A Small Town Called Dave

In my many experiences with bronchitis, upper respiratory infection and sinusitis, I have found there is nary a slumber more peaceful than one induced by half a bottle of cough medicine. However, in my recent illness over the past week, my pervasive and annoying cough was mighty enough to wrench my body from its sleep and force my mind into a state of wakefulness that it clearly had no intention of going.

Though I can never be quite sure, I believe I was dreaming in a conscious state. Though most of the details are lost forever, I think I experienced a state of mind akin to what all the great authors must of went through when hopped up on whatever hallucinogens they were partial to.

But I was on cough medicine, and generic cough medicine at that, so instead of a fanciful, opiate-laced tale like Lewis Carrol’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland I got A Small Town Called Dave.

Now I can’t tell you much about this small town called Dave, except that it was a quaint rural 1950s village located somewhere in my bedroom. Granted, my addled mind didn’t have much to go on, but I think it was honestly trying to spin a good yarn. Unfortunately, the conscious part of my brain was super-busy debunking any good story my inebriated half could come up with. Kind of like that friend who watches sci-fi movies with you and discredits with an air of arrogance every scientifically inaccurate gizmo in the show. That’s right—my brain is that asshole.

So when I was elected mayor of this small town called Dave, my brain was quick to point out, “You know, I doubt you’ve been here long enough to meet the residency requirement.”

Damn.

Our small town called Dave hosted a strawberry festival.
Brain: “With all the mountains in the distance, this probably isn’t the ideal place to grow strawberries. And the small population of the town probably cannot support the quality of talent you have performing. Carrie Underwood? She was born thirty years after your little story, and even it she were around, I think she would have better things to do.”

This hurt a little.

Brain: “Oh, what kind of a name is Dave for a town, and why do you keep referring to it as a ‘small town called Dave?’ Everyone can see it is a small town.”

Jerk.

By the time I was fully awake, my conscious was getting very agitated. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. The town was in your bedroom? I know you’re taking some literary license, but really? Is that the best you could do?” I think it was embarrassed to be seen with me.

So there I was, at 2 a.m., pissed off at myself and nursing a Robitussin headache, thinking that boy, I bet I could get some sleep in (a small town called) Dave.