The other night I had a dream that ended on such a disgusting note it woke me up.  I started thinking about the dream I’d just had and wound up laughing my ass off, which pretty much ended sleep for the night.  A day and a half later the dream is still fresh in my mind, so I’m gonna go ahead and write it down if for no other reason than it amuses me.  Anyway…

Jerome and I are in a giant old convertible – I’m driving – and we’re headed back into the Inland Empire on the westbound 10.  (In this dream and other dreams like it, there’s a huge freeway interchange / train station / bus station / airport right around where the 10 meets up with the 15.  For the benefit of anyone not from this area, this place does not exist in the real world.)  And we get off the freeway and we’re navigating through this massive transportation hub and walking on the sidewalk is Bert, dressed in her Michael J’s uniform, clearly headed to work.  I slow the car way down, sit up in my seat a little and scream her name.  She looks our way but she’s confused, so I point to myself and shout, “Tim!” and then point to Jerome and shout his name as well.  She has no fucking clue who we are, so I say fuck it and stop the car and we both get out and go up to her.  We can tell she kind of recognizes us but she’s struggling to remember where from.  Then some people come up to us and angrily tell us to leave her alone.  I tell them that we’ve known Bert forever but they don’t care and try to shoo us away.  Not caring if she remembers me or not, I kiss Bert on the hand and give her a hug and tell her I love her and then I’m pushed away by the people, who I now realize are her family.  As they walk away I realize Bert is really, really fucking old and is a little scared and confused.  I also realize that we’re not at the transportation hub but are standing in the middle of an ER waiting room in some hospital.

Another family is walking in and all of them are just beat to hell:  Morbidly obese, dirty clothes, dirty hair, unwashed and smelly as fuck.  They’re making a bunch of noise but I’m doing my best to ignore them and get out of the room since I have no business being there.  I’m looking around for Jerome but he’s totally gone at this point and then I hear liquid hitting the floor.  I look toward the sound and one of the nasty people is apparently pissing on the floor.  I’m appalled and I want to leave but I can’t because I realize something is wrong here but I can’t figure out what.  Then I realize that the guy isn’t pissing on the floor but actually has a colostomy bag and the bag has apparently sprung a leak.

Then the bag completely bursts, along with the part of his body that it’s sticking out of, and the sound is horrible, like a water bomb that won’t stop bursting, and the floor is just covered with shitty piss and blood.  At this point, I’m not sure whether to kill this guy out of compassion or to kill myself out of desperation, but it’s safe to say I’m wigging balls.

Out of nowhere Lora, my sister in law, shows up.  She’s a registered nurse and I’m stoked beyond description that she’s here.  She looks at the mess on the floor, sees that the guy isn’t doing so well and the she looks around the room.  When her eyes meet mine, she shrugs a bit and says, “You.”

“Me, what?” I ask.

“You’re gonna have to stick your finger in him and stop the leak while I go get some things.”

And that’s where the dream ends because, dream or not, I can’t cope with that last sentence.  If I get to live a thousand years, I’ll never be able to cope with that last sentence.  And also, because I love Lora and I just didn’t want to have to tell her to fuck off.  And I totally would have.

Anyone who’s known me for half a day knows I’d sooner peel my face off and wear it backward than stick my finger in another human being…to plug a urine leak.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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