Dream LXVII

I'd spent a couple of hours looking to buy something suitable that I could use for a bed, without any success. So I decided to go to the movies.

At the theatre, the choices were a three-episode anime series that I knew was quite good; a retrospective series on a famous makeup effects artist; and a three-D audience participation Christmas movie.

I opened a beer and sat down where the makeup artist had examples of his work. I told him I admired his work and named several films that he had worked on. I then turned away and said to someone else there, "I can't think of any others," and the makeup artist, overhearing me, looked a little distressed. He left so he could learn what other films he had worked on.

I decided then to try the Christmas movie. This was a lot like a ride, in that you climbed all over this huge structure designed to look like a snow-covered mountain, and tried various games along the way. Some little kid had worked his way into the mountain and I was trying to get him to come out when I decided to try one of the games.

This was a miniature car-racing game, with cars about the size of a fingernail, and during the game a famous race car driver (a fat man in bib overalls) would comment on how well I was doing, along with his five-year old son. The game started and the controls were reversed; turning left meant going right, etc. I careened my car all around the little track, finally overshooting the finish line. The commentary was a series of remarks about how badly I was doing, and at the end, I was told that my performance was so poor that I lost points, and I was going to have to run it again.

I didn't want to, though. The whole experience depressed me profoundly. I knew that "in the game" I was supposed to be a cynical six-year-old who was, through playing the various games, supposed to regain my faith in Christmas by the end; but right now I felt like my spirit had been crushed and I wanted the rest of my beer. I saw someone else in the crowd drinking it, though.

So I climbed down off the mountain to leave the theatre. A lady dressed as an elf told me I couldn't do that, because I would owe a million dollars for losing the race. She showed me the contract where my name had been very carefully cut out of a piece of silver paper.

But I didn't care. "We'll arrange a payment schedule," I told her, and went on to say that this whole experience had soured me on Christmas forever, and that I was going home to bed.

I thought about stopping by the super-market on the way back to buy more beer. I didn't, though.