In my dream, my present boss gives me an assignment to attend a conference in West Palm Beach which has to do with administering elections, particularly incorporating the use of computerized polling machines, a topic which you may well imagine is really big right now in Florida. From this point on, the people and places in the dream bear no resemblance to those in the real world.

The conference is held in WPB, in a massive industrial/commercial area for which no actual analogue exists. The team I am assigned to work with, which includes some of my (imaginary) colleagues, soon retires to a seaside retreat for further deliberations. It is a huge old rambling mansion, in an advanced state of neglect and disrepair, which is nonetheless still in use as a private residence. During the proceedings there, a voting machine which has been assigned to my care is accidently corrupted. Priceless data required for the success of the conference is lost and my colleagues are disgusted and and angered. The problem is not entirely of my own making, I am given faulty instructions by one of my co-workers, (who I am aware is a bitter rival of mine, and who also bears an uncanny resemblance to Jeff Goldblum). The machine in question is roughly the size and shape of a can of movie film, cylindrical but much thinner than it is wide and covered with dials and buttons and other controls. I am convinced my rival gives me the wrong instructions to operate the device, causing me to wipe out the results of my team's work. They are furious, and shun me, and no one wants to hear my side of the story. I am isolated and despised and ignored, and I spend a large part of the dream wandering about this decrepit old manse going from one group to another trying to make myself useful but they simply disband and walk away every time I approach. I am haunted by the guilt that one of my colleagues, the only one I actually perceived as a friend and an ally, is bitterly disappointed at my alleged negligence on the job. She was moved almost to tears when she learned of my fiasco with the voting machine and by my clumsy attempts to explain myself. I am crushed by guilt that I have not been able to serve her better.

I go back to the original site of the conference, in town, again trying to find someone who will empathize with my problem, but no one seems to care, it is as if I did not exist, they listen politely to my pleading and then either change the subject or walk away without saying anything. During this time, I realize that I have left my briefcase at the retreat, but I am in no mood to go back and get it. Everything I need for my work is in that case (it is my actual trusty battered old Samsonite which has been with me for decades, now). Fortunately, I still have the irreplaceable essentials, my keys, wallet and my passport (?) so I decide to abandon the conference and go back home. No one will tell me how to get to a TriRail station, so I strike out on my own through this grubby industrial district trying to find my way home.

The West Palm Beach of my dream is about as appealing as Mordor, or Geidi Prime. It is night now, and I wander endless streets of urban blight and satanic mills, almost a post-apocalyptic terrain. There are no cabs, no buses, no one who will stop and give me directions. Eventually I stumble out of town into a non-human landscape of freeways and railroad tracks, punctuated by an impenetrable tangle of unkempt vegetation, all thorns and stagnant ponds and piles of rubble. It is as difficult to traverse as any wilderness, and soon my jacket is lost, my slacks and shirt shredded to just short of immodesty. I wrap my tie about my neck like a scarf, just to keep from losing it, but I am perfectly aware that that it must give me a ludicrous appearance. All through this odyssey, even as I get progressively dirty and battered, I keep checking to make sure that my wallet and my passport are still in my pockets, and my key chain is still clipped to my belt loop. Somehow, I derive some comfort from this.

Eventually, I don't know how, but I find myself on a train. I am riding in a grim dark railway coach, all bare rusty metal and rough-hewn wooden benches, rushing through a night of garish lights and featureless darkness. I am alone, I have the car all to myself, but my relief soon turns to concern, this is not the TriRail I'm familiar with. For one thing, it doesn't seem to ever stop, and I don't even know if I'm travelling north or south. I resolve to get off as soon as possible, and after what seems like forever, I get my chance. The train pulls into a station that appears to be set in a vast water treatment facility. There are ponds, pumps and valves, miles of piping, and hundreds of barrels lying around, all of which appear to be leaking toxic waste. The place is automated, no one seems to be around, but everything is humming along, machinery is whining and there is the sound of rushing water, there is barely enough light to be able to see my way around. The train pulls away from the platform almost as soon as I get off and rushes off into the darkness. I am stuck here now.

I wander about this dismal place for a long time, it seems to go on forever, and I am acutely aware of my disheveled appearance, I am convinced that if I am ever found, my rescuers will take pity on me, I look like I have been wandering in a wasteland for days. After an eternity, I round a corner and I am face to face with a handful of men. I manage to briefly explain my predicament to them, and they lead me out of the maze of pipes and hallways to a gate in a chain link fence crowned with razor wire. They tell me that The Boss is here, and he will help me. Just outside the gate is a large parking lot, filled with cars and people, and what looks like a Greyhound bus. The Boss is there, he is some kind of politician and is giving the crowd a speech; it appears he is about to board the bus and embark on some kind of political campaign. My benefactors shove me to the front of the audience and then, suddenly, melt into the crowd. The Boss cuts an imposing, if somewhat bizarre figure: he is a man in his late fifties or early sixties, and he is wearing an expensively cut suit in execrably bad taste. It is all colors, checks and stripes, a burlesque parody of a used car salesman or a white trash Southern Baptist minister. His hair is coiffed in an old-fashioned style, it is heavily pomaded and dyed bright blue. His face appears to be pocked with healed smallpox scars. He reminds me of Jerry Lee Lewis. Even in my dream, I am appalled that a man would go out into the public looking like that, and I forget for a moment the state of my own appearance.

I interrupt his speech, call attention to myself, and start explaining who I am and how I came to be there. For a moment he appears to hear, but I soon realize he is not paying attention. The crowd is losing interest and starting to drift away, and the Boss is scanning them with furtive glances while supposedly listening to me. It is obvious that he hasn't heard a word I've said, and after quickly dismissing me with a disparaging remark, boards the steps to the bus, pausing only briefly at the door to turn and and wave at the crowd. Flashbulbs immortalize the moment and in seconds the bus is rolling out of the parking lot, carrying The Boss with it and the crowd starts streaming out of the area. In a minute I am alone, standing under a street light, and after checking once again that I still have my wallet, keys and passport, I wander off.

The area I am in right now is not as depressing as the rest of the dreamscape, it appears to be a middle-class residential neighborhood of the architectural style of a century ago, but it is unlit and I find it difficult to get a good look at my surroundings. In the distance, down the street, at the bottom of a steep hill, I can see the lights of a large city. I walk the other way, up the hill, and I am awakened by my wife who has just come to bed, she has brought a book and turned on a night light to read. I quickly explain the events of the dream to her to be able to transfer them to my long-term memory. The clock radio tells me it is 4:30 in the morning.