I had a dream last night. Cloris Leachman was the sexy starlet in an unfolding drama that had someone very generic as the leading man. I was off to the side. Good thing too, I could turn my back on the love scene that was just starting.
What I couldn’t get away from was the overwhelming urge to apply for a job at the pancake house with my wife. We drove into the parking lot sometime in the early afternoon, dreary winter sun diffused by smog and a dirty winshield. We walked confidently and holding hands into the pancake house. From there it was a little strange.
The place was empty save for a few middle eastern men screaming at each other in what I could only guess was Arabic. After walking through the door we were in a small foyer. I looked around and saw a few cracked orange vynil chairs, the free newspaper rack, a couple of gumball machines, a none too clean glass bakery display case, and a counter topped by a cash register. I walked to the counter and cleared my throat to get the attention of the man behind it.
He turned and glared at me so I asked him for 2 applications. He smiled a knowing viper’s smile and produced an application. AN APPLICATION. As in one and only one application. An application and a tall redheaded girl that took both the application and my wife to the main dining area of the restaraunt. I was left standing in the small foyer, now being ignored very thouroughly.
Time passed and I asked repeatedly for my application, hoping that I could get it filled out before my wife emerged from the back room. I didn’t get the application. I stared at the ceiling. I stared at the wall. I looked for magic eye pictures in the dirty carpet. I noticed cobwebs in the display case underneath layer upon layer of fingerprints. I was wondering if the police could sort out my fingerprints when I started killing these people. I had been reduced to muttering, “application, give me application…application…work…application…give me…” I wasn’t even sure how long I had been there, could have been hours, could have been days.
Just as I was entertaining thoughts of breaking that display case with my head, the door opened and a small dark haired man entered. Everyone in the foyer stiffened as if Tony Soprano walked in and they were a little short with the take this week. He never spoke but a rustling behind me said someone else had come into the foyer from the restaraunt side. This man was a WWE wrestler. Really he was, they call him the Great Khali. He is a huge man nearly 7 feet tall with a huge lantern jaw and permanent scowl. And 2 strings of Christmas lights plugged into his nose. And they were blinking. Like Uncle Fester and the light bulb. They were long strings too, the 300 light variety, the ends wrapped around his neck like bizzare necklaces.
The dark haired man pointed to me and the Great Khali advanced. I was going to get my butt whooped by a professional wrestler with Christmas lights in his nose. I knew I was going to have to fight, the door was blocked and the restaraunt was blocked off. I turned as he reached me. I reached up and unplugged the lights from his nose hoping they were the source of his power. He stopped midstride. His head bowed. He lauged and punched me in the chest, launching me across the room and into the free newspaper rack.
I stood up shakily as he came near again plugging the lights back in. I hit the plug on the lights smashing it up into his nose. He fell over. It was then I woke up. I keep thinking how weird it was that I would look for a job in a pancake house, and how much I didn’t want ANY image of Cloris Leachman taking off her shirt stuck in my head. Or maybe I could just google it and have it stuck on my computer….
Written in response to the challenge on Website in a Weekend.net
Have fun dancing in my brain matter.
Justin
