Flashback

He was laughing, strung out to the edge of oblivion on macaroni-shaped pills.  And booze.  And just laughing.  He was a five year old in a forty year old man's body, kicking his heels against the floor in hysterics while the crystal chandelier swung ominously over his head.  The hors'd'ouerves platter on the mahogany table above him shook violently, splattering cream cheese filled celery stalks against the rug that looked like it had come from Arabian nights.  I wished I was two inches tall.  This- this was my father in law?  My husband turned to me with big hopeless eyes, begging my forgiveness.  Instead, I grasped his hand tightly and pulled him down the flight of stairs outside the house, running through the projects until we stumbled onto an old abandoned yard and flung ourselves onto each other.  Nothing else mattered when we were in each others' arms, anyhow.  While crystal clinked in the dining room of the old chateau and his father kicked and wailed like an infant, we rolled in the dying grass half naked and laughed at the ridiculousness of the whole thing.  It was like hosting a grand ball in a cheese grater.  A total mindfuck.

Waking up from stuff like this often makes me wonder what it is my subconscious is trying to tell me.  I used to interpret dreams- a LOT.  I had books- shelves of them- on symbolic meanings and parallel universes and Tarot and all things mystical.  I still do.  They just seem to have acquired a lot of dust- not of the faerie kind.  I didn't have much time to shake myself out of this dream before the next one struck.

Fifteen people in suits, ties, and expensive three-piece powersuits awaited me in the back room of the retail building.  All older ladies and gentlemen, from all different walks of life.  My suit was polished- ironed, a stunning eggplant purple with a tight pencil-line skirt and a blazer that, when buttoned, kept the goods at bay, but when unbuttoned, put them out on full display.  It had been hot.  I drove to the interview in a gorgeous crimson Camero with the top down and the sun blazing.  I was too confident for an undershirt.  Now I was going in, clutching my blazer closed.  I couldn't let go of wanting to hide in it- terrified that one nip-slip would be enough to send me back to the board of unemployment.  The interview lasted for hours.  They asked me questions about things I didn't even know existed, and I stumbled for answers.  Once, they even asked me to do a demonstration of a sales pitch, and a bit of my naked stomach flashed them.  I was mortified but no one seemed phased at all.  Then it came time for the pressure test.  A man with big strong hands came over with a blood pressure cuff and asked me to check my blood pressure.  I asked him what the point of this was, and he said it was the standard final procedure before hire.  I wrapped the cuff carefully around my bicep, but my hands were shaking.  They pumped and pumped and pumped until I thought my arm would physically snap off.  Then there was a rush of air and a powerful release.  "165," repeated the heavyweight man holding my limp arm.  A round of "tsks" went through the room as the director thanked me for my time.  "But...I'm just a little nervous!" I began to protest.  "Try it again in a few minutes- I'm sure it's just a glitch!  I CAN do this.  Please, I need this job.  I need to work to be alive again."  The director nodded sympathetically, adding "I appreciate your candidness.  Perhaps we have an opening in the part-time division.  We could start you at minimum wage and work you on your way up."  My eyes flared with rage- this job was supposed to be full time, salaried, with benefits!  Instead, the voice that came out of my throat was desperate and grateful.  "Oh thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you!"  What had I just done?  I left the room in tears and saw that I had just signed on for another few miserable years as a minimum wage slave doing nothing relative to my degree.  I got in my car and pulled the roof up- but the car had become too small for me now, and I barely squeezed into it.  It was pouring rain, but it didn't much matter anyway.  I walked into the Pizza Hut up the road and bought a scotch and a pizza burrito.  Another day of not being able to afford a normal life.  What a surprise.

Maybe I should explain.  I've been job hunting.  What I need is a full time job with benefits.  What I get is a whole lot less than that- and that's what I've BEEN getting since I lost my last full-time job.  That makes me feel inadequate.  I'm guessing that's where this dream comes from.  But there is another place.

It's deeply buried, and yet the soil is fresh and stinky.  Rooted in seeds of empty confidence and torn up dreams.  It's the dead body of what I thought was my career, decaying every minute I'm away from it.  I hate it, and yet, I want to dig it up and embrace it, filth and all, and reanimate the son of a bitch.  No one ever caught the murderer.  No one ever will.  Because it will always be acceptable, it seems, that society casts out one of its young hopefuls because a slightly older, more privileged person made that person's life hell within the boundaries of the law.

He didn't fuck me- he fucked WITH me.   He wrote me up for breathing loudly.  He wrote me up when I had to take sick days.  He tormented me with meetings where he would just berate me behind closed doors.  He'd torture me till I cried, and then I would get written up for reacting unprofessionally.  He murdered my dreams in cold blood and left them in a pile on the linoleum so that the people who got to watch the massacre could take turns pissing and spitting on the mound.  He chased me out of town with his band of witch hunters and then sent me to the stakes, where my therapist would later burn me alive and let me die all over again.

I don't trust authority figures any more.  I don't trust anyone most days.  I trust my husband on a complete fluke- a malfunction, a miswiring of the brain- and even then, that short-circuits.  I hate and despise anyone who has power over anything.  I don't mean to.  I just do.

Gods, am I still dreaming?  No...no, this is a flashback.  You remember these.  When you start reliving what happened to you at that job, right, Claudia?  It's over now, let it go, girl.  It's nobody's fault.  It wasn't personal.

THE HELL IT WASN'T PERSONAL.  IT WAS FUCKING PERSONAL.

You've got to learn to shut these things up, Claudia.  You've got to get a grip.  Get a grip or you'll never get your real life back.  Don't you want your normal, real life back?

I'm tired.  I'm so tired.  Fifty-seven applications.  No one gives a damn.

Come on.  It's the recession.  You know that- the whole country turns to shit every day.  You'll get a job.  Your husband believes in you.  Your family believes in you.  Get on board, will ya?

It's going to happen all over again.  And then I'll be a slave to some big corporation that will shit on me.  I'll live on welfare and spend twenty years fighting for a disability that isn't even real except for veterans.  Fuck.

Enough.  That's enough negative talk, now.  I can see your dreams have fucked you up quite enough for one day.  Your subconscious is signing off now.  Go do something that keeps your mind busy.

I guess I could go write...