can do no more to make things perfect, he tosses down a sweet cocktail, declaring that he deserves it. He goes after about four more in quick succession. Soon he crawls about on the floor and passes out under a dining table that he had earlier dressed in a hand painted table-cloth.

Morning comes and we have to move on to the next house. The obsessive man groans beneath his table. I go around the corner to the bathroom to clean up and pack my gear. This is a pass-through room, so I close the door that opens to the rest of the house – before it closes, I make eye contact with one of the owners of the house. He sits at a table, drinking coffee with his normal house-mates. He shakes his head at me in condemnation. I hope that the fee they received made having the obnoxious guests worthwhile.

As I stuff my clothes into a duffel bag, the front door opens and a new crowd of guests arrives. They prove to be B. B. King and his entourage. Mr. King comes into the room where I pack. He gives he his squinting smiles and lets me know I am welcome to stay. I suspect that this is a ploy set-up by the show’s producers. If I fail to follow the rest of the cast to the next house, I will disqualify my family from winning the garbage collection contract. Though I would love to spend some time with him and to see and hear him play from close-up, I decide not to stay. I open the door to the back of the house to thank they people who hosted us.

When I enter that portion of the building, I find it has been transformed into a nursery for little kids, an interior playground. The mass of the little ones push each other on an un-powered merry-go-round, but a few of them come over to greet me. One little girl, perhaps three years old, takes my right hand. I squat down to be face to face with my new friends. They are all so sincerely warm and happy to see me, that I decide to skip the rest of the contest, that I will come to work here with the kids – much more fun than assisting a neurotic drunk make his bed every night for eight weeks.


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