As far as I could tell, I was at a convention center in the Twin Cities, although it really could have been anywhere. I was in a line of people anxiously awaiting some sort of comic event, surrounded by semi-professional comedians and wannabees vying for a spot on a nationally broadcast contest. Why I was there wasn’t clear – I’m not a comedian and I don’t even play one in my dreams – so when the call went out for everyone to enter the auditorium, I allowed everyone to pass me by, and then quietly slipped away when the doors were closed.
A neon sign for Summit Pale Ale clearly pointed the way to my next action. I descended an escalator in search of an ATM and a liquor store. A woman on the ascending steps told me I looked familiar, to which I replied that I wasn’t from around here and that she was most likely mistaken.
Exiting the building dropped me into what could best be described as “The Hood”. It wasn’t so much an urban battlefield as it was a neglected baseball diamond strewn with debris and overgrown with weeds. Neighborhood kids ignored me, throwing broken pieces of construction material at one another. Turning around, there was no convention center, but rather a run-down entrance to a subway station. And no, there are no subways in the Twin Cities.