I fell into the dream and was immediately in deep trouble. I was Peter Jackson’s Wife’s assistant, attempting to help her get her four daughters ready for the Oscars. I don’t even know if Peter Jackson is married or has kids, but this woman had brown hair in some sort of ridiculous hairdo, and a dress a color I can only see in my dreams. In waking life, I would call it pink, but I think other people would call it something imaginary like magenta, fuschia, teal, cerulean, or lavender. I only ever saw the back of Peter Jackson’s Wife’s head because she was frantically trying to get her kids ready while they were running around the lobby and bathroom of this fantastically ornate Rococo movie theater.
In my dream, the stars arrived at the theater in their street clothes, collect their clothing and make-up bags from a baggage claim-like conveyor belt, and then struggle find a free mirror in the large bathrooms in the lobby of the theater. Then everyone swarms the entrance to the theater and waits for the ushers to drop the velvet ropes.
Peter Jackson’s Wife is in the bathroom, trying to dress her daughters, and the kids aren’t cooperating. The four daughters are 12, 10, 8, and 6, and all perfectly arrayed in height and range. She is working on one at a time, and having trouble because I usually dress her kids. Every time I try to enter the ladies bathroom/dressing room, Glenn Close yells, “Stay out, boy!” Or Helen Mirren yells, “I know the Queen! She can have you shot if you take one more step!” I can just see these women’s faces in the mirrors, keeping an eye on the door for the paparazzi, and brushing their hair or doing whatever it is women spend four hours in a bathroom doing before a party. Meanwhile, every five minutes, I can hear Peter Jackson’s Wife’s voice yelling, “Charles! Help! I don’t know how to put on these shoes!” Or eyeliner, or skirt, or deodorant, or whatever. So I keep trying to run to her aid, and keep getting yelled at by English Dames, or famous American actresses. In the end, I just manage to keep the kids from running around the lobby screaming and yelling and hugging various stars.
By the time the kids are dressed and ready, they have each managed to get run over by golf carts. Or something like that. They have large black streaks across their perfectly shaded in various pinks (or magentas, or fuschias, or lavenders, or whatever fake colors women invent) from darkest and oldest to lightest and youngest. Now with large tire marks, and grass stains all over. “Um, Misses Jackson? I think we need to change the kids again.”
At this point, the gong rings for the two minute warning of the opening of the theater. Morgan Freeman runs past me, throwing elbows, and shoving his way to the front of the pack gathering at the velvet rope. I see Brad Pitt wrestling with Leonard Nimoy, and Victoria Redgrave about to punch Mike Meyers, and then I am pulled over to a potted palm to help Peter Jackson’s Wife redress her children.
After the second gong rings, the stars all stampede into the theater. I’m pretty sure Puff Daddy was trampled because I saw a zebra-striped fur coat flash to the ground. I don’t understand how that indicates Sean Combs was in my dream, but I use the excuse of Dream Logic. Now the bathroom is empty, but the ushers are locking it. Peter Jackson’s Wife proceeds to dress her kids in another dress, their white piano recital dresses.* While we are doing this, a paparazzo shows up and hides on the other side of the potted palm to take pictures of the Jackson family. I crouch down with him on the far side of the kids and Mrs. Jackson and say, “You should know two things: these are not the Jacksons you’re looking for, and the kids are 12 and younger, so I can beat your ass senseless and no judge would convict me.”
“They aren’t related to-“
“And you’re threatening me?”
“OK, no photos of the kids.” And he covers 90% of the lens with his fingers.
So we manage to get the girls in their new dresses, and then we hustle into the theater to try to find six seats together. We can only find six seats up in the far corner, and then I get a call from Peter Jackson on my cell phone. I whisper into my headset, describing the kids’ dresses, the location of our seats, and why we were late. Peter Jackson yells at me until I explain that Helen Mirren and Glenn Close wouldn’t let me in the bathroom. Peter Jackson accepts this explanation and tells me to watch for the cameraman who is a couple rows ahead of us with my friend, D.
I really don’t have any idea what D was doing at the Oscars, but she was supposed to be assisting the Cameraman. Peter Jackson was filming some sort of documentary about what life is like for the children of the second highest grossing director in the world.** The production of the documentary had been plagued by a series of murders, and I had been attempting to solve the crimes in my spare time.
As I struggle to catch sight of the cameraman, I realize that D is sitting next to Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory and not the Cameraman. At this point, I realize that the errant Cameraman is the murderer, and I warn Peter Jackson’s Wife never to be alone with the Cameraman because he is the murderer. I then try to call Peter Jackson and warn him, but the lights go down in the theater for the start of the Oscar ceremony, and my cell phone service is blocked. Then I woke up.
* I don’t know how I knew this, but dreams are weird.
** Avatar 2 was pretty good, and James Cameron went ahead and bought New Zealand.