Dream date with Emery (and Hugh Grant)

OK, so it was a date of some kind, and I dreamed about it, but it hardly qualifies as a "dream date." For one, I was a third wheel, there in some kind of intermediary capacity, possibly as a spoiler or a witness, not personally or romantically involved in the event. Second, her parents were not altogether in favor of my being there, as Hugh was their golden boy, a hand picked shoe-in and odds on favorite for later marriage. 

As in most of his movie roles, Hugh was a combination of upper crust sophistication and storkish awkwardness, an entitled, overly self-assured snoot, with occasional glints of everyman likeability. He could be a decent bloke, if his damn ego could just get out of the way once in a while.

I was waiting around by the docks, in a composite beach town that had elements of Santa Monica, Venice and Marina del Rey. Emery's folks lived on the waterfront, in an apartment on the second story of a pier, with a view overlooking the bay. As I waited for Emery to come down the stairs for our "date," her parents met me and looked me over disapprovingly.

"You aren't really dressed for this, now are you?" her father said, eyeing my threadbare hodgepodge of unfashionable attire. 

Ragged jeans, unbuttoned flannel overshirt, T-shirt with faded beer logo, sneakers and a beenie, I looked like a homeless person, or one of those archetypal grunge rockers from the 90s. I guess I could have done better if I was thinking I'd be going on an actual date with the always classy Emery.

"Why don't you try on one of Dad's shirts?" Emery's mom suggested, handing me a tasteful pale pink button down shirt that looked about three sizes too small.

I tried the shirt on, and this was indeed the case. I was bursting out of it like the Incredible Hulk. I decided to keep it, however, noting that if I didn't breathe much, it fit me in a most flattering way. It didn't alleviate her parent's concerns about my overall personage, however, and the shirt only highlighted my unworthiness to even associate with their daughter. 

Emery arrived, followed by Hugh, and it was then that I became aware of my role. Emery was going to break up with him, or get closure of some kind, and I was there to help her get leverage. Hugh was witty and persuasive, and things had a way of always turning out in his favor. I was to be the fly in his ointment.

The trouble was, I couldn't exactly not like him. He did have a sense of humor, and as the date progressed, I kind of bonded with him over our mutual love of Emery, although I suspected that his love of Hugh superseded the former by quite a margin. I tried to remain on track, giving Emery support as she pointed out that "this is why I am breaking up with you" when one of his jokes would land stiffly, revealing his callous side. She was committed to the breakup, and I was committed to helping her.

I don't recall how things wound up with the two of them. Things are a bit hazy now. I remember we all went out to dinner, Hugh, Emery, her parents and myself. Hugh was overly self-assured, cracking jokes and generally being an ass, and Emery was apoplectic, or "cheesed-off," as Hugh would say. He had failed to impress her with his tabletop artwork, a life size sculpture of a cow lying on its side, made up entirely of raw ground beef.  

"All this is going to do is stink up the joint and draw flies," Emery said curtly.

To Hugh's amusement, I spelled out the word "hello" on the table with vinyl letters that looked to have been cut from the restaurant booth's beige upholstery. Seated next to Emery, I put my arm around her back to reassure her, tickling her a bit in the process. At some point, I knew that the situation would resolve in her favor, so I left the group and set out on a journey across the streets and avenues of my boyhood Santa Monica. 

I was traveling on foot, heading south from Euclid and Bay St to Ocean Park. I found an abandoned skateboard, which I quickly appropriated to hasten my journey. The skateboard soon morphed into a unicycle without a seat or pedals. It was basically a single bicycle wheel, 29 inches in diameter, which proved much more difficult to ride, since one was expected to jump on top of it and roll it like a lumberjack atop a waterborne log. This mode of travel proved untenable, and soon I was back to the skateboard. 

I passed by some older houses that all had tree house storage sheds with little covered chutes suitable for delivering grain or produce or any number of goods from the shed to ground level. The chutes were too small for a human to slide down but were reminiscent of a covered version of a playground slide. Some neighborhood kids had found it amusing to slide things down these chutes and had gotten one of them all jammed up in the process. 

I climbed the tree house ladder and entered the shed, and looking down the narrow passage of the chute, I found it completely blocked with scraps of construction lumber. I felt like it was my duty to unclog it, so I began pushing the wood through using my skateboard. Eventually, the majority of the stuff broke free, and I sent the skateboard down after it to nudge out the final remnants.

And that's about it. From its humble beginnings to meaningless denouement, point to pointless, another dumb dream in the life of me concluded.