Dream: Gig in the Middle of Nowhere

I had this dream last night:

The gig was at this weird joint out in the middle of nowhere, one of those places already tired of itself. We met the promoter—a big bastard, seven feet easy, the kind who looms over you like Chief Broom. He brings us inside and shows us the stage, which is basically a porch someone stapled to the inside of the building, way too high off the floor. I’m staring at it thinking: Christ, another place designed by people who never had to haul an amp. They’re all talking about where to put the drums. “Drums?” I say. “Yeah man,” he goes. “That’s the whole point of this gig. Drums.”

Later we head back outside to the parking lot. I don’t remember there being a parking lot when we arrived, but there it is now, like the dream just patched it in when it needed a transition scene.

His daughter offers me a ride. She’s sapling-thin but nearly as tall as old Broom, maybe six-two, but in a way that looks like it cost her something. She’s got this old Ford wagon with fake wood on the sides. A real boat. She drives like she’s got a personal grudge against topography—too fast, too tight around corners, knocking into whatever’s slowest to move: trash cans, buildings, people. It’s all the same to her. I just tried to look cool, like I was used to dying creatively.

We get back, and someone says, “Hey, there’s Sierra.” So I go look. She’s sitting in a car with some guy I somehow know to be Dale. I walk up, wondering if she’ll recognize me. She gives me that look people give when they want to pretend they don’t. She’s trying not to make eye contact. I figure this is because of Dale, so I back away and head toward my own car. The funny part? I’ve seen pictures of Sierra. Plenty. And the woman in that car didn’t look anything like her. Not even close.

But hell, half the time no one looks like who they’re supposed to be anyway.