Smogs and a motel business

I wish I had more to give you, but I'll try to fill in the details as they come back to me.

I was working as a smog tech with Manny Salazar, doing mobile smogs. Someone from a school district called in, needing a difficult smog done on one of their fleet vehicles, a school bus, possibly.

"Man, they're going to love you," Manny said in his typical sarcastic tone.

He handed me my portable device, with which I was to perform the smog and sent me off on foot to the elementary school. Presumably, the vehicle was going to fail and that was the reason for his snide remark. I was going to be the bearer of bad news and would probably be blamed for it.

I trudged up a long hill carrying my equipment and got as far as the end of our parking lot, but that's about it for the smog business. I woke up to pee and the channel changed.

Next, I was sitting at a lunch table in the meeting room of a small motel chain. My in-laws were there, and we were about to have a meeting regarding some investors in the business.

The parts of myself and and my in-laws were being played by some of the cast of Schitt's Creek. Bob was Johnny Rose and Hannelore was Moira. I, sadly, was Roland. I had the flannel shirt, scruffy beard and obnoxious manners, along with a complete lack of understanding of what was going on. 

"Now, we're going to meet with one of our proxies today, so I need everyone on their best behavior," Johnny-Bob intoned with Eugene Levy's perfect parental delivery. "Oh, look, I see her now. She'll be wanting to discuss some financial matters with us."

"You mean, she'll be wanting to squeeze us for some money, dontcha?" I retorted. "That's all proxies are, just sponges waiting to sop up the profits every chance they get, am I right?"

"No, that's not right. Again, you fail to understand their role. They are investors. We need them. They give us money. We need to show them that we are doing what they want with it," Johnny chided.

The lady, a rich looking middle aged high-society type, came in and sat down next to me, and we began discussing the peril that she believed we were in regarding our investments. She had a list of grievances.

"There is a lot of construction going on on the Skyway. And that's affecting the blacks, mainly. So, there's that. And there are protests going on in Yuba City. Have you seen them? It's awful." She went on about things which might affect our motel business and, more importantly, her money.

She had brought her own lunch and was picking at it with a fork. It was a sourdough sandwich in a silver chalice, which she placed between her and myself. It was making me hungry. All I'd brought was my water bottle.

"Well, there's always been construction on the Skyway," I said defensively. "That has been going on forever. Well, at least since the fire. So that's no reason to worry about your money." 

She absentmindedly grabbed my water bottle and took a drink. I don't know if it was a gesture of humility, you know, drinking from the same vessel as a "commoner," or what, but it kinda pissed me off. I let it slide, though, since John Bob Daddy-o was so adamant that we keep her feeling comfy and cozy.

That's about the last of it. I know there's a story in there, but I don't think it has legs. Or if it does, it has used them to vacate the building.