Of Vivid Dreams and Ridiculousness

I am at a party. The monstrous house is full of people, drinking and laughing, all seemingly enjoying the festive atmosphere. I make my way into the living room and I spot my mom in the corner. She is surrounded by a group a women with a very “ladies who lunch” look to them; gold buttoned pantsuits, perfectly coiffed hair, pastels. The room is getting more and more packed. I look around for the bar, feeling intensely thirsty all of the sudden.

As my eyes dart around I begin to see that everyone in the room looks a bit like Hillary Clinton. No, they look exactly like Hillary Clinton. It’s as if Hillary’s face has been supplanted on every person in the room. Were they all like this when I walked in?

I glance back at my mom. Now, she too looks like Hillary. What happened to her face?  She sees me and starts waving me over. The room is getting thick with Hillarys and I’m having trouble getting over to my mom. I’m becoming fearful, not of the Hillarys—for I know they would never hurt me and only want to cradle me in a warm, Democratic embrace—but that my mom’s face may not go back to the way it was. Above the crowd I hear her yell to me, “Honey, honey, come show us your face.” A rush of hot panic hits me. I raise my hand to my face. It feels fine. I glance in a nearby window. To my horror, I see Hillary staring back at me. I touch my face again. It’s not a mask, it’s flesh. What’s happening? I look back at my mom. She’s still waving to me with a huge smile on her alien Hillary visage. I have to get out of here.

Outside, the cool air feels good on my face. My face. I think about going back in for my mom, but as I turn back to the house, the Hillarys are crowded in the window, watching me. There are hundreds of them now. I start running. I’m making my way through a vast clearing and into the woods. I’m running so fast that the trees are flying by me as if I’m in a speeding car. But there’s no one chasing me. The trees are so tall that the night sky is almost entirely blocked out. I want to touch my face, but I keep running.

I come to the top of a hill and I stop. Daylight is breaking. Down below in the valley I see a platform next to a single train track in the grass. I run towards it. It’s farther away than it appears. A train is coming. I have to get on it. I run faster. The train pulls in and stops just as I approach the platform. I look up and see my Dad. Thank god. I throw my arms around him. He is happy to see me, but somehow not surprised that we are meeting on a random train platform in the middle of the woods that I have been feverously racing to get to and I may or may not look like Hillary Clinton. I try to catch my breath.

“We’ve got to go,” he says to me.

Looking down, I see I’m not wearing any shoes. “But, I forgot my flips,” I say.

Pulling away from our hug, he puts his hand on my shoulder and whispers, “Perhaps you should have been more prepared, honey.”

French? Catalina? Italian?

Genghis was unsure. Prone to self-doubt and indecision, he was frequently unable to make up his mind, constantly going back and forth in his head over one option versus another, analyzing the possibilities and pitfalls of every single choice he made. Genghis was a man described in the best light as an over thinker. In the worst light, a victim of crippling uncertainty. The thin line between the two was akin to a string between soup cans that was pitched as a genius idea for enabling secret communications, but didn’t necessarily breed mobile accessibility.

For Genghis, every decision was just as challenging to make as the next. A choice of brown loafers or black for Thursday’s meeting, the chicken breasts being on sale when he went specifically to buy brook trout or maybe salmon, the question of whether to hop on the subway for five stops versus hail a quick cab when running late­—the result of that morning’s countless bouts of indecision—, all warranted as much thought and over analysis as the question of whether to move into a new apartment or (hold the phone) get married, something that would never happen given the amount of examination, vacillation and overall throwing of caution to the wind that would have to take place. Genghis never threw caution anywhere but in his own face.

Hell was dining out with Genghis as the very word “menu” sent shock waves of doubt to his psyche before he even arrived at the restaurant. Soup or salad? Soup was more filling, salad more nutritious. Soup sounded good, but high in sodium. The salad may have a creamy dressing though. What were the dressing options? French? Catalina? Italian? What kind of Italian? “Olive oil and herbs” Italian or “canola oil and vinegar” Italian? What’s the difference between Italian and Vinaigrette really? Maybe Blue Cheese. But the Blue Cheese could be a bad choice before the entrée… A steak or maybe pasta? The steak is forty-four dollars. But the pasta is high in carbs. Am I gonna pay for a bowl of hot noodles I could have made myself? Maybe there’s a fish special? But Blue Cheese before fish? I wonder if I need a Zantac? The doctor said to rely less on Zantac though. When should I start to do that? Is that my water? Should I be drinking water with no ice?

Today, Genghis’s inability to decide centered around one thing. The weather. One thing, that is, with many little nuanced assessments.