Member-only story
Whistleblowers and Dreams
I had one of those kinds of dreams last night where
I was just dropped into it and so my first task was to identify my first task. I was in a restaurant, the name of which was in Cyrillic letters, and there was a young man on the other side of the table who looked vaguely familiar.
Very light brown hair cut fairly short — not reaching his ears — and a shadow on his chin where showed the outlines of a wish beard. That’s where you do not shave your chin and wish you had a beard.
I gave up trying to identify my dinner guest and ran my hand deeply into my right front pocket, only relaxing when I could feel my wallet. In the past, I’ve been dropped by a dream into a situation where I was expected to cover the tab without money.
How did I know that my wallet contained money and credit cards? I just knew. It usually does, and finding it in my front pocket was a reassuring tether to reality.
How did I know that I was expected to cover the tab? I just knew. This was a white tablecloth joint and the young man across the table did not look terribly prosperous. The thought led me back to his face and I recognized him.
Edward Snowden. That located me in space if not in time. I was in Moscow. I could only hope the time was within two years of the…
