When sleep finally came last night, it brought with it this …. queer spectacle:
We are at that pond where we aren’t supposed to meet, Joey and I. A large shallow pool, it makes a nice mud pit, which is suddenly what it is. I am standing in the warm, sucking ooze, draped in frippery. I stare down at myself, dazed. My clothes fairly vibrate with shimmer. And, hul-lo, what’s this? Someone sure loves mama! I get a gander of a glowing rock formation on my finger, huge and purplish and heavy.
This stuff ain’t from my closet.
On the other side of the slime stands Joey. Her outfit is linen, simple, a humble tunic without shimmer or vibration. It is my dream, after all. She appears discombobulated, too.
Suddenly, a voice booms from somewhere:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to The Main Event!!”
A pause, electric.
“Let’s get ready to HUMMMMMMMMMMMBBBBLE …………
ourselves before the Lord!!!!!!!!!”
A spotlight floods down on Joey.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in thissss corner, a lady who’s always hiding something up her sleeves — give it up for that Protector of Spies, that Keeper of Secrets, Raaaaaaahhhabbbb!!”
Huh?
I hear the thunder of applause; I feel it rock my feet.
The spotlight now searing down on me, I squint and drag my heavy, ringed hand up to shield my eyes.
The Voice roars again:
“And in thissss corner, a lady born to kick some some holy hinder for such a time as this — give it up for that Champion of her People, that Queen of Persia, Esssstthhherrrrrr!!”
Oh, I guess that’s me. Wave to the people, Tracey.
I do, with quiet queenly dignity. All those years of watching Miss America finally pay off. The crowd explodes.
Someone breathes hot in my ear, “Look behind you.” I whirl around.
It’s David Letterman. What the heck is he doing here, smirking that gapped-tooth smirk at me? I start to sputter, “But … but …. but weren’t you just on TV with that thug, Russell Crowe?” He shushes me, though, and nudges a strange cluster of ornery-looking men my way. The men are identical. As are their scowls. As are the nooses around each scowler’s neck.
Letterman is giddy. He introduces them:
“Say hello to your posse, The Hangin’ Hamans!!”
Huh?
The Gapped-Tooth Doofus continues, “Isn’t it great? They’re here to cheer you on!!” He whoops a “Woo-hoo.”
Letterman woo-hoos.
This is all wrong ….
Suddenly, a bell rings and, without warning, I’m shoved into the pit. Probably by one of those wretched Hamans.
Losing my balance, I slosh down into it. Shimmering frippery is ruined. Drat. I just can’t have nice things.
I stagger up and find my balance long enough to get this eyeful: Joey, lumbering at me, a fiendish gleam in her eye.
Okay. Now I get what’s going on here. (Seems I’m Queen, but I’m dumb, which is never a good combination.)
Trying to run from her is like trying to run from a grizzly bear: it mostly ends badly and sooner than you’d think. She lunges and yanks me down til I’m covered in goo. It’s all so unladylike, undignified. Mama always said cleanliness was next to godliness, so now I’m cheesed on that front, too. I’m gagging and losing and my posse of useless Hamans aren’t doing squat to save me — not that that’s a real headscratcher. Plus, I can now see that that wiener Letterman brought a camera crew with him.
Finally, out of the corner of my eye, a ray of light, of hope:
It’s Billy Graham, arriving with two men and tottering to a chair. Through the mud, I can only make out one of the men, his son Franklin; the other is mere shadow. Gingerly, Franklin and the shadow help lower the good Reverend into the seat. Once he’s seated, though, the two men take his arms and hold them high. It’s a curious sight indeed.
But then …. suddenly ….. miraculously …. just like ol’ Moses and dose Israelites:
I AM WINNING!!
As long as Billy Graham’s arms are vertical, I AM kicking holy hinder for such a time as this!!!!
That is …. until Franklin, that good-time Charlie, wearies of the effort, falls off the wagon, and sneaks a little swiggy from a flask hidden in his jacket. Billy’s arms sink; so do I. In the fracas, the miniature plum-colored planet on my finger slides into the muck. I glop about, searching, hopeless.
I scream at Franklin, hysterical, “You fool! Put the booze down!! Put the booze down!!!” But he just grins and hiccoughs and waves at me. My Hamans are oblivious, pulling at the slack end of their nooses, playing at chokey faces.
I’m going down … fast, hard, and slimy-like.
From across the mud pond, Joey “yoo-hoos” me triumphantly. She has my ring, now just a sad, globby-looking trinket.
But then … just then … Letterman, that kooky, Gapped-Toothed Doofus, lunges at the now pie-eyed Franklin and knocks him away. Heroically, he takes up the good Reverend’s loose arm.
And the tide turns once again.
Just as I’m waking up.
What’s it all mean, you ask? Oh, I’m sure I don’t know ….
