Dream On

As most readers of New York Press are probably aware, a few weeks back we had a bit of what's known in the business as a "hoopy-doopy" here.

Matt Taibbi wrote a goofy story about the pope-one that was decidedly less nasty and sacrilegious than a hundred other stories the Press has run over the years. But wouldn't you know it, this time someone noticed.

Much excitement ensued.

None of it, I must admit, touched me at all; I sat in my office with the door closed as usual and went about my business. Still, from that safe vantage point I kept an eye on what was going on.

Pundits on the radio, the internet and in newspapers said the story was an "outrage" and called the Press all sorts of terrible names.

Politicians lined up to announce their opposition to the First Amendment and proclaim that we were all really bad people.

Our editor, Jeff Koyen, gave interviews and took part in public debates. The phones kept ringing. While we expected a few ruffled feathers in response to Matt's story, no one quite expected anything like the shrieking, stupid reaction it received.

The following Monday, Jeff Koyen resigned. The circumstances surrounding his resignation have all been made quite public, so there's no point in going into them again here.

I liked Jeff a bunch. I've known him for many years, and was sorry to see him go. He was a very smart, scrappy, dukes-up guy who hadn't lost the spark that made his old zine, Crank, such an essential read. He livened things up around here (especially those last few days).

It was only with news of his departure that the ridiculous pope fiasco finally began creeping under my office door and tugging at my pantleg. What had until that point been nothing but funny and a bit stupefying suddenly became potentially devastating.

As with any business large or small, when a person in a position akin to Jeff's splits suddenly, a wave of mad uncertainty follows in his wake. It's natural. People around the office don't know what's going to happen next, and so begin to worry about the future. Without going into the details of the office dynamics here, let's just say I had serious reason to be concerned about my job security. There was every possibility that a new editor would have no room for a blind, reclusive, 40-year-old columnist who drank.

Other people, the youngsters, they come and go. They're a flexible lot. But I had been with the paper for 12 years. My desk chair has a comfy ass groove. I had an arrangement and a freedom here that no one else in his right mind would ever dare offer me again (if they offered anything at all). What in the hell would I do?

I've been though similar situations in the past, at this paper and others, and it's impossible to predict how things will shake out. I've seen clean transitions and mass firings. Everyone had a guess as to what might be around the corner, but few were terribly optimistic. It was, in a word, a stressful few days. For me at least.

I never know quite how I'm going to deal with stress when it presents itself. Usually not very well. I tend to sleep a lot, and sometimes unexpectedly.

As a result, I generally use my dreams as a gauge of how well I'm coping with potentially life-crushing, future-obliterating situations.

(I don't make these up, by the way-my dreams are really that obvious. To me, anyway. It's kind of sad.)

It was interesting-two days before Jeff's resignation, I woke up and mumbled to Morgan that I'd been dreaming about an Eskimo orphan. It seemed odd and innocuous at the time, but take it as you will.

On Monday night after the resignation, when things were still up in the air, I dreamt that I was 12 or 13 years old. Every day after school, I'd run through the backyards of my neighborhood to the bottom of a steep hill, atop which sat a grand and beautiful mansion.

I'd run up the hill to the back of the mansion and climb through a split rail fence. There, I'd feed and play with a mangy, clearly neglected golden retriever. I knew no one in the house was caring for him at all, so I figured it was up to me.

Every day I did this, feeding and caring for this dog, until one day the owners of the house caught me in the act and told me I had to go away and never come back.

Yes, well, that was pretty much my fear. I told you my dreams were obvious.

The next day at the office things still seemed so uncertain that I thought it wise to start making a few preparations. First thing I did, I sent a note to my agent concerning a check someone owed me. Just in case.

As the day wore on, the prospect for any happy resolution seemed even more distant than the day before.

That night, I dreamt about sending that note to my agent, except in the dream, the note I sent was snotty and terse, and every sentence ended in "see?"

"Where the hell's my money, see? I want it-and I want it NOW, see?"

(I'd been watching a lot of Edward G. Robinson movies lately, which itself was a bad idea, considering the circumstances.)

Later that night, I dreamt I was on a bus. I didn't recognize any of the other passengers, but it was clear that we were on our way back to New York from somewhere. I could see the skyline in the distance. But when I looked out the window again, it was obvious we weren't anywhere near Manhattan anymore. We were on a dirt road surrounded by great, open fields. I asked the older woman next to me what was going on, but she didn't know.

Then the bus stopped. We were all ushered out, then onto another bus parked by the side of the road. That bus, then, drove into a small town with wood-frame houses and tree-lined streets, and stopped outside a small clapboard church. Once again we were taken off the bus, and this time led into the church, where we were told to sit down in the pews. At the altar stood a young black preacher.

I noticed that I no longer had my hat, cane or bag with me, and in a panic, turned to the same older woman from the bus and asked when we'd be able to go back and get the things we'd left behind.

"You can't," was all she said.

That was the dream that woke me up and kept me awake for the rest of the night.

After sweating through Wednesday morning, finding it very difficult to concentrate on the things I needed to be doing, word came down that everything had been resolved. Better still, the owners had made the best possible decision by asking Alexander Zaitchik to stay on as editor. I could relax again-though my breathing didn't return to normal until later that afternoon. I knew the dreams would stop.

I was wrong about that.