In part of my dream last night, I was at some beach-side eatery with some friends. I have the feeling that it was owned by someone that I knew. At this eatery, I was just lounging with some friends, and they announced some beach-side film. It was to be Home Alone. I overheard a group of Brits behind me; they either hadn't heard of the film or hadn't heard the name. I turned around and told a distinguished looking middle-aged man wearing white that the movie was Home Alone, one of the quintessential American Christmas films.
He curled his lip at me and told me that they were more interested in a summer film. Feeling a bit snubbed, I turned back to the bar and looked at the program played on the TV. There was a surfing show. It showed men surfing in perhaps the Bayou or otherwise in the Everglades. How they were surfing is beyond me. There were no waves, and the men were not on surfboards. Rather, they glided along on makeshift crafts made from the remains of some rickety suspension footbridge. The documentary showed them cruising through waterways filled with alligators, sharp rocks and sticks, as well as ample litter and polluted water. Apparently the man featured in the film was brother to someone connected to the seaside eatery.
Before I knew it, the conversation had changed and an old coworker, Sarah H., was present. She was talking about a former resident of the group home and how difficult it was to work with him. I was surprised because Sarah H., is the embodiment of a cheerful worker.
No comments:
Post a Comment