Posted by: normanlgreen | November 6, 2012

Dream, Novembeer 6, 2012 work, shop, volunteer, pilfer


Dream, home, 4;22am
Making my way along a coastal road that runs through a small city, a combination of Piran and Bellingham. Warm and humid skies, the sun east of the ridge and somewhat obscured by high thin clouds. I am to find work with a construction firm – along the route, the company logo shows up spray painted in blue, a blocky lowercase w with wide bands on either side, meant to resemble a mountain range.
I am distracted from the job search by a pair of yard sales – people have collected their junk belongings and arranged them on tables in narrow courtyards that serve as their private gardens in their cliff hanging homes. A man with curly hair and glasses sits on his stoop as I and other shoppers climb past him to look at used books, half a piano, dusty glassware. He attempts to prove himself to a woman who challenges his authority and intellect. He tells her with snide intonation, “My partner and I have written three books on sun signs and star signs.” She scoffs and leaves.
Friends have moved their Italian restaurant into the city, so I go there to eat. As they are short-staffed, I lend a hand. The phone rings. Cliff, a gunsmith who lives up in the foothills, calls in a take-out order. I call the request back to the kitchen, via the same phone. The kitchen is separated from the reception area by a series of winding hallways – this had been a private residence. The food is ready by the time I reach the service window. I take a basket with a warm bowl in its center, a dark print cloth tucked around the food to insulate it. Walking back to the entry hall, I recall that this presentation is for table service, and Cliff wanted his meal to go. Cliff sits at the reception desk, his head in his arms, napping or in despair. I turn around and return to a sub kitchen for the service people to stage the food and to prepare salads. Jeanie, the owner, works at a long stainless steel table. She tells me how to repackage the meal, showing me bags and boxes and baskets of their homemade bread. When she leaves, I cannot resist tasting the bread – pull off a section of a round piece and eat it –hot and yeasty. I cannot serve this broken bread to Cliff, so dig through the baskets, finding all of the round loaves have been compromised. As I work through the stack of baskets, I find the lower ones are filled not with bread but with cruellers. I press one partial loaf together with a broken crueller and stuff it down the white tube of a paper bag.

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