One of the original Surf Report rules of thumb: Nobody cares about the weird dream you had last night. But I want to tell you what I’ve been doing for the past six or seven hours…
I was living in a rickety apartment building somewhere, on the top floor. Every time I set foot in the place, it felt like the room tilted slightly. On the roof was a hot tub, but it was half-full of nasty-ass water and filth. It was built on some sort of lazy Susan situation, so the whole tub could rotate. But the floor was crumbling, and I was terrified that I might fall through.
All around the rotating hot tub was mounds of trash, beer cans and empty potato chips bags, which I blamed on the previous tenants. I rarely went up there, because it was far too dangerous.
I came home from work one day (I guess), and called for Andy. But he didn’t come to me. “Andy!” I hollered again. The floor tilted a little, due to the force of my raised voice, but the dog did not appear. What the? Where he at??
I was then launched into a many-hours (it seemed) odyssey of walking the streets, looking for my AWOL companion. And all around my weird apartment building was a sea of basketball courts, filled with roughneck black guys, and scary meth-freak white trash. All were taunting me relentlessly, for no known reason. There was an abundance of gold jewelry and cruel laughter.
I walked the streets of this unknown city — industrial and Soviet in nature — for hours and hours. Nobody was friendly to me, and I felt unsafe at all times. There was a river at one point, and it was brown, swift-moving, and menacing. There was shit in the water, substantial things like trash dumpsters and Chevettes.
Eventually I went back to my unstable apartment building and decided to check the roof. Maybe Andy got up there somehow? When I stepped on the floor, it felt like balsa wood. And the hot tub was spinning at a high rate of speed, creating a breeze that sent some of the garbage flying over the edge. I could hear the basketball court people yelling in protest, down below.
No sign of the dog, though. So I returned to the apartment, where some dude was now sacked out on the floor, using a yellow backpack as a pillow. I think he was a guy from my current job, but it was a bit ambiguous. I woke him up, and asked if he’d seen Andy. He said, “Who’s Andy?”
I began walking through the crumbling apartment calling my dog’s name, and he came sprinting up a staircase, from god knows where. But he was skinny and tiny, almost like a ferret — a ferret with border collie markings, and Andy’s full-sized head.
The guy who’d been sleeping in the next room said he had to be going, and he and his backpack left the apartment. As he exited, the whole place tilted slightly, and I thought it might go over. But everything quickly stabilized. I could hear the rumbling of the spinning hot tub up above, and the crinkling of the chip bags flying around.
Then the real Andy started barking downstairs, and I woke up. Thankful to be delivered from that freaky-ass world…
What in the hand-rolled hell? Any idea what any of that means? I’d be much obliged if you could do a bit of amateur analyzing. Use the comments link below.
And we’ll lift the ban on talking about weird dreams for one day, as well. Have you had dreams that have stuck with you through the years? I dreamed that my parents were killed in a nightclub(?!) fire when I was a kid, and it was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever encountered. It still creeps me out, forty years later.
So, there ya go. Have at it, boys and girls.
I’ll be back on Friday.