That one dream that was a weirdly accurate metaphor for my working career so far

It was too late to do anything. I had been given the opportunity to work at Writers Block, a writing and improv camp for teens, but my supervisor had already made the decision after I showed up late and confused, but trying so very hard to do the thing I thought I had been trained to do — help others write and write well.

My performance on the job strongly resembled the slanted floors and ruined ceilings that had collapsed on top of each other in this Fallout New Vegas-wasteland of a building. Level by level, the infrastructure zig-zagged, and everyone sat on top of a table together for instruction. That’s where I had shown up when my boss arrived.

“You don’t have enough confidence in yourself,” she declared. “That’s why you’re not a good fit for our team.”

“You should apply your writing skills to a more… profitable business.”

She led me to a shady casino. Full of rich jaguars with gold restaurants and waiting lines we bypassed as VIPs.

I looked around at the levels of the casino. I saw them all. One level looked like Circus Circus. Another looked like a Star Trek ship mess hall that had crashed into Quark’s, resulting in round spinning tables that vaguely resembled sci-fi gambling games and drink counters of strange colors.

I saw it all. I waited. Then I ran.

It was more important to get away than to stay in an environment where the aesthetic was more important than substance.

This was not one of those dreams where I could only run in exaggerated, fluid slow-motion, nor was it a dream where the jaguars were out to catch me. For once, I just ran past all of it, without looking back.

I don’t remember what, if anything, I saw looking forward.