Another Bad Dream

by Hana Guerrero

It was twelve thirty and Mr. Skywalker had wasted fifteen minutes worth of change for parking. Another added annoyance. Mr. Skywalker was annoyed because he realized too late that he could have driven to a secluded street near the MacDonald’s on University and Shattuck Ave and quickly transformed his black mini-van into its sleeker space-craft version. And space crafts, a least his, had hover mode, meaning he could park it over the MacDonald’s for free, instead of spending those valuable thirty cents. The second and most annoying thing bothering him, was that Mr. Skywalker had walked into MacDonald’s, gotten in line to order a Big Mac, only to discover the young woman in front of him seemed to lack the ability to make decisions. At the moment the young girl was attempting to decide between a McChicken Salad and a Fruit Parfait cup. The girl just stood there, her arms crossed, staring at the menu board, saying,

“Uh, OK, I know-no, wait…ya – no, I dunno which has more calories?...”

Mr. Skywalker cynically wondered to himself just how long she could possibly stand there before realizing that both meals probably had the same amount of calories, and if she was trying to watch her weight, then why the hell was she in a Mac Donald’s?

Mr. Skywalker started tapping his foot and breathing louder than normal. Maybe that would annoy her and prompt her to hurry up and decide. As he began to huff, Skywalker noticed it was becoming slightly more difficult to breathe, as if his respirator wasn’t working properly. Damn thing, he thought. It was so outdated he needed a new one, but they were expensive and he couldn’t afford one, especially now during the recession. Skywalker absent mindedly used the Force to probe the respirator to check for anything that could possibly be stuck in it. He felt something thin and fine- like a thread.

Not a thread. A hair. Skywalker looked down at the young woman in front of him and saw the source of the hair. The woman’s shirt had a few scattered animal hairs on its sides. Wonderful. Skywalker wondered at the irony of the world- why he had suffered injuries that rendered him incapable to breathe on his own, and therefore having to use a respirator, which, because of its outdated model, did nothing to prevent small allergens from entering it and triggering his allergies. This was why when Luke and Leia had asked for a puppy, Padmé had to find one of those hypo-allergenic dogs that were bred not to shed.

Skywalker sighed. Well, at least he had the Force. As he used the Force to quickly and discreetly remove all the animal hair from the woman, Skywalker thought about how, although it came in handy for almost everything, it was a little demeaning to the reputation and prestige of the Force to be using it to clean animal hair off another person’s shirt. What had the world come to? Skywalker sighed a second time.

Finally, the girl decided what she wanted to order, and Mr. Skywalker checked the clock on the wall as he stepped up to the cashier. Twelve thirty eight. This had better be quick.

“What’ll you have, Mr. Darth Vader?” asked the cashier, an eager teenager with acne, braces and hair that was slicked back and stuck to the shape of his head like glue. The hair bothered Mr. Skywalker, but not as much as “Darth Vader”. The whole Darth Vader nickname started when Darth Sidious suggested the name to George Lucas, on the set of the first Star Wars movie. Lucas loved it so much that he never ceased calling Mr. Skywalker, “Vader”. How awful. Especially since the name stuck and went on the big screen, so the whole world now called him “Darth Vader,” which was not his name. His name was Aniken Skywalker. Skywalker!

Now this nerdy little pimple faced child would probably ask for his signature next. Ugh.

“A Big Mac, please. And it’s Mr. Skywalker, kid. Not ‘Darth Vader’. Skywalker – get it?” said Mr. Skywalker, his voice rising a bit hysterically.

“Oh, sorry, Dar-Mr. Skywalker… Anything else sir?” the cashier asked sheepishly.

“No –”

“Oh, I forgot, pickle or no pickle?” interrupted the cashier.

Pickle or no pickle? What kind of stupid question was that? If someone didn’t want pickles, they could pick them off later. Mr. Skywalker could feel his annoyance continuing to rise.

“Does it really matter? Pickles.” Skywalker said and checked the time again. Twelve forty. Five minutes. Crap. Hopefully the workers in the kitchen weren’t as incompetent as the pubescent dufus behind the cashier register.

Six minutes later, Skywalker received his Big Mac. He hurried over to his car to find a ticket waiting for him. The Berkeley parking enforcement always jumped at the opportunity of giving a parking ticket. No wonder no one liked them. Skywalker got into his car and waited while the car transformed into a space car. As he waited, Skywalker opened his packaged Big Mac.

No pickles.

Adding insult to injury, and making a bad day even worse, the kids in the kitchen had not added his pickles to his burger. Skywalker was livid. That’s it, he thought. He wanted to scream, but the breathing – aide covering his mouth hindered his ability to do so. Why was life so difficult?!?!

With that thought, Skywalker telepathically used the force to lift up the parking meter beside him and hurl it across the street. It didn’t even matter that people were staring. Skywalker was livid, and it took every ounce of energy he had not to hack away at the burger with his light saber. And this was why he was seeing a therapist. That and Padmé said she’d divorce him if he didn’t. She had said Yoda was right that he had anger management issues related to repressed feelings of resentment towards his parents. That was the biggest load of bull he had ever heard- he loved his mother (why else would he have tried to save her from the sand people when they captured her?) and didn’t know his father, so how would he know how to feel about him? And then there was the nightmare issue. Skywalker had a history of dreaming hellish visions of dark futures and deaths, which were beginning to occur more frequently. There was one that was especially disturbing for Skywalker, which caused unconscious screaming fits that would wake Padmé. Something about a therapist, hair and burgers…

Now deep in thought, and much more relaxed, Skywalker picked up his burger, leaned back into his seat and took a bite of his pickle-less burger.

Once he had finished his pickle-less Big Mac, Skywalker checked the analogue clock on his dashboard. Damnit. Twelve fifty-eight. Two minutes until his therapy appointment. The problem wasn’t getting there, (since Skywalker could simply put his vehicle into hyper drive and get there in less than a second) but parking, which could take forever, especially since Skywalker was going to Telegraph Ave. and Woosley St. There he would not have the option of leaving his vehicle in hover mode since there would be no roof top or garage to hide it on.

Skywalker quickly set his destination coordinates for his appointment and pulled the lever that would put him into hyper drive. But- oh no.

“Ungh!” Skywalker was immediately thrown back into his seat. He had forgotten to strap himself into his harness for hyper speed.

“Ooof!” a split second later, was thrown forward by the jolting halt of his space craft. After quickly composing himself and readjusting his helmet, he reached for the button to convert his vehicle into a car. Once done, Skywalker pulled off of Telegraph onto a cross street to find parking, and found a spot a block up from Telegraph. Skywalker quickly got out of his car and walked down to his therapists building. Five minutes late. Skywalker hated tardiness.

Once inside the building, Skywalker climbed a flight of narrow stairs that took him into a small waiting room furnished with a large, leafy plant, a leather couch and a small stereo that was playing what sounded like flowing water. The door in front of Skywalker suddenly opened and a slender, older man with graying hair and glasses appeared in the door way.

“Ah, Mr. Skywalker. It’s a pleasure to meet you! Why don’t you come inside and have a seat?”

God, thought Skywalker, he must be one of those excessively cheery people. One of those people who loves life a little too much… Skywalker followed the therapist into an intimate, white walled room and froze.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Skywalker?”

“You have a dog?!?” Skywalker hissed, eyeing the large furry Collie sitting on the small couch Skywalker assumed he was supposed to take.

“Yes. This is Dharma, my dog. She’s a trained therapy dog. She helps to calm patients and make them feel comfortable.”

“Right now she’s doing the opposite thing for me, doc” said Skywalker. He could feel his chest tightening and his nose beginning to itch, though he couldn’t tell if his respirator was picking anything up. “My respirator is prone to picking up allergens, which get caught in it and aggravate my allergies…”

“Well, she doesn’t really shed, as far as I’ve ever noticed, but if it would make you feel more comfortable, she can sit with me” offered the therapist.

“Yes, that’s right. She can’t be near me.”

Skywalker waited for the therapist to move the dog, though his chest did not loosen and the itching of his nose did not stop. Once the dog had moved to the other side of the room, Skywalker moved to sit down, and as he did, for the second time that day, used the force to clean up any hairs the dog could have left on the couch.

“So, Mr. Skywalker,” the therapist began once they had been seated, “I also see your wife, as you already know, and she has talked to me about why she sent you here. But let me quickly clarify that I will not disclose anything she and I discuss to you, or anything you and I discuss to her, unless either of you asks me to. Also, if you two so choose, you may decide to have joint sessions. But before we begin, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sigmund Freudman. Now, Mr. Skywalker, do you have any problem with me calling you Aniken?”

“No…” responded Skywalker.

“Alright, then we will begin. Aniken, your wife told me about your parents, and about how you arrived in your, erm, current state…”

“My what? You mean why I am forced to wear a jumpsuit?”

“ Yes… though I see you have removed the cape-”

“Excuse me a second Mr. Freudman, my phone-” Skywalker picked up his cell phone and checked the caller ID. It was Padmé. Why was she calling him now? She knew he had the appointment with the therapist. Women. Skywalker picked answered his phone.

“Padmé? You know I have my appointment right now, why are you calling me?”

“Ani? Ani? Wake up sweetheart…”

“What? What are you talking about? Padmé…” Skywalker suddenly felt himself being shaken, but by what?

“Ani, wake up. You’re having another one of your nervous dreams again… Ani! Ani!”

Skywalker opened his eyes and looked up to see Padmé leaning over him in her night gown, shaking his shoulder.

“Did anyone die this time, Ani? I couldn’t make out everything you were saying… though I thought I caught something about my therapist and Big Macs… Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine… I think I was dreaming about my therapist appointment today” said Skywalker.

“Oh, you’re just nervous. Silly, there’s nothing to be afraid about, therapists don’t bite. Now go back to sleep.” With that, Padmé lay back down and rolled over.

Skywalker stared up at the ceiling. How could he go back to sleep after a bad dream like that?