My former news agency boss was sitting on the single couch next to mine in my living room. I was working on my laptop, not very concerned — not as much as I should have been. What is he doing here, in my apartment, in America? It wasn’t a question that came to my mind. Or maybe it did, but I wasn’t too worried. Still, I knew my work routine would soon change. Soon we would be having daily meetings to go over newspapers and pick stories to work on, like we did in London. He had mellowed since the earlier days, but it seemed like a temporary tactic. “I’m not as nice as I used to be, no?” I said to him laughing. He agreed, politely.
Next scene: I fell asleep on the floor as I always do in the living room. I woke up and felt very guilty. I felt my boss was my guest and I had gone to sleep before figuring out where he was going to sleep. I saw him and tried to make light of it. “Where did you sleep? In my messy bedroom?! How were you able to sleep?” I asked, laughing. I went to the bedroom and saw the bed had been moved sideways and my clothes on the bed had been pushed aside or dropped on the floor. As I was standing there I discovered for the first time (after three years of living here) that my bedroom has a large passage to the garage. I saw two people inside the garage — two friends I didn’t recognize — moving a large flat panel inside, as if they were going to remodel the apartment.
Scene changes. I am inside a plane. My seat is right at the front, behind the windshield window on the nose, like in the First Class section on the top level of a Jumbo Jet. But the seats were normal economy class. I can clearly see everything outside. There are five or six black women standing in front of the plane. One of them is very beautiful. I’m staring at her. One of the women notices and gives me a stern look.
The plane starts maneuvering for take-off. I see passenger cars moving around the plane as if we’re in a large parking lot. The plane takes off but flies in very low altitude, as I watch rooftops and power lines only a few feet away. Moments later the plane lands and stops in front of a supermarket. Passengers are allowed to leave and go shopping. I go out.
I ask an airline employee when will the plane leave? He says I have to be back in 20 minutes. I go to the supermarket. There’s security at the entrance. A female officer is standing in front to prevent me from going inside, making sure I am searched first. The search is done by a robotic hand that tightly runs down my body, even squeezing my genitals. I squirm in discomfort. A male security officer made a sarcastic remark. “I bet you’re thinking ‘if I was in Tehran, there wouldn’t be any security checks at the supermarket’, right?” he says with a laugh. I’m cleared and allowed to go through a narrow passage inside the supermarket.
I was looking for a box of brown sugar cubes. I ask a supermarket employee where I can find it. He says the number of the isle, but I don’t hear it clearly. I pass each isle, searching. At one point I look for another employee and instead see a strange looking customer. He reminds me of the Tinman in “Wizard of Oz” only because he has a large barrel-like mid-section and carrying a large backpack. “I was wounded in the war,” he says.
Now I’m worried. Very worried. I haven’t found the sugar and I have to get back to the plane. I start running towards the exit knowing I am late. If I miss the flight I won’t have enough to buy another ticket. I’m almost in tears. I step out and the plane has gone.
***
I woke up, relieved that it was all a dream.
