Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

My Saab is stuck in a line of cars. I’m in a black suit, stressed and running late. Finally, my car is waved into a parking space at Tavern on the Green. I’m told that because of an event, I’ll need to wait until morning to leave, when the valet parking is cleared. I’m ushered to an outdoor patio where others are gathered. Everyone is resigned to the situation and making pleasantries. Caterers come through with leftover food. I enjoy the crab cakes. Justin Vivian Bond joins us from the main party and as we talk, I realize my suit is torn and disheveled; no one seems to notice.

My wife arrives. I introduce her to my new friends. She asks, “What’s wrong with your suit?” She ignores everyone, rudely pressuring me to go with her. I make excuses and follow. We stop by a male friend’s apartment near Columbia, where I adjust my suit. We leave to meet family for our wedding. We arrive at a grand hall. I realize I’ve left some essentials—shoes, ring—in the car.

I’m dressing my eldest daughter. She is a toddler. She’s happy, then, when I’m alone with her, sick. I tell Dad to call the hospital. He rushes off. I holler to Mom to get my wife; she nearly tramples her mother to get her. I rush to bathroom to revive my baby.  I have to wait as a young girl has just gone into the restroom. Finally, I burst in and go to the tub. I undress my daughter, by now shrunken to a small rubber doll. I turn the facet and begin to wash her. My daughter returns to her old self, if a bit disoriented. I dry and dress her. We go upstairs to the wedding.

People have begun to arrive and are lining by association with the bride or groom. Everyone is in their twenties, look good, mingling as friends. I find Mom chatting with people and think, What happened to the emergency? At least my daughter is okay. I had carried her up the stairs and put her down. She smiles up at me. She’s Korean. “Where’s Mom?” she asks. I hold her hand to take her to her mother.

I’m searching the crowd for my wife in her wedding gown. Hannah runs ahead to another woman, her mom. I join them and meet the mom and her husband. “She really likes you!” the mom says. I shake the husband’s hand as the mom picks up my daughter, whom she calls by another name. They are an attractive young family. They decide that I should marry the mom.

We’re on a plane. I’m holding the little girl, at the back; her parents are seated further up. The child becomes sick, fading and shrinking. I know I need to get her to a shower. I rush her to a stall nearby. I turn on the water and undress her. She’s like a doll. I have to hold her up in the water. She begins to shit. Long turds fall and wash into the drain. Relieved, she asks for a cigarette. I reach back to our seats and get her pack. She lights one and smokes, standing in the shower. A stewardess watches, glad the child is okay.

We’re at the mom’s family house. Wedding preparations are underway. It’s like a big family dinner. I don’t know anyone. I stay in the urban rustic kitchen, crammed with empty or dirty dishes. I’m with the child, who is smoking. She and I are very bonded.

The mom joins us and we need to ready for the party. I begin washing dishes, seeing this as a hopeless task. I have no help, there’s no plan and people are arriving. I take up the baby and go to the roof. Family is milling comfortably on a homey rooftop with strung lights. The girl and I join her parents. “I’m very glad to marry you,” I say, handing back the child. We all wave goodbye.

I’m watching Sesame Street. I see the parents on the same roof, though now as a set. They are singing about reaching and as they do, they rise from a crouch to up, up, up and streeeetch out their arms! The girl is watching (away from them, on a tv, other roof or in my space) and imitating them. I’m happy. The mom’s mother joins the couple on the roof. She berates her daughter for letting go of an American husband to stay with “this one.” I laugh. It’s funny.

The girl and I are relaxing in a preschool. The kids are playing on the floor or with cardboard boxes. Two teachers are also sitting on the floor. The teachers are being catty and fun with the kids. “Look at her, she’s being a little dick today, isn’t she?” “You look like you’d rather be asleep, that’s so boring!” It feels like a really warm group. Everyone is happy.

The door opens and Michael Showalter asks me to join him. I kiss the girl’s head and follow. A group of young people is talking, making verbal jabs. It’s an improv group. I’m not a member but I’m welcome. Michael wants to talk about my script. He’s very taken with the idea of the little girl who smokes and my marriage to her mom. It’s a good story, he says, very funny. He encourages me to keep working on it.