Well, maybe not everyone’s dream… Some would prefer ‘Brad Putz’, whoever, these days. But I don’t claim to write my own dreams, and this one lasted all night. And I feel a need to document it, for the amusement of Xangans everywhere.
Folding tables and paper table-cloths stretched to the dream-horizon in both directions, and I was seated directly across from, obviously, Henry Kissinger. Though not obviously to every guest, as you will see.
Me: Most of my dreams seem to explore some emotional challenge. This one was a test of my ability to finesse the presence of a Household-Name, to his satisfaction, and that of the random crowd.
Mr. Henry Kissinger; Looking worried the whole time. I can only surmise that he was weighing the pluses of an edible meal versus the down-side of having to re-enunciate his whole historical Geschicte to a gang of unpredictable strangers.
Son/brother: Yes, my younger brother, ‘D’ and my oldest surviving son, ‘I’ are always a confused amalgam/mess in my dreams. Even in real life, if not careful, I call them by each other’s names. No idea why. Perhaps they are both Jungian competitors for my plan to kill my Dad and mate with my Mom? Speaking of which:
Mama: Oblivious to geo-politics as always, her role was to put an acceptable chicken on the table. Along with the ‘help’, equally aloof, and for whom recognizing a key player from the world’s negotiating history was about as comprehensible as a Modem to a Duck.
And so my dream-jobs were as follows:
1) Ascertain, not in so many words, whether Son/Mom recognized the Guest. I don’t recall my skillful challenge-questions, only that it became quickly clear that, to them, the Guy was just some random ‘hairy-eyebrow’ fellow with a German accent… and a suit he probably hadn’t bought at Sears. Onward…
2) To do my sound-asleep best to help this man, whom I genuinely respect, to feel comfortable. I think I led off with: “Probably not the first ‘Vielicht-Vogel’ (possibly-chicken?’) you’ve had the pleasure of giving eine Augenblick?” (an eye-blink‘)” Thus re-assuring him that quasi-faux-Deutch wouldn’t be a problem, in extremis. Hey, it’s a dream. Sue me.
He smiled, which was a good sign. I adjusted the pillow for the long haul.
And yes, I have No-Idea’ why I dream this stuff. I had e-mailed my brother the night before that our negotiations for a sibling division of a communal property reminded me of the Geneva disputes over the shape of the table. Perhaps that was the cue. Gehe vays?
Anyway, with all the other ear-shot guests at a loss as to what small-talk to exchange with this foreigner, I launched into a Complex Question, which I’d estimate took about two hours, dream-time, to express. I asked the veteran diplomat across the table, while he tried to feign love for the cole-slaw, about his thoughts regarding our current ‘peace-partners’. Specifically, to what extent, (or not), they hold themselves to some ‘duh’ basic Socratic mantra, where when the facts are obviously not in their favor, they maturely admit such and accept the Truth.
Mister ‘K’ seemed to appreciate the question, but at the same time glanced side-wise before answering, Any hint of some previous expertise in the matter might telegraph to the feast-goers
that he was ‘special’.
My son gave me a ‘WTF?’ look. Ditto my Mom, for whom the Chicken, its flavour, et. al, was, hands-down, the only ‘uber-alles’ on this occasion.
Finally, he opined, conspiratorialy:
“Ja,natürlich. Sie hab’n keine Ahnung!” (‘Of course. They haven’t a clue.’)
My Mom, no stranger to German, overheard and thought only about her poultry: over-cooked/under-cooked?
All in all, I decided that I’d done my part for Peace in the Middle East for one night. It was going on 4:30 AM. A quick break, to piss, and I forgot the whole escapade. Until just now.
Henry is already on a flight to Frankfurt, or Dulles. I may learn more tomorrow night. Thanks, meanwhile, for your attention./JS/ Tel Aviv