Dreams: The Restaurant

The man glared at me over his menu with all the disdain of a four year old whose mother has just denied her pleas for ice cream. I shot him back a weak smile, laced with a silent please don't leave and hurried back through the kitchen doors.

The place was oddly silent. Chefs, waitstaff, and the busboy alike stood in small groups around the kitchen, murmuring to one another as if they were at the house party of a friend of a friend. No one knew what to do next.

The manager of the restaurant - a classy-but-affordable, new-age Italian place - had just stormed out of the kitchen, through the dining area, and out into the street, clamoring something like"...the sauce...not right...never see me at this shit-hole again...".

The last bit was painfully distinct.

It was pretty obvious that the place was in need of new management. I looked over at Sheila, the head chef, who was plating an order of spaghetti as though she might just take it for herself and head home. The staff was small. Sheila had a sous-chef named Drake, there were three servers, including myself, and the busboy, Tommy. The manager had served as host and kept everything running smoothly between the front and back of house.

I suddenly realized that Sheila, and everyone else, for that matter, was staring up at me blankly, as I had been standing there silently for an uncomfortable span of time taking in the scene. Then, without thinking, I nodded at Jill, one of my fellow servers, and said flatly "table 4 needs more water," and turned, gliding out the kitchen door.

A line had formed at the host's stand which I made my way to as eyes all across the room followed me, wondering. I felt something shift in the atmosphere around me as I said "right this way" and led the next party to their table. The man who had previously been glaring at me was now laughing at his table, a full glass of water in hand.

After seating the remaining guests, I made my way over to his table, as I noticed they had just gotten their food.

"Everything taste okay over here?" I asked, clearly directing my question at the gentleman who had seemed so disturbed earlier. He looked back at me, smiled, and said "I'm glad they had another manager on-deck. Everything is fantastic."

I smiled back and walked away, realizing with some surprise that I had just promoted myself.

Well, someone had to do it, I thought, as I headed back to the kitchen to check on a missing order from table 6.

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"I understood. The eagle was telling me that dreams, visions, meditiations such as this very one - things that I had till now disdained as fantasy and illusion - were as real and as solid as anything in my waking life." - Steven Pressfield, The War of Art.

I've always been fascinated by dreams. As someone who believes in a Higher Power, there must be a reason that I create these fantastical, bizarre, and unfamiliar scenarios in my sleep. I was inspired by this portion of The War of Art to think deeper about my dreams and what meaning they hold for me. I decided to use them as an opportunity to stretch my creative limbs and write them down in a series of blog posts. So, anytime I have a dream that I can remember enough to make sense of, you'll find it here in one form or another.