Orbisonly and Everly

It surely wasn't a candy colored clown that came into my room in my coulaphobic dream last night, more of a drunken punchinello who manipulated me into thinking that everything was all right, that it was safe to slumber and that sweet dream ladies would follow.

Instead, I ended up in dread.

Punch convinced me that I went to bed feeling guilty for cruel things that I had said during an epic, confrontational meltdown. I had been drinking hand over fist and this wasn't a sleep, this was a blackout and when I awoke, my dream mates would remember every false accusation, every cruel observation, every confused conclusion,  every needless confrontation, every inebriated insult, every vinidictive vino veritas. The whole enchilada. I would remember nothing but sad flashes.

I had hurt those I loved, alienated those I trusted, didn't know where I was or how I got there but convinced I had left behind a boneyard of shattered impressions.

How was I going to explain my overindulgences when I couldn't remember them.

Yeah, it was Super Bowl Sunday and my team had won and I had won some serious dough that was falling out of my pockets and scattered all over wherever I had collapsed along with the wrappers of 25 of the fifty burgers I had ordered in a fit of mispalced generosity and the sheet pizza upon which my head was spinning.

My gluttony had provided my insulted friends with a spectacle. Half of them urged me to keep eating while the other horrified half, fearful for my life, screamed at me to stop before I burst.

I had been tight as andronicus and loose as a pair of ship sinking lips.

Although I didn't knw where I was, I was certain that I had been here many, many times before.

I didn't know what I was going to say nor did I know to whom I was going to say it when I emerged from whatever or wherever this was.

And then it began to occur to me.

This was what might have been

The reason I couldn't remember all the booze or any of the broads was because, maybe just maybe, none of this had happened that this was in fact a dream. I kept seeing the word DREAD flashing behind my closed eyes. I thought, hoped, prayed that I was misreading the flashing neon and that the D was actually and M.

Dream, dream, dream.

Phil and Don Everly.

No more Orbison.

Punch disassembling.

I could wake up.

Everything was allright.

I opened my eyes.

My wife hadn't left me

She was warm beside me.