It was the day of the big premier and I was busy in the kitchen preparing food for the gala.
I was cutting loaves of some type of sushi that were as long as the table. I was pleased that my cuts turned out so perfectly that each piece had the desired “two holes” in the exact place they should have been. I figured the holes were where the chopsticks were inserted.
As I left the kitchen to go look for the actors, I suddenly became worried that I would forget the words to my song, then taking comfort in the fact that since I wrote the song after all, it was unlikely I would forget it.
I found the actors in the break room and told them the food was ready and they had to go and cover all of the serving plates with aluminum foil.
Many of the actors were quite taken aback by my request but filed out of the room in spite of their disapproval.
One of the young woman approached me and arrogantly said she hoped the food turned out okay as she was the one who had paid for everything.
I walked into the break room and opened the fridge looking for a cold drink, but couldn’t find anything that appealed to me.
Noticing the hour, I realized I needed to change into my tuxedo.
In the dressing room, I put on my trousers and shirt. Removing the crisp white shirt from its plastic dry cleaning bag, I remembered it had been a long time since I’d last worn it and was hoping it would still fit despite my having put on weight.
I was delighted that the shirt fit perfectly and opened my tie box and selected a bow tie and proceeded to tie it around my neck.
Not seeing my tuxedo jacket, I remembered I had left it backstage, so I walked out of the dressing room and started down the long corridor to the backstage door.
Just then, I saw the “curator,” (the real-life curator of the local museum in the village where I live), dressed in a dark velvet tuxedo.
Not wanting to engage it the usual chitchat, I pretended not to notice he was walking just steps behind me.
Backstage, I was having a hard time remembering where I had left my jacket and began to panic noticing the time.
Just then, I heard the backstage door open, assuming it was the curator.
Suddenly, I heard a loud noise and when I looked over a standing clothes rack, I saw the curator on the floor out cold as it appeared he had tripped and hit his head during the fall.
I found my jacket hung up on high rack and took the long wooden stick and carefully retrieved my jacket.
On my way out, the curator had stood up and was brushing himself off.
I asked him why his tuxedo was so dusty and he told me he had taken a nasty fall upon entering the backstage area.
I consoled him disingenuously and we walked out together and back down the corridor.
Arriving back in the hall, guests began arriving and I noticed my ex-wife waiting in line at the cloakroom with her date and walked over to greet them.
Then I woke up.