I'm getting rid of things. My room has open space where there used to be too many possessions. I've created so much space. I feel great.
I'm on all fours, rummaging under a bed with a night stand next to it. There are stray objects. One of my purses is under the bed. Then I see, under the night stand, the purse. The zipper closure lies open. Inside are smaller items of various sizes and shapes, a corner of a wallet, and those look like paper bundles - small bundles of cards or something similar, wrapped in white paper, creases worn. It's overwhelming to think about opening the little bundles to search for the owner's identity.
It has to have been awhile since that woman came to my place. She must have left this. I should take it to a police station. That's what I'll do, if I can only find the time and get organized and motivated to do it. I dread having another task.
With these kinds of objects in her purse, the owner must suffer from extreme mental states. I remember a white woman in her fifties or sixties, small stature, undefined body, small eyes, thin lips, straight hair a greyed dirty blonde, pulled into a pony tail, one strand loose next to her face, a leathered face, mouth immobile, as if hard living made you look like you'd had a stroke.
Then in comes a young woman. She's the daughter of the woman who left the purse. She knows where I have to go. I have to travel. Then a menacing man is there. I admire how the young woman sneaks out of the room without him seeing. I will have to do the same. I need to get on the night train. I try to imitate her, stooping and hiding as I scramble towards the door.
When I see their house, it's clear they are rich. I learn I was some kind of megavillain to her mother. I hadn't even been aware of offending the woman. The daughter shares her mother's rants and outbursts. I laugh my head off to hear the epithets and irate expressions. We laugh together.
There's a room full of cobalt blue glass items, walls of shelves of collected objects. There must be a lot of rooms like this one.
The jobs are visible on a monochromatic readerboard at the top of my vision. I see one that goes from 11 pm to 3 am. I need work, so I nab it. Then I realize it will put me into prohibited overtime. The young woman wants to see the library. I tactfully explain that guests are not part of our work hours. Then I realize I got an email saying the library welcomes anyone who is willing to help relabeling the learning-to-read books, "readers." It's because of this reader reclassification project that there are graveyard shifts. I tell her she's welcome to come help. I think of calling the branch to ask if I can start just after midnight, so that my hours will not be counted on a day when I already have an eight hour shift. With the festive approach to the relabeling project, it's likely I'll find lenience.
We go into a large room with a huge tiled, built in hot tub. Is her home an apartment, and this is another space inside the building, or is it within her home?
I remember I'm supposed to be on the night train. I ask her, how do I get on the train? I have to go, don't I? She responds that I am on the train right now. I am filled with the wonder and joy of being in two places at the same time.