The Dream

Last night I dreamt I worked in a gentlemen’s club with Rod Steiger. He was dressed in a light blue pullover, rayon slacks and wearing scuffed tap-shoes. He kept pushing up against me like he wanted to tell me something important. His face was grayfish pale with flecks of blue and turquoise. His chest hair was frizzed and stuck out like boxtwine. He said he never met a woman he didn’t like, though some were skinnier and others fatter and some just plain frail, and preferred redheads to brunettes. When I asked him why he over-acted he replied, ‘fuck you blond boy, it ain’t none of your damn business!’ The Columbian drug dealers who were cutting heroin on a table in the corner by the imported beer whispered, ‘shush, or we’ll blow your brains all over the fucking Heineken’.