Part 5

For those of you who remember/follow my short story, here is another installment.

I thought about the sleeping pills that I’d been prescribed last year for my insomnia, but decided against it; I’d fall asleep sooner or later. Maybe some exercise would work. I got my shoes on and went looking for my dog. After a brief stop at the neighbor’s house to see if he had seen my absent animal (he had not), I set off toward the park, hoping that my canine compadre could be found there. Walking amongst the greenery, despite the trimmed trees and pampered petunias, my thoughts drifted to my primordial forest of my mind. Why would my subconscious conjure up this verdant delusion every time I fell asleep? What did it have to do with my writing and my ideas? Was there some way I could gain access to this apparently untapped font of ideas while awake? I walked through the park, my mind elsewhere, absently searching for the dog, but no progress was made on either front. I returned home hungry, confused and without my dog.
I reached for the phone to dial the housekeeper’s number, but after a few seconds of ringing on the other end, I was informed that my party could not be reached, but if I cared to, I could leave my name, number and a short message. I did so. No progress. I lay down on the couch to consider my next course of action. The late summer sun was faint and a gentle breeze was wending its way through my living room, and as easily as that, I drifted off to sleep.
Richard Nixon greeted me at the entrance of the Taj Mahal. His dress was slightly askew, and was clearly cut a few sizes too large for his frame. The hors d'oeuvres were ready, but the band need a few more minutes to get the sound set up correctly. The guests were happily intoxicated, but Elton John was swinging gaily on the chandelier and refused to come down. I was about to order Tricky Dick to cut the rope and let Sir Elton crash raucously to the tiles of the ballroom when the phone began to peal stridently next to my head. I groggily dragged myself out of my nonsensical dream and answered the phone with a hearty “Mmmph?”.
“This is Jacob Lewis, Audrey’s husband. I’m calling all her clients to see if she’s been in today.”
“Well Jake, I can tell you that she definitely came through here earlier today before I woke up.”
“So she was there, but you didn’t see her?”
“That’s correct.”
“Thank you for your help.”
“Any time. When you get ahold of her, can you ask her if she’s seen my dog?”
With that, I hung the phone up and sat up on the sofa. Apparently my dreams were not all significant. Exhibit A for the prosecution: Richard Nixon in a muumuu. Well, maybe I could find a story in that some time.
I spent the next four hours trying to cobble together a short story about Richard Nixon in drag reprimanding a swashbuckling Elton John for his buccaneer tactics, but the nonsensical nature was defeating me, and so shortly after one in the morning, I turned off my computer and succumbed to sleep once again.