Visions of Scrap Metal

08.03.2021

The other day I was telling my partner about some dream I had. Almost all of my dreams involve the towns I lived in from 0-16, and this one wasn't any different.

So, my partner says to me: Why don't you ever dream about this place, or that place, or even the other place? You don't ever dream about [scrap yard number one]. I have no idea. I just don't. Maybe it's a sign of my future senility and dementia.

Anyway... on to the point of this post...

Last night (and the night before), I dreamt about the very first scrap yard that I ended up managing. I don't remember much of the specifics of the first dream, but I'm going to share the second one here because I'm amused, and it's scrap metal related, and y'all seem to like my scrap metal stuff.

In my dream, we'd sold that scrap yard to the same company we sold the most recent yard to, ANNNNNND you guessed it, I had the same yard manager. (Did you really guess it? I doubt it.)

I'd gone out to the shop area to ask the yard manager about some paperwork that had been filed by one of the drivers. My yard manager told me that there was a new special process that they had to follow under the new management that required us to drive into town to fax the documents to the head office. (The scrap yard had been located about 20 miles from town, and apparently in my dream, didn't have a fax line, which makes sense because by the end of our run at that yard, both the fax and phone lines had been chewed mostly through by mice - no joke.)

I go into the office to get some stuff together, and in walks one of the guys with a reporter. Now, in my dream, I'd apparently already given this reporter an interview previously and she'd done an article on the yard, and she had come back for a follow up. (Side note: I love how you can have false memories in dreams.) I'm instantly annoyed, because, no I'm not a misanthrope, okay, yes, yes I am. But you kinda gotta let me have this one because the reporter is highly reminiscent of Joan Callamezzo from Parks And Rec.

Reporter lady announces that she wants to "freshen up" a little and wants to know where the restrooms are. She's clearly not accustomed to life of dirt, as she's also worn some very fancy clothing and shoes. I try to direct her to the restroom, but she's daft, and I go to take her one of them. But OOPS, I'd forgotten that we'd turned one of the ladies rooms (of which there were 3) into an office space (apparently it was huge?), so I direct her to my own private restroom. (I'm using "restroom" because I don't know what most people call it. To me, it's always a bathroom, whether or not it actually has a bath in it.)

She takes forever and a day to "freshen up" and when she finally comes out again, I direct her to go talk to someone else, as my yard manager had just come to ask me when I'd be ready to drive to town with him to fax the documents.

And that was that.

So, if you're looking for the answer to "Do robots dream?" - here is clear proof that they do.


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