I was standing on what was supposed to be the set of High School Musical — Disclaimer: I have never seen, nor will I ever see, any of the High School Musical movies, so help me every deity, archetype, divinity, universal mind, metaphor, symbol, spiritual tuning fork, collective unconscious, etc. in which anyone has ever believed or will ever believe — in last night’s dream. The set was a drab, brown and gray dominated anonymous high school all-purpose room/auditorium. In fact, it appeared to be the actual drab all-purpose room of an actual random high school in all its faded glory.
In an overdose of meta-twists, I was there to help oversee auditions for a high school’s musical reproduction of a high school’s musical reproduction of High School Musical. The problem was that I’d just received word that one of the other people helping with the casting was someone I was trying to avoid, since I really didn’t have three hours or so to listen to the person yammer endlessly about whatever mind-blowingly stupid thing they just did in their life, followed by a lengthy bloviation about whatever mind-blowingly stupid scheme they were planning to put into action next.
So, I was trying to hide.
I was about to duck into the boys’ bathroom down the hall from the auditorium when I noticed the adjacent door to the faculty lounge bathroom was slightly ajar. Intrigued for some reason, I entered.
The luxurious marble room was full of spacey pod chairs, except they were also combination toilet-bidet-baths. There were about 40 of the pod chairs in the room, and about half of them were occupied by naked men smoking cigars and drinking whiskey on the rocks in low-ball glasses. The music of Charlie Parker played softly in the background as they conversed with one another from their respective toilet-bath-pods. Marble sculptures were scattered throughout the room as well, and steam hung in the air.
Deciding I needed to use the facilities, I walked over to one of the empty toilet pod chairs and discovered a towering pile of excrement festering in it. I walked to the next pod only to discover the same thing, and on and on it went until I checked every free toilet pod, and all of them were full of crap to the brim.
At this point I decided to flush one of the toilets, but only some of the waste matter therein vanished; most of it remained. One of the men said, “It’s either you or the pile.” So I flushed again, and a little more disappeared into the plumbing. After four more flushes, the poop was finally gone.
I sat in the pod and relaxed with my complimentary cigar and glass of whiskey, I and felt the pod’s cool water flow down my lower back while Bird wailed on the sax. “This is frickin’ nice,” I thought. It wasn’t long, though, before I realized that for whatever reason I wasn’t going to be able to do my business in this lap of luxury, and that I would have to get up and go back to the urinals in the cruddy boys’ restroom instead.
It was at that moment that I woke up and discovered that I was laying on my side and facing the middle of the bed. The covers had been pulled away from me and off my backside, and my t-shirt was bunched up, exposing my lower back to the air. I did in fact have to go to the bathroom.