Back at work on March 8, 2026, and you know it ain’t so bad. I had a distressing dream last night concerning work. I was at a version of the fruit stand with the logo surrounded by red lighting. Yancy and Kimberly were talking to me, but I could never hear just what it was that they were saying.
Each time I would ask them to repeat themselves, some type of noise would drown out what was being said. I knew better to ask them to repeat themselves too often, and so I muddled about. I was supposed to sit in this new area, but I had no idea what to do. There were notes lying around, but I don’t think they pertained to me.
I was told a few times to find that woman a hotel. For some reason, I thought they were talking about Patti Smith, but I am not too sure about that. In the dream, I was walking around areas that seemed somewhat familiar, but on closer inspection, some key ingredients were missing. Like sugar. I needed sugar for my coffee, but could not find any, which was just as well since I could not find any coffee either.
The dream seemed to last a long time, and I could not awaken from it, and it was stressful. On top of that, daylight savings came and robbed me of an hour’s sleep. I forgot that I was going to be dark when I woke up in the morning, and it certainly was today. That threw me off, and I kept thinking to myself, I am up too early and should be going back to sleep. The confusion was also from the fruit stand dream as well.
Mike was over this weekend, and it was good. Bill was bussing snowboarders up to Vermont from Long Island, and Mike stepped in to babysit me. Mike came in handy, and Bill seems to have done all right for himself. I spoke with my dear old friend Jane. She was someone who always believed in me, even when I did not believe in myself, which was often.
My first show was playing two songs at Tin Pan Alley in Times Square with Jane. We rehearsed a few times and had 2 shows on a Saturday and Sunday way back when. Jim Mastro and the other Bongo were in the front row watching me as my caffeinated fingers played fast barre chords.
My then-roommate Jimmy Lee also played a few songs with Jane. Jimmy saw how anxious I was and reminded me that no one else could do what I do, and I should just relax and have fun. I heard the words, but I was not able to relax. In fact, I think I had an out-of-body experience.
IT’s a Monday in March, and the temperature is going up to 60 degrees. A woman sitting next to me on the PATH train gave up her seat for a man with a cane. I did not notice the cane until she got up and he sat down. I thought about giving up my seat for the woman who gave up hers, but I instead closed my eyes and tried to remember Kimberly’s name.
The Google Gemini rewrite as a Stephen King essay
Back at work, March 8th, 2026. The world is still turning, and it ain’t so bad, really—not once you get past the morning fog and the feeling that your soul’s been through a rock tumbler.
But the dream? That was a different story.
I was back at the fruit stand. You know the one—the corporate orchard where the logo glows with a red, rhythmic pulse, like a dying star or a warning light on a dashboard. Yancy and Kimberly were there, their mouths moving in that slow, exaggerated way people do when they’re underwater. I couldn’t hear a damn word. Every time I leaned in, some localized thunder—the roar of a jet, the grind of a garbage disposal—would drown them out. I stopped asking them to repeat themselves after a while. In the dream-logic of that place, asking too many questions is a good way to find out what the basement looks like.
I was supposed to be in a “new area.” There were notes scattered across desks like autumn leaves, but the ink seemed to shift when I looked at it. Then came the command, repeated like a mantra: Find that woman a hotel.
In my head, I was sure it was Patti Smith. Don’t ask me why; dreams don’t trade in “why.” I wandered through rooms that looked like places I’d lived, but they were wrong in that subtle, oily way dreams have. The geometry was off. I went looking for coffee and found nothing. I went looking for sugar—the white powder of life—and found only empty cupboards.
Then there’s the “Spring Forward” scam. Daylight Savings Time—that annual pocket-picking where the government reaches into your bedroom and steals sixty minutes of your life. I woke up in the dark, my internal clock screaming that I was trespassing on sleep’s territory. The dream hung on me like a wet wool coat, heavy and smelling of ozone.
The Ghost of Music Past
The weekend was better. Mike came over to play babysitter while Bill was busy bussing a load of snowboarders up to Vermont. Bill’s doing all right for himself, it seems. I also talked to Jane, my “Dear Old Friend.” We all need a Jane—someone who keeps a flickering candle of belief for you when your own matchbook is soaked through.
It got me thinking about Tin Pan Alley in Times Square. My first show. Jane and I had rehearsed until our fingers were raw. We had two slots on a Saturday and Sunday, back when the city felt like it was vibrating. I remember Jim Mastro and the other Bongo sitting in the front row, their eyes like twin spotlights. I was hopped up on caffeine, my fingers flying through barre chords with the frantic energy of a man trying to outrun a landslide.
My roommate at the time, Jimmy Lee, was there too. He saw me shaking—actually vibrating with dread—and leaned in. “Nobody else can do what you do,” he said. “Just relax and have fun.”
It was good advice. It was also impossible. I didn’t relax; I just exited my body and watched the whole performance from six feet above the stage, wondering who that skinny kid was and if he’d ever come back down to earth.
The PATH to Now
Now, it’s Monday. The mercury is supposed to hit 60 degrees—a brief, false promise of spring in the middle of a New Jersey March.
On the PATH train this morning, a woman gave up her seat for a man with a cane. I didn’t even see the cane until he sat down. I had a momentary flash of chivalry—I thought about offering my seat to the woman who’d just stood up—but the dream still had its hooks in me.
Instead, I just closed my eyes. I sat there in the hum of the train, trying to remember Kimberly’s name from the fruit stand, hoping that this time, the noise wouldn’t drown it out.