Baggage

Just before I finally quit my last job, I had a long dream that was so obviously symbolic I found it almost boring. And yet I still remember it clearly several months later.

I was in a big country house that was located in the Bronx for some reason, with all the men from my office. None of the women were there, just men, and we were packing our boss's possessions into a giant box. The box was huge, maybe 6 by 10 feet, and it still looked as though all the stuff wouldn't fit. The art handlers hammered and pushed and pulled and rearranged, and finally, 60 years worth of crap was squeezed into the cardboard container.

I asked one of the men how we were going to get it back to the office in Manhattan. He looked at me like I was nuts, and barked that I would be taking it back on the subway. Suddenly we were at a train station, and the train was barreling towards us, and everyone was shouting instructions at me.

"You have to jump!"

"Make sure no one sees the box!"

"Pretend it isn't yours!"

The train doors opened and all the men pushed the box into the subway car, and pushed me in as well. I climbed on top of the box inside the train and tried to look inconspicuous. And then I realized: how was I going to get the box out of the train when we reached our stop?