Good morning, everybody.
I was in the lobby of a school, probably like an elementary school. The lobby was like an intersection for a number of hallways, some of which were probably more like covered outdoor walkways than hallways. The floor of the lobby was a kind of deep green. There were a lot of children and a few adults rushing about, as if a class were about to start, or as if school had just ended for the day.
Most of the people were probably heading for the front door, which was off and to my right. But I was heading toward a hallway that was across the lobby from me and up and to my left. But I saw that the double-doors to the hallway were closed. Since it was the end of the day, and the doors were closed, it likely meant the doors were locked.
I was probably going to head to the doors anyway, to see if I could get in through them. But some kids probably saw me. They probably knew that I would find the doors were locked. But they probably wanted me to get in. Either they spoke about getting me keys, or I could "read in their thoughts" that they were going to get me the keys, or I imagined that they were going to get me the keys. In my mind's eye, I could see a keyring kind of stuffed full of thin, flimsy keys.
I was walking out of some place like a grocery store. The cash registers were to my right, and a window wall was to my left. Up ahead of me was a smaller corridor that led to the automatic doors leading out of the grocery store. It was a sunny day, and the sunlight coming into the store made the store feel kind of cozy, even though it was really actually kind of run down.
As I was walking, there were two women walking and talking behind me. The women looked (even though I couldn't see them) young -- skinny, blonde, tan, pretty -- but a little worn out, somehow. And their voices sounded old and a bit stern and grizzled. The two women were talking about different choices of religion. But one of the women said she preferred not to use the term religion. Instead, she preferred to use some euphemistic term, like "spiritual pathway decision."
As I listened to the women talking, I approached the automatic doors. Leaning against a square column before the door was a wire-rack of free newspapers, possibly something like an apartment rental-ad newspaper.
I was in a big, but cluttered and kind of run down kitchen with a young man. There was a food prep counter in the center of the kitchen, off to my left. The man stood there, while I stood before a kind of old, heavy metal stove, watching a pot of noodles boil thickly.
The man began explaining something to me from behind the clutter on the food prep counter. It was probably about the right way for letting noodles boil. As the man continued his speech, my view backed up from the stove. The stove seemed to be cluttered with all kinds of things like sheets and gigantic rolls of Saran Wrap. But as the man continued his speech, which seemed to be mostly illustrations of how to mess up on boiling pasta, the stove top became cluttered with piles and piles of huge, boiling noodles.
The noodles stopped boiling. The man showed me some of the noodles. Some of the noodles were hollow cylinders, maybe 10cm long and 6cm in diameter. They were boiled really soft, and they all had traces of something like dirt or silt on their inside, bottom surfaces.
The man made me taste the noodles and see how bad they were. In particular the man had me note the "resin" (the dirt) that had been boiled into the noodles. I was a little surprised. For some reason, I'd thought resin would be something sweet and syrupy, not dirt-like. I wondered whether the man wasn't wrong in calling this stuff resin.
I was looking over a resume for somebody who wanted me to hire them for my company. The resume was just a sheet of paper with a picture on it. The picture took up almost the whole page, and it was bordered by some kind of zigzag drawing, possibly interspersed with crayon colors, like something a little child would draw. Below the photo were a few lines, on which were written a couple statements in huge, childlike handwriting.
The photo was of a man standing before a car like a DeLorean. The man stood on the driver's side of the car, right in front of the car's grill. The man was kind of old, bald, and a little egg-shaped. He wore an all-white uniform: white shirt, untucked, and white slacks.
The writing said something like, "My name is Gerald Wilkes Booth. Please don't tell anybody you know who I am or what my history is when you submit my application for this job."
I knew that Gerald Wilkes Booth was the man who assassinated John F. Kennedy. I wondered how someone could do something like that, and become so notorious, and then just think they could apply for a job without anybody catching on who they were. But I also began to worry. Now that I knew who this guy was, would other people now associate me with him?
One of my co-workers, possibly a boss of mine, had probably been standing over my left shoulder for a while, possibly explaining some stuff about this guy to me.