coulrophobia

Some dreams simply don't make sense. More often than not my dreams are laden with unfamiliar people and places. I often wonder what my early morning, sleep-cycle adventures are supposed to mean. Sometimes my dreams are downright absurd. I'll share with you one such gem of my dream land.

The whole dream is in black and white--totally lucid. I enter a house, which is apparently my house, only it doesn’t look like my house. I come in the door and there stands a Yosemite Sam look-alike, in the flesh. He's got one of those crazy-thick, push-broom mustaches; and he’s just chilling in my kitchen, being creepy. I’m not sure what that’s all about, but I know I don’t want to get involved. So I just scurry up the stairs to bed, as it’s already very late.

As I'm lying there snoozing, I’m awakened by some hullabaloo in the kitchen downstairs. In my drowsy state I figure that it’s just Mom doing the dishes or some such nonsense. As my heavy eyelids close, I hear someone sidling up the creaky stairs outside the bedroom door. The doorknob turns, and through the small slit of the one eye I manage to open, I see a large figure enter the room. I try to open my eyes and focus on the intruder, but I can’t seem to see though the blur. The stench of burnt grease reaches my nostrils and a shutter. Finally my eyes adjust enough to make out the figure that is now standing at the foot of my bed, looming over me in the shadows.

Upon seeing his ghastly face, my whole being tenses with fear. Leaning over me with outstretched arms and gnarled hands is the epitome of evil: Ronald McDonald. But this is not the Happy Meal-serving, charity-supporting, fun-loving Ronald kids know and trust. No, this is off-the-clock, after-hours, most likely tipsy, and ill-tempered Ronald. His wig is gone, his makeup smeared, his wrinkled and scarred face revealed. I tried to scream, to run, to move, to do anything; but my heart had stopped beating. This was the end. I could only watch as the yellow eyes of death descended slowly upon me.

But just as I had consigned myself to a death high in saturated fat, I awoke to the sweet salvation of reality, breathing hard. I sat up, wiping the sweat from my face. Looking around the room, checking for prowlers, I struggled to control my breathing. Then, as I eventually came to my senses, the first thought that ran through my head is probably the same one that’s running through yours now: "Seriously? Ronald McDonald? Aarg, I hate fast food."

c. johnson