"It's a dream. That's all. It's gotta be. That's all."

"Yeah Jimbo, I'm sure you're right." But I was sure he was wrong. First of all, I would never have an extended dream with Jimbo in it. That would be more of a nightmare, but even my nightmares have a certain profundity to them that excludes someone like Jimbo. He wasn't someone that I thought about all that much, he was anything but profound, and he was pretty much harmless except for the state of his teeth and his usage of "that's all" after and in between everything he said. This was something else, a real sort of magic that I had always wanted, sans Jimbo, happening in waking time. The room was completely dark except for the objects that seemed to matter which had spotlights from nowhere shining on them. I couldn't recall how we got there, and at the risk of hearing, "We're just here, that's all," I didn't want to ask Jimbo. Besides, getting out of here was the important part. Not thinking, I called Jimbo over. "What do you think this machine is?"

"It looks like an old jukebox mixed with a slot machine. That's all. You pull the lever, that's all, and the music plays. That's a-"

"Thanks, Jimbo. That's not a lever though; that's an awl." It seemed bizarre that there was something here in this place of perfect objects that was rigged like this. There obviously was supposed to be a lever there, but it was missing and replaced with an awl. Alright, I guess all I can do is pull it. I did. It started playing Auld Lang Syne. "Perfect."

"What's wrong?" Jimbo asked.

"Nothing. . . this song. . . it just seems strange. It makes things seem even more profound. That's all."

Oh god, now I was saying it. I had to get out. Then it hit me. The unmistakable smell of crisp, wet air and hearty food. Fall was coming. I could hear it calling me. I stepped forward and fell into some sort of hole.

And back out the other side. I rubbed my eyes for a long time. I hate being wrong. It was nine O'Clock on Saturday morning. I got dressed and went out onto the porch for my morning cigarette. As soon as I crossed the threshold of the doorway, it became dark outside. I jumped back and hit my head on the corner of the sliding glass door. I turned around and walked back inside. It was light out. I walked back outside. Dark. I tried to stand on the door tract, and all I got was oscillating dark and light as I shook slightly forward and back. I tried to keep one eye on the inside and one on the outside of the house. Dusk. "Interesting," I whispered to myself. Then I heard it. Footsteps in the shadows outside. Then, I saw them, footfalls in the shadow lighting up the porch like Michael Jackson in the Billie Jean video. "Hey! Who is that?" I shouted across the porch as I stepped outside.

"It's just me. That's all." Jimbo said.

But it wasn't. It was Jimbo dressed as Michael Jackson in Beat It. I looked down. I was in a McGruff the crime dog costume. I smiled and looked up. Blackness again. Then the sound of my lady calling me.

"Whahuh." I said. I woke up and covered my head with the comforter. This time it was 1:30 P.M. It was Sunday. I hate Sunday.

"It's afternoon! Get up!" I got up and walked into her studio. There he was. Jimbo with my ladies voice and furry vest nagging me to clean the garage. I closed my eyes and ran out of the room. I hit my forehead on the door jam, and I heard her voice again: "Justin. You might want to get up babe. It's eleven."

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

Okay, I'll give it one more try. I walked cautiously into her studio. There she was. No Jimbo. I whipped around to look behind me. No Jimbo.

"What do you have to do today?" She asked.

"I have to call Jimbo."

"Who's that?"

"You know. Bad teeth, 'that's all'."

"Oooooh, right. Why do you have to call him?"

"I just don't want to take anyone for granted."

"That's nice," she said and went back to her painting.