Saturday, September 13, 2008
...so I agree to go on a camping trip with some friends, but it's really to an abandoned building out of town (though sometimes it's on the bank of a river, because I remember seeing beavers, or some small rodent, slipping into the water upstream, and radio warnings about how it was going to get cold. Actually, they were identified as beavers in the dream, but they looked like squirrels). To my surprise, a group of local hookers comes to join us - the organizer of our trip invited them - and will have sex with us for minimum wage ($8/hr). Unfortunately, I have no cash, and will be getting paid on Monday. People are skeptical, so I decide I will take the lead, since if we all sit around moralizing, the hookers won't get any business, after having gone through some trouble to get here; and the price is right! I stand from the circle and pair off with their leader, and we walk to the door of the building (because at this point it's a building); along the way, I explain to her that I can't pay her the $8 right away, that she'll have to wait until Monday. I assure her that I'm good for it. She very firmly tells me that that won't work, she doesn't give credit. I shrug, and walk back in, to see that - following my lead - the people in my camping party are now pairing off with these hookers, and going into empty offices. Not only do I now have nothing to do, but I feel vaguely humiliated to have been "rejected by a hooker," and disappointed that she didn't understand or care about my gesture in her and her comrade's support. Shrugging, with no one to talk to, I pick up a newspaper and stumble off down the hallway to my own empty office, to sit against the wall and read. There I notice - it's apparently WE (AKA the West Ender), though it now has some odd religious angle - that there is an article on austere Catholic filmmaker Robert Bresson in the piece. Apparently Bresson's life has some connection to whatever point of view the paper is espousing. I glance at it, then hear my buddy Michael playing guitar in the distance. He has also elected not to go with the hookers, apparently. I bring him the article - because I know he's interested in this particular odd religious viewpoint - and show him it. He says he will make a point of reading it. "Okay, but it will have to be later," I say, "because I'd like to look at it right now."