The Nightmare

You can have a dream sometimes that doesn't register as a nightmare until you look back at it and realize what was happening. In my nightmare last night, my husband had to go into a closed ceremonial chamber to bargain with two big fat black demons (more on my sublimated racism in a later post). When he came out, my son and I were ushered beyond the chamber into the public areas of a big old hotel full of people who looked like they'd been there a while. They were watching sports on TV. I couldn't see the television, but there was that half-subliminal buzz of commentators and cheers. Others were playing foosball or sitting on shabby furniture, smoking. I knew my husband was there somewhere with us, but for most of the dream I stood there holding my son's hand and asking people who passed by if there was any way out.

The windows were covered by giant shutters. All the light was artificial. A short, thin woman who seemed to be running things stood by me for a while and discussed the history of the demon occupation. She wasn't old and she wore a pretty dress, but there was something not present about her. Everyone seemed that way, like maybe they were undead but didn't know what to do about it. She said that in earlier days they'd tried to sell the hotel, because then of course the new owners would evict the demons and the residents and everyone would be free. Somehow no buyers took an interest in evicting two big fat black demons and legions of foosball-playing undead. They remained hopeful though. In a tight real estate market anything might happen.

That's all I remember. My husband thinks the hotel is Iowa.