Lummox

 

I was working, in some capacity, at a local coffee shop/night club venue. It had a very intimate feel, kind of like Jabberaw, the '90s indie venue, only smaller and with more private booths and nooks for conversation. Lance Mathyssen, aka Lummox, frequented the place and was known to play a song or two if asked.

My official job was, I dunno, sink decorator? I was responsible for making attractive little tableaux-type garnishes to give the bathroom sinks an artsy look. This somehow played into my other job as dog catcher, since the sinks were being decorated and camouflaged in order to trap stray dogs, which were the bane of the joint. They were always stealing food which was meant for the customers.

The sink traps were very ineffective, and my official title should have been something like "dog waiter" or "canine cater," since all I was doing was providing upscale dining for the mutts, with all my fancy sink decor.

Lance sat on one of the beanbag couches, drinking from a flask, in preparation for a number that he was going to perform. I sneaked over and opened a can of Foster's lager sitting on the floor next to him, which I had innocently mistaken for a can of Coke. 

"Really?" Lance chided. "A can of Foster's and a can of Coke look nothing alike."

"I'll just leave this right here," I said, sheepishly placing the motor oil quart sized can of beer down on the coffee table next to his flask.

I sat down with him for a while and watched as he smoked a joint. I contemplated asking for a hit but thought better of it after his reaction to the beer. I had my own emergency joint with me in a little glass jar in my pocket, which I always brought along "just in case." Considering that I'd be driving home, I decided to refrain.

I found myself in the kitchen with Karen Spencer. I don't know if we were on a date or something, but I was preparing a very nice sized rack of ribs for the two of us. Well, she did the cooking; all I was doing was carving up some slices. 

"Do you want me to trim the fat?" I asked her.

"Now, what do you think?" She looked at me quizzically, like I'd committed some faux pas of rib serving.

I didn't know what to think, so I proceeded cautiously, just trimming the really excessive pieces. 

I woke up soon thereafter, so I don't really know how Karen Spencer likes her ribs, and I never got to see Lance play his number. And no dogs were trapped, nor their bathroom dining sensibilities disturbed in any way, during the production of this dream. 

Thank you and good morning.