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dream.20070304: grilled figs

by Rob Friesel

We enter through an old converted firehouse, climbing the stairs all the way up to the roof. The roof (it turns out) is a huge parking lot with hills on either side. Cars are arranged in your typical tailgate fashion; one vehicle might take up two or three spaces by the time its various coolers and grills are set up. The parking lot is by far larger than the footprint of the firehouse.

I wander the lot with a lady friend, an old acquaintance, trying to catch up with some of the folks that I recognize here. Everyone is flipping burders and turning dogs, toasting buns and popping cans of PBR. It’s a good time but people respond to my strangely. My friend tells me that it’s because everyone can tell I’m on acid. I don’t remember having taken any but after a while, the strange reactions the people give to me are enough to make me feel that way.

She turns me over to someone else (another old acquaintance, another lady friend from a past life). We move more to the outskirts of the barbeque where we find a group grilling more esoteric fare: marinated fiddleheads, cucumbers, prawns, a bunch of figs… This is where we stop. She is hungry and takes some fiddleheads and tofu logs; I am handed a rather sizeable portion of figs, still steaming.

About Rob Friesel

Software engineer by day, science fiction writer by night. Author of The PhantomJS Cookbook and a short story in Please Do Not Remove. View all posts by Rob Friesel →

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