Dreams are Eye Openers

It was overwhelming. There was just too much useless stuff I needed to pack in order to catch my flight back to Syracuse, NY in time. How did I accumulate all this junk in one year of college, I thought? I was furiously cramming books, term papers, notebooks, clothes, shoes, toys, candy, Christmas gifts, antiques, kitchen appliances, musical instruments, and lampshades into my variety of carry-on bags, suitcases, and trunks.

Fighting against the clock, as always, I searched high and low for my ticket and boarding pass but could find neither. I'd have to worry about that later, as I dragged half a dozen suitcases and duffle bags out of the dorm room, which was still filled to the brim with items I had to leave behind.

Fortunately, the airport was connected to the dormitory. All I had to do was hit the correct button on the elevator to get there. There was a line of schoolchildren without parents and a line of elderly folks with canes and walkers waiting to board the plane. I breathed a sigh of relief that it had not taken off without me. How on earth was I going to explain my lack of ticketing to the steward waiting at the gate?

I did what I always did and tried not to think about it as I waited my turn to enter the yawning door cut into the tail end of the plane. It seemed perfectly normal to me, as I'd often entered an airplane like that before. Once all the passengers were seated, the crew would pile logs at the entrance to keep us from falling out as we flew chaotically over cities and rivers. It was of vital importance to keep the logs in place, as the seat belts were the stretchy kind and did absolutely nothing to hold us in our seats.

My friends, who had arrived on time, were seated several rows away from me. They waved, shook their heads, and whispered back and forth to each other about my tardiness and the mess of luggage I'd hauled on board. Already ashamed of my situation, I had to further worry about the missing boarding pass and the ticket.

However, an FBI agent boarded the plane and demanded I produce ID and open my bags for his inspection. I guess that kept the steward from questioning me about my ticket. Whew! What a stroke of luck. I showed him my driver's license and he barked, "That's not you! Who are you??"

"Oh, yes, sir. That's me but I've lost a lot of weight," I declared proudly, thinking he would be happy for me.

Instead, he ignored my weight loss success story and ripped open the nearest suitcase, revealing a mess of Christmas gifts, record albums, table lamps, and roller skates. Not finding what he was looking for he moved on to a duffle bag with bras and high heels sticking out of the opening on top. He cautiously dug his hand into the bag as I cried out, "Be careful! That's where I keep my gun."

Sufficiently warned, he closed the drawstring opening and moved on to another, less menacing suitcase. Upon opening it he declared, "AHA! You do have it." He removed my story notebook and victoriously waved it in the air. "Now it's mine and all the riches belong to me, me, me!"

"You do know they aren't even in final manuscript form, right? Plus, you'll have to get them typed out, edited, proofread, formatted, and published before you can claim all the riches. That ought to take you about a year. So, good luck with that."

He said nothing as he stepped out of the log gap into thin air. The notebook tumbled back through the fuselage and landed in my lap. Now I will have to type it, edit it, proofread it, format it, and get the damned thing published myself. 'Curses,' I thought, waking up in my own bed, realizing that once again the burdens of real life were about to weigh me down.