On Saturday night I dreamed that I had to go back to kindergarten. Attendance was mandatory. “I have a masters degree,” I thought. “Why the hell do I need remedial kindergarten?” So I arrived late to class, which was being held in a large, modern auditorium, slunk past all the kids, and found an empty seat in the back row.
The teacher was asking students to solve an alphabet riddle on the board. She called on me, but because I had missed the question, I didn’t know the answer. I was embarrassed, but the teacher was kind and didn’t make me feel dumb. I vowed to show those kindergartners a thing or two during the next exercise.
After class, there was a large farmers’ market outside the school. The tables stretched on forever, and I walked down to the end in hopes of procuring some strawberries, but someone bought the last box moments before I arrived. The farmer tried to sell me blueberries instead, but they were from Michigan, not Jersey, and they still had their stems. I declined.
I woke up the next morning feeling stupid and berry-less. Then I went for coffee, and as I sat outside on Frankford Avenue, drinking caffeine and watching cars get washed, a pigeon shit on my head and nose. A witness pulled some baby wipes from her stroller and gave them to me. People are nice that way, always willing to help out when a pigeon shits on you.