I approach an indoor fish’n’chips booth run by Greek guys.  The booth sits along one of the access corridors leading to the large transit station I saw in another dream.  It is constructed from sliding plexiglas windows and aluminum framing, not unlike a 24-hour package store in a dicey district.  I ask for a Large but they say no, and I surmise aloud it must be due to the generous size of the dish.  The proprietor confirms my belief.  In the ensuing atmosphere of collegiality, I agree to work there and I buy their t-shirt.  I feel a sense of oncoming dissolution, though, because I also have copious school commitments.

Working overnight at fish’n’chips, I am distracted and only slice one loaf of bread, which I am forced to admit was all moldy to begin with anyway when the morning guy shows up.  He is a black-haired, round-faced man with a moustache who doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives me communicates eloquently his confused wonder at the paucity of my work product.

Meanwhile, I can’t get changed for school, which will include wearing the fish’n’chips tee.  I wonder if I can store the shirt among the cereal boxes sitting on the shelves in the booth.  Then I leave, and get locked out of the booth, even while I don’t know how or why; the uncomplicated morning man does not seem to be an agent of my exile.

Now I am outside on the urban sidewalk trying still to get to school and still needing to change.  I put my worn clothes in a pile on the cement, and I get the t-shirt on but I am prevented from completing my dressing by not having any new underwear.  There I am, bottom-half naked, exposed in public.  I succeed in entering the school building nonetheless.  I have been in this building before also; sometimes it looks like a large corporate law firm, other times the basement of Grand Central.

I see my old folding mini-umbrella lying discarded under the cafe table where one of the other students sits, looking tired and slightly exasperated.  I don’t have time for the umbrella anyway.

My misfortune continues, although if I weren’t so anxious I might enjoy the campus center air conditioning on parts of myself that are normally not so free.  And who should appear to save my day but Richard Simmons!  He owes me a favor, he knows how to be properly naked in public, and he’s wearing (only) just what I need, a pair of very brief men’s underwear.  He must know where to get more, so I approach him with my situation.  He smiles wryly like a man who knows, albeit sympathetically, that his hand of cards will beat mine with ease.  No, it is  who owes him a favor!

Strangely, dreamlike, this is the end of the dream, but I have a feeling that Richard’s compassion and my need somehow will lead together to my eventual acquisition of the required pair of underwear.


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