So I am in high school, but at my current age. It is senior year and graduation is two weeks ahead. But before I can graduate, I have to complete the “graduation exam.” From what I knew of the exam, it would be very easy and should only be a formality on the road to graduation.
The day of the exam comes and I get summoned to my counselor’s office. (The counselor in my dream looked just like my real high school counselor, Ms. O’Keefe, though she sounded nothing like her.) I sat ready with my number two pencil at the ready, but my counselor says, “You won’t be needing that.”
Instead of a Scantron or a quiz paper she brings me a club sandwich, a plastic fork and a plastic knife. Only this club sandwich is not on toasted white bread as tradition would dictate. Instead this sandwich was on a Macaroni Grill bread loaf that has been cut laterally in half and the club contents placed in between.
My counselor pulls out a stopwatch and says, “Now cut that club sandwich into twenty pieces.” I sit in my own confusion for a moment, then ask, “Equal pieces?” She answer my question by commanding, “Starting NOW! You have thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes?! I though what monkey needs thirty minutes for this? And then I got angry. THIS was all one needed to do to graduate high school? The Calculus, the physics, three years of Spanish, credits to spare, a 4.1 GPA and this is all they ask of me?
With a enormous sigh of “WHATEVER!”, I commence dissecting the sandwich into twenty pieces; quite sloppily I might add. As I neared pieces 17 and 18 I became upset with myself for not taking the time to cut the pieces neatly and evenly. I had thirty minutes for Christ’s sake. And so, with 28 minutes to spare, I completed my task.
I looked up at my counselor to let her know I was finished. She paid me no mind. Then another student got her attention and they became embroiled on their own conversation. Minutes went by. I became agitated by how oily my fingers had become while cutting the sandwish, thanks to that Macaroni Grill bread. I had nothing to wipe my hands off on. Curse the Macaroni Grill. Fie on my counselor for not including a napkin amongst my test materials.
10 minutes to go and I still don’t have my counselor’s attention. I start straining my neck and make obviously unnatural head bobs to try and get her to notice me. Nothing. She continues to talk with the other student.
Finally with a minute to go, my counselor gets up, holding her stopwatch in front of her and says, “Now, tell me three facts about this club sandwich.” Naturally I start my fact list of with the obvious, “WHAT?!” Cooly she indicated, “Thirty seconds.”
With an even larger sigh of “ARE YOU EVEN KIDDING?!”, I begin my list. “Well, this club sandwich has avocado, which is rare on a basic club, but I find delightful. Next, it is on Macaroni Grill bread instead of the usual toasted white bread, which I can’t explain, but it is what it is. Last…”
“Time’s up.” I paused. I began to finish my final point. “Sorry, Sweetie,” she stopped me again, “your time is up. We can try again next week. Be sure to study next time.” She turned back to the student she was talking to during my exam and resumed her conversation.
I stood up. I was livid, like I have never been in real life. Against my better judgment, I raised my voice, not at my counselor, but just in general defiance of this retarded assessment of my commencement potential.
“Study? STUDY! This is the most paltry test ever devised. It measured nothing of any ability I have ever learned during my four years at this school. How dare any of you insult me with this and claim I do not deserve to graduate because I can’t play your farcical mind games.” I was getting on a roll. I could see the other students agreeing with me. I felt the wind of revolution swirling around me. My mind was racing for my oratory crescendo, when the principal stepped out of his office due to my ruckus and plainly stated, “Mr. Lordleiter, you will take this test again in one week, and you must pass or you will not graduate.”
My mind quickly switch gears from “troop rallying inspiration” to “counterattack.” My brain sent a slurry of awesome retorts to my mouth to let fly. But before I spoke, I realized that there was clearly no logical way to argue with the man who invented the sandwich test. Instead, I hurtled my backpack on to the floor and barked, “Sons of bitches!”
My counselor sensed my upset and came over to comfort me. “Now, now, Lordleiter. Why don’t you settle down a bit and chat with Karen.” I hadn’t noticed her before, but Karen Morrison was sitting at a nearby table. I thought to myself (and this is my favorite part of this dream), “Oh, that’d be nice. I haven’t spoken to Karen since we graduated high school 12 years ago. It will be good to catch up.”
And then I woke up in a cold sweat. It was 7:20 a.m. I have NO idea what this could possibly mean. The best I can figure is that since both my precious J.J. Abrams shows concluded for the season last week, my head had to try and invent it’s own soap opera drama for this week.
I am open to other suggestions.