How the Work Gets Done by Sandy McIntosh

I challenge my dream: “Show me the Equator. I’ve never 

see the Equator.”And I’m there, registering at a hotel 

on some tropical island in the middle of the ocean. I 

look around expecting the exotic but everything looks 

depressingly ordinary, as if this were some grubby 

convenience store in Canarsie. “Show me things I’ve 

never seen”, I command my dream. I’m imagining 

succulent equatorial flowers, blossoms billowing like 

parachutes, and juicy fuchsia-hued fruits big 

as boulders.

The scene changes, but instead of embroidered nature, 

I find myself in the hotel’s unremarkable cocktail 

lounge. Some guests have dressed formally. Others are 

naked. We’re just a bunch of people sipping our drinks, 

probably waiting for dinner. We attempt conversation, 

but it goes nowhere. “This is nothing!” I scold my 

dream. “Show me the horrors, the spectacular horrors 

of the Equator!” I’m imagining spiders towering like 

skyscrapers on stick legs, and malevolent vampire

 insects numerous and unremitting.

Nothing outwardly changes, although, one by one, 

I begin to recognize my fellow guests. In fact, I 

realize that I know every one of them and I wouldn’t 

I voluntarily spend in their company! I notice, 

too, that every one now is looking around the room and

recognizing everyone else. From their gloom I surmise 

that every body has discovered universal, mutual heated.

Can it be that, compelled by the rules of civility,we 

must spend our short, once in a life-time equatorial

vacations in this Sartrean hellhole in intimate contact

with those who revolt us?

But then it dawns on me: “Thank you,” I tell my dream.

“For this true horror of Equator!”  

                                                                     
about Sandy McIntosh
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banana trees / minds-eye

Copyright ⓒ2007 by Sandy McIntosh

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