As I gazed at autumn leaves drifting through sunlight and gumming up car hoods in the parking lot, my phone rang.
Clearing my throat, I answered. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon,” boomed a melodious baritone. “You gave me some good advice in my dream last night.”
Although I recognized the voice, I proceeded with caution, since the caller was male. “What kind of dream?”
“A post-industrial dream.”
I laughed in relief. “What the hell is a post-industrial dream?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I made that term up just now.”
“I love it!”
“Pretty brilliant,” he said. “I’d better write it down.”
I heard the sound of rustling paper.
“I am a genius,” he said. “No wait, that sounds terrible. How about, ‘I think I might be a genius?’ ”
“Sounds good.”
“I dunno. Maybe ‘genius’ is too strong a word. Maybe ‘brilliant’ is a better adjective for me.”
“Yes, yes, you’re brilliant. You’re the most brilliant person I ever met besides me.” I drummed my fingers against my metal folding chair. "Now tell me the advice I gave you in the dream.”
“I will in a minute. First I have to lay some groundwork.”
“I would never give you advice that needed groundwork.” I said. “That sounds more like something you would do. Are you sure it wasn’t you disguised as me, giving yourself advice?”
“Oh, it was you all right.”
“Is it advice I already gave you but you didn’t listen to at the time?”
“No. It was new advice.”
“Would it be good advice for me too?”
“It didn’t really apply to you,” he said. “It was meant specifically for me.”
“Just tell me the damned dream.”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath and described how I counseled him about shopping for ergonomic pen nibs on the internet. But I doubt the advice came from me, since my pen nibs are all made from moulted pigeon feathers, and when they cease to be ergonomic I just go find new ones in the parking lot.
I’m kind of pre-industrial that way.
