Life Lesson

Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Plush

I cringed when I saw her walking my direction across the Quad. I knew I'd have to answer for the mess I left at her house this morning, not to mention last night - oh shit... last night. Still in recovery mode I felt the very real and prominent symptoms of my hangover intensify as she got closer.

It was a great night, but it only hit me now that I'd have to answer for the things I'd done. Depraved, awkward and strange things. Instinctual things that lurk in the depths of men's souls; things we should never have to answer for. Part of me must have known. We were 7 months into a 2 year program together and she was in all but 2 of my classes. I was old enough to know I had to be accountable, but perhaps young enough I hoped to get away with it.

Her face was streaked with the dark smudges of running mascara; she'd been crying.

"You Asshole" She screamed 10 meters away.

Everyone I was with turned and after a quick assessment knew she must have been talking to me. Their collective gaze fell upon me, all with an awkward smirk, not yet sure of the severity of the infraction.

"What is THIS" she pleaded, clinkled face, drastically contorting her soft features.

Holding back a retch, I stood to face my accuser, nay witness. Filled with shame I knew i was cornered.

"Stuffing" I answered "synthetic cotton".

"You violated..." Shit, here it comes "Mr. Mcgoo! I've had that dog since I was a BABY!"

"Stuffed dog" I offered by way of correction. It was after all, in accurate to call it a "dog".

"What happened after I went to sleep you depraved pervert?!" She was angry I could tell, but I couldn't shake the feeling that if she hadn't passed out on her bed as soon as we'd gotten home none of this would have happened.

"I lost control" was all I could muster - I did after all, I just wasn't sure how. After hearing her snoring the last thing I remembered was waking up naked and sticky on the cold tile floor of her decaying bathroom, empty plush carcass of a stuffed dog beneath me. There was synthetic cotton stuffing everywhere.

"I can sew" I offered with a slight desperation in my voice. My eyes must have been closed, or perhaps I was distracted, because I missed the lunge. Before I knew what was happening I was on the ground and being smothered by the shaggy, time-worn skin of Mr. Mcgoo.

I knew then that this relationship was over.

Tomorrow...

Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Enlightenment

Gordon had been waiting for "tomorrow" for the better part of seven months now. Not tomorrow, as in the day after today, but "tomorrow"; a concept, or premise that was meant to be the day after "today" but never seemed to materialize. The "tomorrow" Gordon waited for promised more than "today" (which is yesterday's tomorrow), ever managed to deliver.

The tomorrow he waited for was promised seven months ago by a powerful and odorous Psychic; Madam Consuela. Consuela - in addition to a glandular problem which made her smell like a meat locker 4 days after a summer power outage -had powers of insight beyond regular comprehension. She had told Gordon that "tomorrow" would be the day that everything became clear to him - murky rivers of thought would be as clear as mountain springs, gloomy skies of reflection would be upper-atmospheric in their crispness, and cataract obscured logical conflict would be laser corrected to 20/20 hawk-eyedness. Aside from the astute and richly imaged metaphorical prophesy, Gordon's epiphany came from never having realized that he was quite that stupid. He'd only gone to see Madam Consuela because his friend Arnold had told him that her stench exceeded that of any creature (alive, or dead and bloated on steaming asphalt). Experience the stench he did, but he never expected to be enlightened... furthermore, to find that all of this time he'd been crippled by a lack of clarity was icing on the cake.

So Gordon had been waiting with baited breath. Since seeing Consuela he had actually become quite frustrated with the degree of his stupidity and was eager to shake it. Seven months later; today, the day on which he'd payed the very last installment on the prophecy which by sheer coincidence had cost exactly the amount of his life-savings, he was certain that tomorrow was the "tomorrow" he was waiting for.

The Farm

$1,000 for the first person to find the chicken in this drawing....

Right.

Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Case study

Jen wasn't a model of consideration. Because of this it wasn't news to her that various people preferred not to spend much time with her, but she blamed them; they were too lazy to make the emotional commitment it took to better themselves in the ways Jen saw necessary. The difficulty was that she wanted to be around them - around anyone. In the company of others, it became abundantly clear to Jen that what others would perceive as failures in her life were entirely out of her control.

For example: last week she had been shopping with Martina - a co-worker that she had befriended and her phone rang while they perused the selection at Town Shoes. While silently judging the awful pumps that Martina was trying on, and secretly hoping that she would buy them so that everyone in the office would see how fat they made her legs look, she snagged the phone from her purse and answered. Answering was a mistake as it turns out - Stephen, who she had been seeing for 4 months had reached the end of his rope that morning when he found a bag of potato chips he'd bought in the garbage, unopened. The call was abrupt and to the point. After learning where to shove her "controlling, ego maniacal self-centeredness" Jen hung up in arrogant disgust but felt slightly warmer as she saw Martina paying for the shoes. It was a small victory considering Martina's choice to browse the upstairs section instead of in the basement had caused Jen cell phone signal to stay in tact and therefore resulted directly in her current emotional distress. She made a note to punish Martina further. If she had been able to avoid the call she was confident that she would have avoided the breakup through careful manipulation of Stephen.

It wasn't the end of the world she convinced herself (again); Stephen was a pig. He had the foundation of a strong and worthy partner but chose to poison his soul with trans-fats and charitable notions. With no patience for those sorts of endeavors - she understood the notions, but execution was never practical as part of a desirable lifestyle - Jen had immediately set out to adjust Stephen's perspectives (as she had done with others many times before). She had begun to suspect over the last few weeks that Stephen's constitution was too weak for her reforms, and that day he had confirmed it for her. Just as well.

Jen had never imagined her future as her present had manifested itself. It was a failing of humanity and community that every potential companion in her midst fell so drastically short of her exacting standards. There was no question of reasonableness; as a successful, beautiful, well adjusted psychologist of 47 she knew she was better qualified to judge.

Sink...ing

Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Kitchen sink


In a blinding flash it came to me. Literally blinding, as I felt myself wincing at the world around me struggling to stay upright. It was what had become my darkest day - one for the ages upon which I could reflect in my old age and remember how truly dark my origins had once been. It wasn't a rebirth, just a shitty day and it's a matter of personal disposition that my lowest points become yet another beginning. After all, were I to consider a mid-point, or perhaps even a mid to high point a beginning then I'd just be giving my experiences too much credit and ignoring the gut-wrenching value of emotional destitution.

This epiphany was a simple one and yet probably my most profound: the strongest bond I felt in my life, at the fragile and emotionally incontinent state that I knew as the age of 48, was to my dish rag. I hadn't stopped to think about it often enough I guess but in upon reflection I realized instantaneously that it was my centre. Close not because of sentiment, though it was knitted by my mother, but because of its longevity and reliability. It was a hideous, odorous, utilitarian, practical and ultimately disposable accessory that provided a familiarity in my life unlike anything I knew at that time or had recently experienced.

Snow day

Perhaps I was too hasty below in judging the weather. I'm actually a big fan of snow - it would be nice if it was more fluffy, but beggars can't be choosers and in a year that's seeing the effects of global warming, El Nino and myriad other frenetic scourges we seem lucky to see vestiges of wintery comfort at all. So I'll make the most of it.

Stumpy

On the first snowy day of Toronto winter, I'm finding myself looking forward fondly to warmer days.

The Tuner

Genre: Gaudy fiction
Inspiration: The word "fork"


The tines of the tuning fork rang in the air, piercing the smoke filled room; a sonic aurora. Stanley felt the bead of sweat threatening to fall from the ledge of his brow into his eye but he dared not move too abruptly. It must have been forty degrees in there... that coupled with the odd darkness and the cigarette smoke dancing in the few sunbeams disecting the giant room gave it a feeling of a seedy, burlesque lounge. The velvet accents and gaudy crystal that vomited across the marble floor only accentuated the uncomfortable feeling that he had travelled into a different dimension; perhaps changed forever by a cultural revolution led by Liberace.

From the corner of his eye he saw her watching. Cigarette holder in hand, her fuscia silken slip flowed across her leather arms and legs. Like a tanned hide flapping in a windy shed, the backs of her appendages swayed fluidly as she adjusted her awkward and disturbing position on the love seat 30 ft away. This was not the first time Stanley had tuned this piano.

Margaret was rich. Too rich. And she was lonely - not because she lacked the reassurance of constant companionship, she hated people - but because she had not felt subject to the lusty testosterone fueled desperation of men that she was at one time unable to escape. She often thought to herself that this was the curse of old age: to have spent so many long and irresistible years on earth subjecting men to her infallible perfection that clearly, they had grown immune. Tirelessly she vowed to search the earth for the genetic anomaly that had been spared the fate which in her mind was worse than death - an inability to recognize womanly perfection. Stanley was being tested - he had been here before and had shown a glimmer of desperate need that she knew she could incite.

Stanley had no idea that he'd projected such strong signals while tuning the same piano 5 weeks earlier. The room that day had been hotter (if that was even possible) and despite an ominous creepiness emanating from Margret's disturbing perch surpassing what he was now enduring, he was unable to resist the need to ask for some water. Margaret knew immediately that his intention was to have her rise and to watch from behind as she walked to the kitchen. It disgusted her in a way that she had been craving for 27 years.

The sweat on his brow was now threatening Stanley the same dire sentence so he tried to move as little as possible. He wasn't sure what had him back here in only 5 weeks, but he was going to do anything to avoid returning again. The tears he saw forming in the wrinkled corners of Margaret's eyes as he declined to stay for dinner then conveyed the kind of desperation he was only too familiar with.

Country Road

"I guess my feet know where they want me to go... Walking on a country road"

J.T.

Is this odd?

I was thinking the other night as I went through the motions of settling into bed, that I have for many years of my life, almost subconciously, very often asked myself the same question as I settle in to sleep. I nestle under the covers, position myself as I would imagine myself able to fall asleep according to overall comfort and think to myself:

"If I were to be put in a state of artificial hibernation for many years for the purpose of travelling through space, and through some unknown freak of scientific flaw could feel either comfortable or uncomfortable during that time (assuming I was unable to move), would the position that I am now in be a good one?"

Its interesting how the prospect of feeling them for years unending highlights small discomforts in a way that might otherwise go unnoticed for a longer period of time.

Eggnog

Genre: Holiday fiction
Inspiration: Seasonal

Eggnog makes Stephen vomit so he passed on that particular offering. Wondering to himself why anyone still serves it, he surveyed the foreign room looking for someone who he could feign interest in so that he didn't look so conspicuous alone at the snack table eating cheddar cubes.

His wife was heavily engaged in a conversation with her boss' boss and some other woman who looked both angry and suspicious. He felt as if he went over and was introduced the woman would ask him direct and probing questions all building towards a crushing crescendo of defeat once she discovered he was a roofer. It wasn't easy for Stephen to be married to a lawyer - rewarding yes - but at holiday season, when overachievers gathered to celebrate their resounding financial successes and skirt family discussion (invariably to hide divorces, loveless marriages and other varied domestic disasters) they were at their most self-congratulatory. It was not a good time to be a roofer married to a lawyer.

That wasn't exactly true - Stephen booked at least a month of his year at this party. 3 days after bonus time people were feeling both drunk and charitable, and there was nothing like a trades person to evoke the most gut wrenching and uncomfortable of reactions from white collars.

"Ohhh. that's great - I could never handle those heights... I'm so impressed! In fact I was just saying to (insert wife's/husband's name here) the other day that we need to get our roof done... what a coincidence! how is your May looking?"

Stephen always followed up and always booked the work at 130% of his regular un-discounted rate. It was a petty and deeply satisfying penance that he made his wife's colleagues pay - It almost made up for the fact that the only thing Cramer, Snider & Berriman offered to drink besides wine (no roofer he knew drank wine) was eggnog.

Wow. Just wow.

Genre: Dream
Inspiration: Dream

I considered not recording this dream because of how messed up it seems but then I decided that I could not be an honest raconteur without full disclosure...

I was a woman... Although I had not had a sex change operation something had happened against my will, overnight, that had caused me to become a tall, skinny woman with dark skin (black or Indian perhaps). My hair was jet black and very large and curly. I knew very well that I had been myself only hours before and was having a very difficult time understanding how I could possibly manage my life as this new person - work, marriage, friends. To add insult to injury I was also heavily "adjusted" (for lack of a better term) - collagen lips, hideously taught skin, and worst of all was missing my shanks altogether. From just below my ribs to my hips, on each side of my spine was a large empty space with dry sinew and bone protruding, as if a shark had taken a bite out of each side. My impression is that this was done as part of whatever procedure had turned me into this monster.

I remember desperately wishing that this was a dream, but a few days had already passed in my dream and therefore I was sure I had to somehow live like this. I broke down talking to my wife in the kitchen of a house I lived in over 8 years ago - to be honest I am not sure whether it was because I was a tall black woman, an ugly woman, or a tall ugly woman with holes in my sides. Maybe all of the above.

Somehow my mother appeared (probably because the kitchen we were in was in my parents old house) and she began to laugh nonchalantly at my predicament - she was sure this could be fixed and that actually made me feel better. I awoke just as I was being examined by a doctor on the kitchen counter - he was poking and prodding in my "side-holes" and just then I thought that even if I could somehow be reverted back to myself, I would really miss having a full set of back muscles (due to the side holes having removed a whole range of motion) because there are a lot of things I use them for. At that moment I woke up with a slightly sore back.

The feeling of relief and satisfaction of realizing that a bad dream was just a dream - especially after you've talked yourself out of it having been a dream - in incredible. Even more so when you get to role over in the comfort of your bed and go back to sleep. Incredible contentment.

Shades of booger

Is there an English word that rhymes with booger?

Plane weird

Genre: Dream
Inspiration: See above

I'm flying with a group of people in a large plane, like a 777 perhaps - but the inside of the plane is more like a lounge - Comfortably appointed with earthy tones and large windows. I am somehow familiar with the group including the pilot (or co-pilot) and my memory begins with us joking around. He had said something poking fun of me and I returned the ribbing by pointing out that the plane had somehow come to a stop - "We're not even flying" I said. We hadn't exactly landed because we had litteraly come to a stop mid flight, but we were set on the ground. There was nothing abrupt about the "landing" and it seemed to be normal except for the fact that we all wanted to get where we were going. As I poked fun at him I looked out the window - I remember the view was the middle floors of an office tower about 30 ft from the plane. I seem to know that we had come to a rest on the belly of the plane on the edge of a large drop - perhaps on top of a building, or some other similar struture. Very soon after pointing out that we were stopped the plane started to fly again taking off from the precipice not vertically, but also not with any acceleration on the ground - it was flown by the other co-pilot (the one I was talking to was in the loungy area with us).

Immediately my view switched to first person from the perspective of the nose of the plane. I remember watching and talking to someone who I knew was beside me (perhaps in the cockpit?) but I have no recollection who. The plane's engines roared as they pushed the large plane very slowly through the air - perhaps 30 or 40 kms per hr. Ahead of the plane was a very steep hill rising in front of the nose covered with typical urban features - a gas station, telephone poles, roads... we were perhaps 20 ft off the ground as we climbed steeply to surmount the hill. The plane was barely fitting between the poles and signs that stuck up above the streets, and I remember as it tilted sideways on its horizontal axis to fit between the streetlights. I lauded the pilots skill at that point. Where the plane lifted off from its perch the bottom of the hill was comprised of a busy street below with a large, more open area on the hillside facing us. There were taller buildings on either side of us but were flanking us by about 100 ft on either side. As the hill progressed to the top though, space between the buildings on either side narrowed as the streets formed a triangle. As we approached the top of the hill I remember avoiding an abnormally large and off-kilter train to our left, a few very out of place and abnormally small Russian cargo planes parked in the bank of the hill to our right, and flying towards a very large and strange scaffold/structure directly ahead of us. The structure looked most like an extremely large, dock yard crane - the type that unloads cargo ships - in that it was steel and laticed, except that it was enormous.

We flew into the structure still going 30 or 40 and the next thing I remember is as follows: We had landed, again on the belly of the plane. The ground beneath me was white and icy and slick aluminum. Somehow I knew that we had landed on top of a much larger plane that was now moving through the air - I knew because of the ice, wind and the height that I had to be careful. I was still with all my companions (perhaps 4 or 5). The strange thing was that the top of the plane I was on was not really the top of anything, it was just a surface and it didn't really seem like a plane - around us bolted to the icy white aluminum below foot was the huge abutments of the steel latice that was at the top of the hill. Somehow I was on something that was a combination of the Russian cargo planes I saw and the giant crane like structure. I know we had landed there for a reason - though there was no panic in the dream, landing there was somehow saving us from real danger (perhaps running out of fuel or something similar). The plane we had flown there in was beside us - it was covered in ice and was also abnormally small - maybe 50 ft long. To get out of the cold, and into a comfortable environment for the duration of the trip we decided to get into our plane which it turns out was perched near the edge of the structure we were on. To get in, someone climed on the top of our plane simply by straddling it and lifted up a hatch at the very front which was located where it's windows were. Half the front of the plane lifted to let us in. Two people who were also going to get in stepped too near the edge of our plane and nearly fell off both planes altogether - I was not particularly concerned because I just wanted to get in... end.

Shackle Debacle ( <-- wow, that's a rotten title)

Genre: Urban Curiosity
Inspiration: The word "shackles"

The shackles clanged around the lanky wrists like miniature bells linked one upon another hanging loosly from a steeple at the end of a human arm; a pious human arm.

"WHAKish" A whip cracked across his broad back cutting a long tendril of crimson blood accross the broad shoulders. He muttered in fatigued agony.

"Thou hast forsaken the Queen for the last time and thine time to expire doth hitherto forbode your continued comfortable existence" growled his formidable keeper from behind the armour of hard leather.

He uttered but a squeek of acknowledgement as beads of hot sweat poured from his brow through his bloodshot eyes and over his parched lips, and without being able to verbalize it he thought to himself: "huh?"

"I hath but to club thine head with this bat to end your pathetic burp of a life scoundrel, and shall in the next minute decide wheather though hast earned a right to breath, or foregone thoust..ed... thine? thoust... hmmm."

Her stumbling gave John a moment to reflect on the fact that he was shackled on his stomach with his hands behind his back, naked save for a loin cloth in the backyard of a women who he had met only 3 hours earlier. The fact that he was immediately repulsed by her girth hardly seemed important now - he had invested a good 2 hours in getting laid (making small talk, paying for dinner, home made ice cream at the gourmet shop) before she had tied him up and thrown him down the stairs at her house. Damned though if he wasn't going to see this one through - it seemed to him that as her whiping became more tender, she might be close to touching him something that didn't sting like the fire of a thousand suns; it had been ages since John had been with a woman. Even if she was 320 lbs (he approximated by sight but he was pretty good at that being a vegan nutritionist and all), John owed it to Mary to see this date through. Mary was a sweetheart waitress at John's favourite restaurant and surprisingly attractive for a lesbian ex-con with legs of uneven length; all things John discovered after an unsuccessful bid for a date. He spat out a mouthful of grass as he redoubled his effort to crawl to the end of the lawn where Gertrude - his "master" - was going to tie him to the roof of her car for a drive around the block. He knew for certain scraping his knees over the sidewalk that this was the last time he would accepted a blind date with a cute waitresse's parole officer.

Switching it up

Genre: Dream
Inspiration: Memory

Last night was fun! Despite having had my treasured motorcycle stolen I was quick to head to the shop to replace it. Strangely the shop was familiar to me and nothing seemed odd, however recalling now it was a small room, dimly lit like a shed and scattered with various motorcycles and small machines. It was like a very cluttered childs playroom flush with power machinery. The sales person was familiar to me as the guy who I bought my actual motorcycle from. The odd thing was that I chose a very fancy sport bike - something out of character for me being both frugal and practical with expenses. I know exactly what the motorbike in my dream was meant to be (subject to the design liberties that my sleeping brain took) and yet even in my dream i had no idea what its actual name of the bike was 9omething I'd probably know if I had just spent $15,000. Regardless, I believe it was a Ducati 998 something or other... I brought the bike home and sheepishly showed it to my wife knowing that she'd be unhappy at me having bought a sport bike - she was none too pleased. In contrast, my friend who also rides was thrilled - I even remember how good the machine looked in my dream. It had none of the fuzzy edges and blurred details characteristic of dreaming - it was shiny, beautifully defined and exquisidely rendered. The fun part came when I got to ride it. I remember the trepidation I felt getting onto a very powerful sport bike. there's always a vulnerability to riding but the feeling was exascerbated on this machine and I remember being very cautious as I pulled onto a strange street didn't recognize. The street itself looked like a movie set, or perhaps an indoor streetscape like in a mall or museum. The road itself was narrow and it's undulations exaggerated. the store fronts on either side were comically shrunk and absurdly close to the street. I get the impression that there was a roof high above darkened to be unnoticable to those below. The ride was brief but fun, especially since my bike has been in storage for over a month now.

The kicker throughout this whole dream is that I was deeply regrettful of having not bought the same motorbike as I currently have (the one stolen in my dream). Part of it was because I have a lot of accessories for it, another part is that I am very familiar with its feel and that it is a reasonable engine size for what I need, and finally simply because I love my bike. This is the second time I've lamented the loss of this bike in a dream - in the first I traded it with a friend fro theirs of a totally different style. I woke up missing my bike a lot but quite pleased that i'm still in possession of the one that I missed so dearly in my sleep. End.

Milk Plasma

Genre: Dream
Inspiration: My cup of coffee

I was lamenting last night that it had been a while since I last remembered a dream in any detail, especially since I now have a convenient place to record them.

I woke up again today with no recollection whatsoever of any dreams last night. To my surprise however, sipping my coffee this morning something came back to me in a flash. My coffee had a disturbing dairy based film skimming the surface which made me think twice about ingestion. Of course, being deperate for the caffeine and sensing no imminent danger down the hatch it went.

Sure enough, as I did that a snippet came to me in a flash. I had removed from the refrigerator a plastic jug of milk - strange because you don't typically find these in Canada - also strange, because I never drink milk by itself. I swigged from the jug and noticed a strange taste. Sure enough, raising the jug to eye level I saw that the milk had seperated - yellow ooze on top, cream currdled on the bottom. I had just sipped the fowel yellow "plasma" of milk. I spat it out in the sink. End.

Cross-eyed

I'm not sure I meant to cross his eyes - there's certainly something a little creepy and yet disarming about it...

Bubbles

Genre: Reflection; non-fiction
Inspiration: Epiphany

Last night while getting ready for bed I suddenly thought of bubbles. Soap bubbles to be specific, and I immediately thought that they'd make a great candidate for some kind of writing. Almost instantaneously the thought "least harmful thing in the world" came into my mind. As I thought about how to incorporate that idea into some sort of fiction about bubbles I challenged myself to think about whether bubbles really are the least harmful thing in the world. After all, if I am putting my credibility on the line for the sake of bubbles I'd want to ensure that I'm properly reflecting my opinions and not just capitalizing on a niftly idea. Plus, I hadn't really approached the problem "what is the least harmful thing in the world"...

Many things popped into my head immediately and seemed to be based on a few, logical criteria: small, soft, clean, not unattractive, free... and as I started to thing about those things that might embody some of these characteristics I realized that none fit the complete list. Dust is filthy, snow is very cold, water droplets dissolve dirt and aid oxidation, sand causes chaffing, animal hair bunches and balls and collects dust - the list goes on.

I'm not sure that if someone had asked to identify the least harmful thing in the world I'd actually have the clarity of analysis to come up with bubbles either. I was actually quite stunned that I had so effectively and immediately diagnosed the nature of soap bubbles, and I do believe that they are actually, literally the least harmful thing in the world. How's that for epiphany?

More dreaming

Genre: Dream
Inspiration: See above

An unusual treat last night - a mid-week dream memory. I actually remembered quite a lot after my alarm first went off and was looking forward to recording it but then, after snoozing for 10 minutes woke up with only a fraction.

Snippet 1: walking through a hotel - I remember knowing that it was a Sheraton - I was walking past the elevators which were on my right. I was on an upper floor and to my left was an open atrium over a railing rather than a closed hallway. It wasn't a new hotel but wasn't out of date either... gold trim, reds and greens in the carpet. I remember intending to pass the two elevator doors as I walked but as I looked to my right I saw that the elevator was in fact huge. It was a trapezoidal shape with a carpet exactly like the hallway and appointed as if it was a room in and of itself. Easily 10 ft deep and 7 or 8 ft across at it's widest it contained a sofa or two, a table and plants; even windows. The really intriguing thing was that it itself had its own elevator doors along the right hand wall - 2 of them... It was as if the elevator gave way to it's own elevator vestibule. I did a double take and went in. there were other people in there and if I remember correctly it started to move just after I entered. That in particular gave me a great sense of satisfaction as if proving itself as a lifting mechanism.

Snippet 2: A large store. It was for all intents and purposes a fancy corner store, perhaps a very modern, small grocery store. It was very large, very white and contained a lot of various racks in an unorganized yet very ordered layout. The first part of the dream had me paying at the register which was a large island in the middle of the store. The cashier greeted me and gave me roughly $6 which someone had left there. I couldn't figure out why the cashier was giving it to me but said that neither he nor his colleague were able to keep over payments or spare cash. I was very surprised at his honesty. Free money was a super feeling. I ordered what I thought was 2 beers - one Cafferey's on tap and something else in a bottle. I remember thinking twice about the Cafferey's wondering if it was something I was familiar with. As it turns out it was in a can and as I opened it it frothed with extraordinarily thick and disgusting tomato-soup like gel. naturally I threw it out. The other bottled beer turned out to be more like a tonic. Sometime during this particular discovery another person joined me at a standing table in the shop. Distracted by the tomato gel beer, I didn't notice that the store had closed. To my surprise I and my companion (no idea who) were still in the shop, and I think due to my disappointing tomato gel, started to look for something else (despite the tonic). All the racks were wide open and there were strange drinks on each (at the time I remember thinking they were European - but not foreign, leading me to believe I was in Europe, or at the least in a European shop). My companion, who I think was a character from a recent movie I watched (American Pie - Naked Mile... I'm ashamed to say I watched it, though in my defense it didn't cost anything) stole from a secured rack a plastic bottle of cola - not Coke, perhaps a generic or European brand... End.