A JOB WELL DONE
Dreamed 1981/3/2 by Chris Wayan
This is my dream, but it isn't my story, exactly. It's someone else's script. I don't know who. All I know is, I was reading this script in a dream, and the introduction said:
"I gave up on human characters; I think people are out of their depth, overwhelmed by the modern world. The only metaphor that works any more is to show them as animals lost in a world they can't understand."
The script, whoever wrote it, comes alive as I read it. Here it is.
A JOB WELL DONE
A young fawn named Fawn, barely old enough to talk, lives on a rented farm with her single mom, a gorilla. That must have been some marriage.
One day, Fawn goes along with her mother to see Mom at work.
Mom's job is robbing banks.
She pulls this one off, with Fawn watching big-eyed and scared, but not crying out or distracting her mom. They make it home to the farm.
Swollen with pride, Gorilla Mom grows even bigger, into a sort of hippo-deer-pig. She rests on the porch after all this uncharacteristic exertion. Little Fawn hears something faint but scary, and whimpers "...'ama!" But her mom is on Page 263 of a steamy paperback--she's in a boardroom high in the Transamerica Tower, where Lance and Emily are finally, finally, FINALLY tearing off their power suits and doing the two-back beastie. No way is she getting up till she's finished this chapter!
So poor Fawn fumbles her way alone through tall dry grass to the back fence to look. Cops! Coming to investigate. Fawn crouches, praying her spots will hide her, and listens. They're looking for the gorilla witnessed at the bank, not a hippodeer. Still, they brought two bloodhounds to sniff through any disguises.
A school bus pulls up and a young girl gets off. She's the farm's owner. She too hides in the tall grass and spies on the cops. They debate which trail to set their dogs on (isn't that the dogs' job? But they argue on and on, reining in the hounds). The girl likes her weird tenants a lot more than the local bankers, so she silently prays the cops will pick the wrong trail. And they do: the arrogant chief tracker runs off following the dumber scenthound and the others follow, muttering angrily, dragging the better dog... Fawn's mom is saved!
Saved by government ego.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, on the back deck, Mom the hippo rests in a deck chair reading her hot bestseller. Big cool stylish shades, acres of sun-lotioned skin, a drink with a parasol, and soft porn. What more could a hippo want? The frame sags under her weight; broken lounge chairs litter the deck... she turns the page and sips.
Ahhhh. Another job well done!
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