Work Dream 3000

Ooof, work dreams. These are never, ever about the happy place where I am now (freelance-ish land) or that last horrific joint where I thanklessly toiled. Nope.

In last night's nocturnal journey, I was back at the print company I’d worked for 5,000 years ago (more or less). This was where I’d been a receptionist, a customer service rep, a delivery department manager, production manager in the main pressroom, trainer, training director and preflighter. Yeah, I’d done it all. Most all anyway.

In this crazy nightmare-ish 'scape, the biz was in the midst of moving from Back Bay down to an ancient factory type four story building on the waterfront in Southie. Things were mega chaotic which matched the unfinished, very rough space. Student-y furnishings capped it off—desks made of old doors, battered old black metal file cabinets and trash day, cast off couches.

I found my new boss—Katherine. In real life she’d run the Digital Pre-Press department for a few years. I’d always liked her but felt that she was wary of me for some reason. She kept a wall up. I never understood why but I’d done all I could to respect that.

Back in the dream though—Katherine was pleasant but mucho hands off. I needed to find my new office, files, computer equipment and other bits on my own and the goods were nowhere to be found. Joy.

 In reality, in my last coupla years with this company, my role was majorly fluid. I did a little prepress, some design/layout, some sales and customer service work. I don’t think the owner knew what to do with me—he just left me to fill in gaps. It was a weird set up. In the dream, my job description was also in wholly undefined territory.

So, no one was gonna find my computer or file cabinet 'cept me. I had to hunt through this giant, rabbit warren of a building while, at the same time, discovering what my gig entailed. I kept walking through cubbies and conference rooms packed with 20 and 30 something hipsters all heavily focused on a TV. They were dissecting some presentation in terribly serious tones. It was at mondo odds with their Crayola colored dreds and bright, striped, cotton Peruvian hacky sack pants. Their look was a cool but odd detail. The owner wasn’t known for embracing the hippie-er side of life at all. No, Gerald was buttoned down, right down to his, doubtless, professionally pressed boxers.

After stopping for a moment to puzzle over it all—Are we now a marketing firm catering to Frisbee manufacturers and head shops? We're not a printshop anymore?—I moved on.

Eventually, before finding my office (top floor at the rear) or computer (which I somehow knew would be an elderly PC with only the antique Office 2000 for software), I ended up assisting a customer who’d called in looking for her print order (yes, I still had hearing in this verrückt phantasm). I passed Israel, who’d been, in reality, another Prepress Manager. He looked a little confused but cheery.

I desperately asked “Is Al still in the pressroom?” I knew that only Al could help me and not just in finding this client’s printwork.

And then I woke both confused and a little pissed off. That's what the joint, particularly at the end, always inspired in me—confusion and pissed-offedness. It's much of why I left—that and they were sinking under the weight of the owner's OCD-esque mismanagement.

Oof!