Dream, And It Might Come True
LC Van Savage
Sometimes it’s a pleasant diversion to lose myself in a movie-like trance and imagine all sorts of impossible things. I know you think I have way too much time on my hands but occasionally I find myself in long boring situations, like certain operas, table decoration meetings, touchy/feely/fuzzy discussions about the meaning of life, or long confabulations about sewers vs. septic tanks, where I find it’s ever so sublime to just drift off into my imagination. Come on, you know you do it too right? You plaster that phony, “Oh, I’m just so incredibly interested in this” expression on your face and then just float away.
My latest escape/voyage, created when I was visiting a dear friend in the hospital who had the gall to fall asleep but demanded I be there upon awakening, was this; I began to imagine I’d received a letter from a lawyer in some huge city, typed on thick, creamy paper, his return address in black raised letters, telling me because I’d been kind to a stranger 27 years ago when I’d gathered up her rain-sodden groceries that had fallen from her rain-sodden paper bag and had driven her and her mess home, she searched out my name and left me her mansion in Butte. I was simply stunned to get that letter because I’d never told a living soul I yearned to go to Butte.
So in my daydream, off I flew to Butte and was driven to this castle perched on its very own mountain in the Rockies and oh, what a sight it was. A bit of Neuschwanstein, a flavor of Windsor and a lot of Swiss Chalet. Oh, fabulous, and all mine!
I turned the enormous key and pushed open the gigantic front door and entered. The cavernous candle-lit front hall was lined with obedient staff awaiting my command, a snap of my finger, all in starched, perfect livery. Bowing, a few took my bags and I swept upstairs into a bedroom right out of a Bela Lugosi movie, only darker. Later, I descended the long, curving staircase and entered the dining hall, a table so long 4 large families could have used it for tobogganing. The staff brought 12 courses of food for me alone and it was wonderful. Glorious. Unreal. Except for the tripe. They ought to have known that tripe and Brussels sprouts are not to ever be anywhere near me.
My days were spent in glorious decadence, lounging in the manicured gardens, taking high tea out on the south lawn. I once tried to count the rooms in my castle, but gave up after 104. I loved being alone, unwilling to share these fantasies with anyone else, but in time I began to not like the sound of my footsteps and voice echoing all over the castle. The topiary was getting boring, it was impossible to open windows for fresh air, the ballroom was fun to roller blade in but the solarium was just too damp. The staff refused to talk with me because staff wasn’t supposed to cotton to the upper muckamucks, so I was lonely.
All that splendor made me wonder, “what’s it all about, Alfie?” I wanted to go back to my life of serious non-wealth. The daydream of effete riches was beginning to sour as taxes, heat, arranging balls, gardening, dealing with butlers arrogantly butling, wall mold, gowns, bone-chilling rooms, hauntings, crabby landscapers, Rolls Royces, fireplaces, mice, pull chain toilets, snooty neighbors, jewels, hats, correct outfits and hairdos all became just too much. Luckily my hospital pal came to and I beat it out of that daydream quickly and forever.
But even so, my next boring situation daydream will be on my 300-foot yacht. Or my ranch. Or my well staffed tropical island. Or my fudge factory. Want to come with me? It’s really easy to get there. I can show you how.
LC Van Savage is a prolific writer. Many of her columns,
even a poem and a short story have been published in Pencil Stubs.
You can click her byline to find her bio
and a list of her work in this ezine.
She also has a home site