Essay: The Concert (A Dream)

 

(I experienced this dream in June 2022, shortly after attending the Paul McCartney concert in Baltimore, although the dream has little to do with Paul McCartney or a concert. The following is pretty much how the dream played out, but keep in mind that dreams spring from the deep subconscious, while the recounting of them occurs in the conscious awake state; thus, some “editing” [the asides in brackets, for example] should be expected, mostly as an attempt to make some sense of the illogical. However, the “bones” of the dream are correct, the dialogue recreated based on my impressions and visuals, which were in vivid color.

I categorize this as an essay, although the piece is not quite nonfiction, but it certainly isn’t fiction, either – which brings up an interesting question: are dreams snapshots of actual lives but in a different dimension? I kind of hope not…)

My husband Jerry and I have tickets to the Paul McCartney concert, but we need to get a hotel room. Unfortunately, we forgot to book a room in advance.

We’re at the front desk of a well-known chain (unclear exactly what chain, I don’t know, but it’s a famous one).

There are people everywhere, including a long line behind us.

Jerry asks for a room.

“I’m sorry,” says the desk clerk, a skinny young man with a huge Adam’s Apple that bobs up and down as he speaks. “But we’re all sold out.”

Jerry does his typical nice guy act: “Yes, I can see it’s busy, and you guys look overworked, and I can sympathize, I used to work as a waiter for football players…” blah, blah, blah…

“Yeah, it’s been crazy busy today – I’ve seen nothing like this before…” A pause. “Look, I do have two rooms, but they have some issues, and you do have to take both rooms because they are very small with single beds.”

“We’ll take them,” Jerry says.

“Oh, one other thing: these are medical examination rooms, so there are a lot of things you cannot use or touch.”

It’s beginning to feel a little weird, but we agree.

We are separated and escorted to our individual rooms – I don’t know where Jerry is being led, and I don’t know his room number. In fact, I don’t know my room number.

I’m led into my room. It is a classic medical examination room, except it’s about half the size of a regular room. There is a wall with a glassed-in cabinet, obviously locked, filled with various drugs.

“You must never touch this cabinet or its contents,” says the bellhop. “Including the bear.” Sitting on top of the cabinet is a large stuffed brown bear with curly fur.

He places my suitcase on the bed, which is obviously an exam table, complete with stirrups.

“You must take care when using this bed; don’t play with the stirrups or the other gadgets,” he says as he sets the bed up for my height.

“Okay?” I say.

“Oh, and another thing, hotel maintenance has free access to this room, so don’t be surprised if you find people coming and going, even in the middle of the night.”

“I see.”

Then I note that there is no bathroom and mention that fact to the bellhop.

“You need not worry about it. It will become clear eventually.”

I’m starting to feel really weird about this setup [Isn’t it funny how situations in dreams never feel odd until they become really odd?]

After fixing up my bed and plumping up my very flat pillow, the bellhop leaves.

I climb up to sit on the bed, which is hard as a rock.

“I don’t like this.”

I leave my room to find Jerry, but I don’t know his room number, and the desk clerk won’t tell me. “Privacy issues.”

“But he’s my husband.”

“Sorry, but rules are rules.” [There don’t seem to be cell phones in this world.]

I’m starting to panic. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

I leave to find Jerry, but I can’t find him. I wander throughout the hotel, aimlessly and without a plan. It is crazy busy, people everywhere, most of them very stoned, but I can’t find Jerry.

Thinking that he might have talked the desk clerk into giving him my room number, I go back to my room, which is now wide open to anyone who wishes to tromp through. Three of the four walls are now open to the outside elements (very sunny, almost blinding), and concert goers are robbing the cabinet of drugs.

Even the stuffed bear is gone.

I’ve had enough [Seriously?]; I pick up my suitcase and begin to leave.

Two big cops stop me. “Not so fast,” one says, grabbing my arm. “We found Marijuana in your suitcase.”

“But I didn’t have any weed. I don’t smoke it anymore!”

He holds out his big beefy hand to reveal a nugget of gold. “See?”

“That’s not weed!”

“Yes, it is. It’s Acapulco Gold. Very dangerous stuff.”

“Even so, it’s not mine!”

“You’re going to have to come with us.”

Just then, a maintenance man who looks a bit like Groucho Marx walks in. He wears a large tool belt filled with hammers, keys, wrenches, etc.

“What’s going on here?”

“We’re arresting this young lady for possession!”

“I’m not young! Can’t you see?”

The maintenance man holds a mirror in front of me. My reflection reveals a face, unlined, now about 20 years old, with long brown hair. Me 50 years ago.

“How did that happen?”

“Never mind,” says the maintenance man. “It just did.”

The man turns to the cops. “Look, guys, cut this girl a break. This nugget came from the cabinet, not her suitcase.”

Just like that, the cops let me go and leave.

“Thanks,” I say to the man. “I thought I was a goner.”

“No problem. But one thing: I can’t be involved. There are things going on in this hotel that I can’t talk about. You should just leave.”

“But my husband…”

“Don’t worry about him. He’ll be okay.”

I believe him; I grab my suitcase and flee.

 

Somehow, I find my way home, except it’s not the house I live in now. [Obviously, I never make it to the concert, which now seems beside the point]. It’s a big fancy McMansion – I feel lost in it, given that I don’t know where anything is.

I’m now outside, standing next to our old 1994 Subaru [our “Miss Scarlet”], washing my hair [?].

The maintenance man shows up. “I’m glad you got home okay.”

“I still can’t find my husband.”

“It’ll be okay.”

“I can’t live without him!”

“You won’t have to…”

Somehow, I believe him. He’s not at all threatening, and I get nothing but good vibes about him.

“Look, I feel very bad about not helping you more…”

“Oh, but you did! I would have been arrested without your help.”

“But I needed to do more. Let me give you some advice. Sue the hotel!”

“I’d love to, but I have no proof of anything. Jerry has all the receipts.”

“About that… This hotel doesn’t give receipts for the Examination Rooms…”

“That’s just great! What am I supposed to do?”

The man shrugs. “Sorry.”

Then it comes to me. “Maybe you can help me more. May I have your business card?”

“Oh, sure,” the man says, holding out his card to me.

As I take the card, the man simply dematerializes into a mist.

His card is filled with hieroglyphics.

I awaken.

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“The Concert,” © copyright 2020 - present, by Jennifer Semple Siegel, may not be reprinted or reposted without the express permission of the author.

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Illustration: Remix of a hieroglyphic chart and an abstract AI-generated painting.