Wheelchair Man Poisoned My Cat

I haven't figured out any rhyme or reason to why I occasionally remember dreams and usually don't. I'd like to remember them more. They're...quirky.

So last night, it went something like this: I was in a Disney game show which took place in a 30th-floor hotel room. On a couch in front of me sat Jack Nicholson and Matt Damon. They disappeared in some wizz-bang Disney theatrics, and Jack magically reappeared by ascending through a hole in the floor in the fetal position, but as the hole closed up underneath him, and he was plopped back down onto the floor, the floor broke beneath him, and he tumbled rather gracelessly down through the jagged hole. We all gasped and peered down through the large hole to see how far he had fallen, only to find that there was no other room beneath us, just a free fall to the pavement thirty stories below. Fortunately, he swung into view, saved by a lifeline. Matt Damon then ascended through his hole much more gracefully. The theatrical "wow" factor of his reappearance was, however, demolished by his counterpart's stunning performance a few seconds prior. And foul play was suspected in Mr. Nicholson's little "accident".

There were a few suspects, but my gut told me the hotel hostess had something to do with it. She was just too primped and pleasant in the most plastic way. She was bad news with her false-nerd persona, clutching her clipboard and power-affirming skeleton keys and anxiously stroking her smartly straight, silky brown hair.

Her shadiness inspired me to write my term paper for my graduate course on the topic of "The shifty motives of plastic people." I received an 'A' on the paper, which was apparently written, submitted, and graded all in the space of an hour or so, and I was so excited about the 'A' that I jumped for joy, and my feet gently floated up behind me, and I awkwardly floated my way out of the building head first and headed down the sidewalk with my new-found slow-flying ability.

In the balmy evening air of what now looked like Manhattan, I rounded the corner of the building mid-block to find I was directly beneath the crime scene, on the pavement Nicholson would have smacked had his rope not held. I implored the detective to consider the plastic brunette as a prime suspect and explained that, right after the incident, I had found the doors to hotel rooms 2, 3, and 4 ajar and saw the plastic brunette scurrying down a hallway. Surely this confirmed her involvement. He thanked me and went back to their prime suspect: the sinister wheelchair man.

Then I was enjoying a luxurious bath in a penthouse suite, relaxing from the day's stresses. Serenely quiet and restful. I should really try that sometime...seems delightful.

Cut to Room 1 in the same hotel, but now it's apartments, and my parents live there. I'm telling them about the day's events and the sinister wheelchair man, and as my mom goes to close the front door, I catch a glimpse, across the hall, of the bottom of the door to room 2, and the shadow of a wheelchair leg interrupting the light leaking through the bottom of the door. It was sinister wheelchair man, and he was eavesdropping on our every word.

I noticed my cat, Nika, was missing (she's been gone for many years, but hey, timelines are the least of my logical concerns in this dream). A knock came on the door, and my mom opened the door, and in jumped Nika, escaping from the lap of the very unpleasant-looking old man. He wheeled in uninvited, spouted a few vaguely menacing things, and looked knowingly down to Nika, who was cuddled up to my feet in a rather pathetic and somewhat weak, sickly way. And it dawned on me. "What did you feed her?!" He admitted she had filled herself up on...something. Of course, in life, she was always filling herself up on something. I grabbed the nearest phone and dialed the operator to find the nearest veterinary office to treat her for poisoning, and as I did so, I called the sinister wheelchair man mean names and threw a small box of tissues at him.

My story did not wrap up as I had hoped. I awoke at this time to the nagging tones of my cell phone alarm. Was it the sinister wheelchair man who had also caused Jack's mishap, or was he just an unpleasant old man hardened by the unkindness of society? Was it the plastic brunette? Or were they working together? I may never know.

I would be concerned about what my dream says about my perceptions of people in wheelchairs, but seeing as how I normally find them very agreeable and how I normally find cute-nerd, silky-haired brunettes very agreeable, I'm not concerned about it. And hey, I got to play detective, took a really nice bath with a gorgeous view, got to see Nika again for a bit, floated around on sheer happiness, and met Matt Damon, so I had a pretty darn good night.