The dreamer-who-charms was walking with the director, or assistant director, or sub-producer, or he couldn't-remember-the-man's-title. It was at the late tipping point of a summer evening, and the great cavernous campus building was abandoned except for the bustle of the rumbles of the food court on the second floor. They were all closing for the night. Aluminum food trays with bits of dried food fell into racks, aprons flashed as some the student workers flitted away for the night, or with no public to serve went into casual mode, as it were, joking and talking with each other openly, even across the different venues. The Taco Bell people people talking music and sports with the sandwich express people. One of the Starbucks girls was teasing a friend on the bottom level. It still somehow felt quiet. How could it be quiet with all the noise?
Dreamer-who-charms followed the director up the curved modern staircase, taking in this scene. "So the writer's meeting you here?"
Director-man ignored the question. He could, he didn't look like the alpha-dog type, but he was conditioned to it by his work, and he wore it as best as he could. He was somebody who now walked with purpose even he didn't know where he was going. This wasn't one of those times.
The crew of the movie, even a couple of the major actors, had grown attached to the dreamer. He didn't know quite why, but he now spent a lot of time on the expensive, complicated science fiction sets. Maybe it was that the dreamer asked good questions. The director-man was oblivious to whatever charms the dreamer had, or maybe it was just that he was just acting like he was, the dreamer really couldn't tell. For all he knew, the director-man hated him. He was just like that. However, the director-man took notice of those questions the dreamer asked. It was about the script, or rather something near the end. The director-man decided to have the writer talk to the dreamer. The dreamer didn't know why.
"Yo...shi...ma...da's." The dreamer took forever to read the clerk's hat, as if he was illiterate. The dreamer didn't know why that was so. Why was it so hard to read?
"They do Japanese fare, cheap sushi. They're a chain around here." the director man nudged the young clerk. He was white, with short brown hair. Kind of a cheery punk. "Hey, let us in. We're here to see your boss."
The clerk shrugged and met them at the slender door hidden in a side-ways pointed menu display next to the counter. It was like walking into another world. The steamy aluminum world of food service, but still. They piled through another doorway connected to the kitchen. It was a little office, especially with all of them piled in like that. Why did the cashier come in with us? the dream thought.
The office was just a long desk laid into the wall that terminated in a bunch of filing cabinets in the corner. The walls over the desk were shelved, and every bit of space was used. It was almost suffocating, and the dreamer found himself in the back corner, his back pressed against the filing cabinets. It was strange that he noticed the thin old man, the manager, the writer at this point, especially since he had been pretty much pushed past him into the corner. The clerk closed the door and unfolded a chair that the dreamer hadn't noticed.
The director talked with a writer for as short while. The dreamer didn't know about what in particular, he wasn't paying attention.
The writer worse a black cap, and had wavy gray hair. He seemed like an orthodox Jew. The dreamer guessed that he wasn't named Mr. Yoshimada, but then decided that it wasn't the point.
Eventually he began to speak with the writer. "So," the dreamer started. "Why a St#$$#@@$#%%%%%%%%vie? What got you started on that?"
The writer gave him a haunted look. He spoke very slowly, in segments. Strangely, the dreamer didn't understand them, but at the same time, did.
Suddenly, it was as if everything changed. The dreamer recognized something in the writer and he spoke normally. "Basically, I got involved in the Kabbalah later in my life, after I got my degree in mathematics. I found, pretty much by accident, a type of number." The writer frowned. "Well, no, that's not quite right. We don't have the language for it. But it's real, and it's a very potent thing."
"I see." the dreamer said respectfully, hiding his exasperation at the jarring burst of mysticism.
"It's the kind of thing that can destroy planets, displace time, things that seem fantastic from our terrestrial perspective. Imagine it like a virus in the mind of God, as it were."
"I think I actually follow you." The dreamer luckily knew just enough about the Kabbalah to puzzle out what he was saying, or at least to figure out the basic shape of it. The dreamer cursed himself for that, but he was amused at the heretical implications of the writer's ideas.
"I figured you might. Incidentally, I on only got into writing, well, script writing to help create a lure, a flare, something that would draw the, I don't know, the 'number' in."
A few moments passed. The dreamer and the writer looked at each other. The dreamer began to understand the implications of what the writer was saying.
Meanwhile the director and the clerk shared a quick glance, and then continued to pretend like they were keeping up with the bizarre exchange.
The dreamer relaxed. "Oh," he said under his breath. "So, what would the world look like to the number, do you think."
The writer's face was blank, but still betrayed that they both mutually understood the scope of what he said. "I believe that it would see our world as something like a dream."
The dreamer's heart sank. Normally, when he realized he was dreaming, the dream flitted away, or he could dream about whatever he wanted, and he could fly. It usually didn't trap him in the corner of a small office. He could still hear the sounds of the upper-level food court through the walls. "What the hell, man." The dreamer laughed under his breath. "Unless this is some kind of life-ending aneurysm dream, I've got to tell people about this." He looked at the writer. "So now what?"
"Hopefully nothing. If I did everything right, anyhow. At least I think." The writer said. "If I messed up at all, then I guess this is the Apocalypse, or something like it."
"Well, I can't... I can't do anything, so, I guess you're fine." the dreamer said, confused.
The clerk and the director began to speak to one another. "So, we're in an office with, what, he's supposed to be a, like, mystic Jewish cosmic horror-god thing?" the clerk asked the director.
The director sighed and wiped some sweat from his forehead. "Something like that. I don't know what to believe anymore, everything's gone so bugger-fuck crazy."
A few dull moments passed.
"What's it like?" The writer asked.
"What's what like?" said the dreamer.
"Your existence, I guess."
"It isn't like anything. I'm just a normal person having a dream."
"What? Well, no, that doesn't make any sense. You don't even have a, a, a physical body at all, aside from this." The writer said, confounded. "You just somehow are thinking that you do."
"Well, that shows how much you know."
[After a little while, I was jolted awake by an earthquake.]