In Dreams

I'm sitting at the bar at The Banknote and Andrew is bartending. Amy is looking after the people brave enough to be sitting on the patio (it's getting chilly in the evenings), and there are no Murphy Brown waitresses tonight. That's what we call the endless stream of new waitresses who quit after one or two shifts. They are all young, blonde, and interchangeable; I've given up trying to remember their names.

I had this dream last night: I was walking along the street, somewhere, on my way to a wedding. The wedding.

I'm alone tonight; I've just returned from my late evening class at the university where I teach, and I need a beer. Jack is coming here in October. He's taking me to a wedding; a friend of his from university. Another university.

In the dream, I am on my way to that wedding. It seems odd that I should be walking, alone, on my way to the wedding of people I don't know, but in Dream World I seem to know what I'm doing. Or at least where I'm going.

Then I run into Peter, there on the street. We each understand immediately that we are both heading to the same place, so we walk together and begin chatting.

Somewhere in the conversation, instead of saying "the wedding" I say "my wedding."

I notice that the music isn't the usual, Frank Sinatra. Far from it; it's muddy, mottled disco, not throbbing enough for dancing (not that there's a dance floor at The Banknote) but throbbing enough to be irritating.

"Where's Frank?" I ask Andrew.

"Sinatra?" Andrew replies, without missing a beat. "It's his night off. He called in a request for this station."

"Liar."

"There is no all Frank Sinatra station, you know," laughs Andrew. He tosses a plastic coated card on the bar beside my Beck's. It's the playlist from a company called DMX Music. The cable radio that's piped into the bar.

Andrew's right. Sometimes that station plays Dean Martin, too.

Peter stops.

"Your wedding? What do you mean your wedding? It can't be your wedding."

I say nothing. I'm confused, but I think it's my wedding. It's somebody's wedding, in any event.

"Does Jack know?" Peter demands.

"I... I'm not sure," I reply, and I'm not.

DMX Music offers a hundred stations in 13 categories. Each station has a name that describes its style, and a corresponding number to be punched into the remote control to select it. Andrew has told me, previously, that the all Frank Sinatra station which he just denied exists is number 33. Sometimes, when Sid is bartending, I snitch the remote and punch it in.

I had no idea there were so many stations to choose from. The one called 80s FAVOURITES must be the Sid channel. I hear Duran Duran most nights when he's bartending. The names are fascinating. Some, you can guess at the musical style. Some, you can't even begin to guess. At least I can't:

CHIC BOUTIQUE	GLOW
ZEN	METRO BLEND
VIXENS	SUBTERRANEAN
SOUTH AFRICAN RHYTHMS	ROADHOUSE

"Do you know what this station is called, the one that's playing?" I ask Andrew.

"No," he replies.

"What number is it?"

He looks at the converter: "Seventy three."

I examine the card. I find it.

"Apparently, it's called CRAP," I tell him.

He laughs, and changes the channel to 33.

Beside number 33 on the DMX card it says: RAT PACK.

Peter says, "Listen: Promise me something. Don't do anything until I get there. OK?"

"OK," I comply easily, and continue on my way.

I arrive at the church and Kay is waiting for me outside. "Hurry up," she says. She grabs my arm and leads me inside, into an anteroom. "You've got to get ready."

"OK." I do as she says. She seems to be in charge. Several faceless women busy themselves with preparations, apparently on my behalf. They make me take off my white go-go boots.

At this, I protest weakly. "Do I have to? They're white, they'll go with the dress!"

Andrew sets another Beck's down in front of me before I can tell him I don't want another. He asks me what I'm writing.

"I was in England this summer," I say, by way of a reply," And I was in this pub called The Hole In The Wall, in Bristol, down by the docks. There was a plaque on the wall — right near the eponymous hole, in fact — that claimed Robert Louis Stephenson wrote Treasure Island there."

"Oh yeah?" Andrew is puzzled.

"Maybe one day there'll be a plaque in here. Over by the safe, possibly." The Banknote used to be a Bank of Montreal, and the walk-in safe still stands in the centre of the back wall.

I'm stepping into an off-white, ballet length, full circle silk skirt. The faceless attendants are holding it out for me, keeping it off the floor. The fabric is shot with gold, and shimmers in the dim light.

I'm curious to see what the top of the dress looks like, and what it'll look like when it's on. I spy a pair of soft gold leather dancing shoes, the kind with the suede soles, on the floor nearby. I wonder if they're mine.

Then I remember about Peter, and my promise. I wonder about Jack. I don't know where he is, but I feel vaguely that he should be here; that he will be here. I'm not sure, though. Everyone but me seems to know what's going on, and that's comforting, so I am not worried.

I tell Kay about my conversation with Peter.

"Mmn hmn," she says. She seems concerned, but not surprised. As if she had expected this, and was prepared to deal with it.

"Leave it to me," she says, as she heads for the door. "I'll take care of it. You finish getting ready. I'll be back in a while."

* * *
In two days it will be Postmodern Sass's blogiversary. And in the next story, a strange man examines Sass's hatch.