Late last night, I fell asleep. While slumbering, I had a dream:
I was a salesman, selling nothing exactly. I was simply...a salesman. Apparently, my job was to go to homes that called my wife and sell my wares.
On this fateful day, she sent me off on a run. My only vehicle to deliver my goods was a snowmobile (snow machine, for you Alaskans). The snowmobile had only four gears, of which, only the first two worked. They worked so well that I was able to move at a rapid pace, across random lawns and boulevards, at 43 miles per hour (69.2km/h for my internationalites).
Not having asked for directions, I had no idea where I was going. I saw a middle-aged woman and her 12-year-old son walking along the sidewalk. I pulled alongside them and struck up a conversation with the son. The mother was nominally interested and quickly grew irritated at the noise of my machine. Getting the message through her body language, I veered off onto a lawn and called Kristine (my wife).
She answered the phone and I asked for directions. She began to give them to me when I heard a knock on the door in the background. She told me she had to get the door, continued talking as she said hello to the visitor, then became eerily silent.
"Hello?", I said, "Hello?"
No answer.
Slightly miffed, I turned toward home, reasoning that I had to ask for directions in person, now that she had stopped talking.
I came around the back of our house and watched a tan sedan careening out of the front driveway. Looking toward the front door, I saw Kristine's limp hand sticking out of the slightly ajar door. I raced in to find her unresponsive, fully undressed, and going fast. There were no obvious signs of trauma, but she had obviously been drugged with a powerful drug that was trying to kill her quickly.
I raced into the other room to grab the phone, yelling to neighbors and passers-by. They rushed in and I ordered them to begin CPR. I began dialing the police and noticed what I always notice in the dreams where I try to dial the police - the buttons on the phone were for ants. The whole keypad was as large as two of my index fingertips.
I took a deep breath, knowing this was a dream, and determined to win the battle this time, and dialed.
9 -3 - 3.
No! I hung up the phone, which took an agonizing 10 seconds. I dialed again.
8 - 9 - 9.
No!!!! Shit! I tried again.
9 - 1 - 1.
Yes! I was so happy. After years of dreaming this dream, I had finally done it. I had not fat-fingered 9 - 1 - 1.
"Hello?"
Um...that wasn't the police.
"Hello!?"
"Yes! Yes! Is this the police!? I have an emergency at 5..."
The voice on the other end was obviously irritated, hopped up on opiates, and bloody used to this interaction. She went on to inform me in a slow, trailer-trash drawl, that she was always being mistaken for the police. She was getting fed up with it.
I tried to apologize, wasting valuable moments, and finally hung up.
9 - 1 - 2.
Dammit!
7 - 4 - 3.
Holy god in heaven! Why can't I do this!!!???
Kristine was dying. And I was fighting one of the last battles for complete control of every second of my dream world.
I woke up.
I am now more determined than ever to win. I WILL NOT fat-finger 9 - 1 - 1 the next time. And when I succeed, the RIGHT people will be on the other end of the line.
Count on it.
