I usually don’t remember my dreams or if I do they are not ones I wish to remember but this morning’s dream before awakening is still with me–as much as dreams ever can be.
We lived in some kind of attached housing on the second floor with a long balcony running the entire length of the housing. Down below I could see heads of people and horses and bands–a parade was forming and passing. I had an errand to do and was in a hurry to get back in order to see the parade, so I had not combed my hair, brushed my teeth or showered. I did see my husband’s butt as he backed out of the shower. I see that cute little thing all the time, though, so that wasn’t the memorable part.
Whatever the errand–that part is fuzzy now–I was on the way back across a food court when I spotted out of the corner of my eye Ben Affleck and Matt Damon chatting at a table. I’d heard they were around but I didn’t stop to oogle in order to give them the space I know they rarely get. I ascended several of the steps out of the court leading to the long balcony when I felt an arm around my shoulder. I stopped and looked over to see Ben Affleck.
“Oh, hi,” I said, as if he were an old friend. “How are you doing?”
“Shoot,” he said. “You’re a schoolteacher.”
Why that would be disappointing I didn’t know.
“I’m retired,” I said. “How did you know?”
“You handled my hug with aplomb. Regular people go nuts.”
“I’m a writer, too,” I informed him.
“Come sit down with us a minute,” he said.
I told them about all the everyday people I knew whom I considered to be heroes, like the women in my water aerobics class. I talked about my poetry, my essays, my feature articles. Matt talked about a will. (I think my brain was doing the “Good Will Hunting” association.) Ben just goofed around saying goofy things in his charming fashion. I told them about being in Jerry’s short demo film sitting in a bathtub full of cool water in my bathing suit in an unheated house in December and how I now understood what long hours actors have to work sometimes.
When I thought they were getting bored, I excused myself. I could tell they liked talking to normal people about everyday things.
I never told them I was a screenwriter or that my sister and I have two spectacular scripts ready for production.
“I don’t do that,” I told friends later. I go through the proper channels.
When I awoke, I was so upset with myself for neglecting to ask how their respective wives and children were. Whatever will they think of me, one of the great unwashed?