Stream of Unconsciousness
In my dream, I walk up to three urinals. I step into the middle, flanked by the stainless steel defenders of dignity. After finding myself through a maze of denim and cotton, an older man approaches the urinal on my right. I cannot see his face, but time has left a topographical map in his wrinkled skin and tendrils of hair reach out from the depths of his ears. As he urinates, he narrates. He tells me how he fell in love with Johnnie Walker. How he paid and paid for the pleasure of Mr. Walker’s company, forsaking the love of all others. And when he couldn’t afford even the least of Johnnie Walker’s ministrations, he’d give himself over to lesser hands rather than take it as a sign to return to the ones who truly loved him. All I could do was stand there, bladder ready to burst, my stage fright in full effect the entire length of his monologue. Finally, his stream of words ended, and he shuffled away.
