9-1-1, This is a Dreamergency...

I've always had pretty bizarre, entertaining dreams. As this is the case, whenever I hold onto a fragment long enough to remember it (and as long as it isn't too embarrassing) I've opted to write it down. I share it for the laughs, or perhaps for the eyebrow arched in concern for my sanity. Whichever floats your boat.

This dream isn't too far from normal to begin with. Mom, Dad, myself and my go-to contractor (whom I will call "Mel" for this post) are driving from Los Angeles to Seattle. Why? Nobody knows, but we're going to drive there, spend a few days, and then drive back down. It's going to be a long trip, and we're driving something akin to a semi-truck. Nobody knows what's in the back, but the cab that we're in looks less like a truck cab and more like a small command center. Quite spacious, and while Mel is driving us, everyone else walks around and lounges.

There is one other person with us. I do not know this person in real life, and in my dream he has no name, but I know he was Native American. No idea how I know that or why it is important, it is just one of those details the dreamer innately knows. He's an older man and a good traveling companion.

We pull over at a run-down building in the middle of nowhere. It is long-abandoned, but also somewhat familiar to me. As we all tumble out to inspect it, the older Native American man decides to leave the group. He does this by slyly winking at me, then laying down and rolling under the house where there is a crawlspace. I understand that, for some reason, he doesn't want the others to know he's bailing out here (especially Mel) and that when we leave he'll get out and start walking. I whisper, "Good luck," as I pass, hoping he's okay in the future. Curious about what's in the house and hoping I can keep a poker face if anyone asks me where our friend is, I climb to an upper floor and begin poking around.

It's a dusty second floor with cobwebs and abandoned belongings everywhere. I find a math textbook that looks like it came from my 6th grade year. The brown front cover proudly declares that it is Hard Math. Someone finds another brown textbook nearby that is titled Harder Math. I recall the cost of these textbooks when I used them was $30 and $40, respectively.

After some more poking around we leave and pile back into the truck. I realize I am wearing a beautiful, crocheted sunflower hat on my head, and I regret that I didn't give it to the Native American man before we left. He already has a hat, I know, and mine is a very feminine hat, but if he put mine underneath his own, then he would have an extra layer of warmth. At this point we are already leaving and I don't want to draw attention to our friend's departure, so I let it go.

Mel needs to have something about the truck repaired, so he pulls the command-center-semi up to a drive-through car repair shop. He tells the attendant what he wants, and then orders a hot dog on top of that. Mom, Dad, and I all realize that this place also sells food, and immediately Mom and Dad start putting in their orders. It's a very simple menu with few items and each item has a number next to it, so you call your number out loudly to the attendants.

Mom calls out #0, which is some kind of sandwich, but all the attendants look at her and shake their heads. They start shouting back questions in Spanish. I stick my head out of the window and shout back, "Cero! Numero cero!" because, of course, long after I've forgotten most of my Spanish vocabulary, I can still count and ask someone to speak slower.

By this time, we are nearing the end of the drive-through. I try to read the menu to make a decision for myself, but the menu has suddenly become much more complicated. I want to know all my options, but we never really stop moving long enough for me to read anything properly. Everyone else picks up their food and Mel swings the truck around and drives us through again so I can try to order something. He does this one more time, but after three times through I still can't read the menu, so we give up and hit the road again.

Around this point, Mel vanishes from the dream and nobody remarks on it.

As we're driving, Mom brings me a piece of mail she got from the hospital. For some reason, she's afraid the hospital is going to come after us for stealing from them. Bewildered, I take what seems to be a hospital pamphlet begin to read it. The contents run something like this:

Oh dear. You seem to have stolen from us. Such a shame, that. And you seem to be lying on the lobby floor, in desperate need of medical assistance. Gosh. It's terrible that you stole things from us now that you need help, isn't it? If only there hadn't been a theft around here, then maybe someone would be able to take care of that awful injury you have. (etc etc etc)

In reading it, I realize it is not directed at us, it is actually some kind of general-purpose pamphlet advising people not to steal from the hospital, much like those anti-piracy commercials they used to play before movies in the theater. I hand it back to Mom, assuring her that the hospital is not sending commandos after us and that this is not a personal threat.

I still haven't eaten, so Mom and Dad pull up to a simpler drive-through to order food. I leave the car and meander into the parking lot, glancing around. Nearby, a white van pulls out of its parking spot and guns its engine. Hard. It peels out of the lot and cuts straight across the road ahead of it. In the way of dreams, the distance stretches out longer than it should, as the van spends an eternity cutting across the road perpendicular to traffic. About halfway across it begins spraying gasoline out like a water hose that someone's stuck their thumb over. An eternity later, once it reaches the other side of the road, it crashes into something and explodes in a Hollywood-worthy fireball.

I'm horrified. I dig out my cell phone and dial 9-1-1. Phone numbers in the dream world are a nightmare for me to enter correctly, but this must be short enough that the numbers aren't changing under my fingertips like they usually do. I am connected to the emergency line and I find myself navigating phone menu options to be directed to the correct people. As I'm trying to listen to the options, still shaking, some lady in the parking lot walks up to me and tries to get my attention. I cannot listen to the phone and her at the same time, so I hang up and ask, "What?"

The lady smiles and says, "You want the option that says, 'If someone is on fire and melting into another person, press #__'!"

I'm dumbfounded. She interrupts my call to 9-1-1 to tell me how to navigate my call to 9-1-1? I turn away, trying to ignore her as I desperately reconnect to emergency services.

Stressed to the max, I wake up to the sound of my alarm blaring. I lie there, grateful that absolutely none of that was real. I blink at the ceiling a few times.

"Hard Math, huh?" I mutter to myself. "Real subtle."