Dystopia On Toast

I had this dream our house was surrounded. Red trucks, engines of hell's fury, filled the driveway. There were men everywhere. Fierce brutes in wilderness wear, khakis cut off at the knee, heavy boots; shirts without sleeves. Some wore bandannas tied around foreheads. Sweat glistened on every exposed inch of flesh. Then there was pounding; the sound of ladders being slammed against the side of the house. The strain and squeal of boot treads on metal. And they were thudding overhead, grunting and cursing. Once they were inside, the whole house would be theirs.

But they didn't come in - they didn't seem interested. Up above, they pulled out crow bars. The sky rained black with asphalt shingle and tar paper. Inside, we huddled in whatever room was quiet but it was useless - as soon as we'd picked up and moved - laptop, coffee cup, phone - there they were, pounding and heaving. Or conversing. The language! There was nowhere to hide - outside the second floor bathroom two of them talked about the weekend ahead. Was it already Friday? They'd turned life upside down for almost two weeks.

We blasted music to put them off, or to placate them: Seger, Springsteen; Jay-Z? It only fueled the racket. Or they all wore headphones.

Then I prayed. I prayed like I haven't prayed in years. Just let it end. Please let it end.

Then I woke up. They were gone, the pounding and cursing over.

Eric said they'd cleaned out his bank account.

But we had a new roof.