Dream of an inside job

I had a rough night. Not really rough, just not smooth. Back and forth to bathroom every few minutes then finally I go, f this s, and I took two Imodium to dry up the whole mess. When I woke up I could play my stomach like a drum. Boom ditty boom ditty boom-boom di-boom. 

Boom ditty boom ditty boom-boom di-boom.

Boom ditty boom ditty boom-boom di-boom.

Just like a drum. 

Then I recalled doing that to a woman I was dating a long time ago. When I was twenty. She was a bit older than I was and she enjoyed having me around. We woke up together and I started tapping her belly like a drum and filling in with sound effects where the drumming was insufficient. She wasn’t used to being played with like that so early in the morning. The water inside her body covered by her taut skin made the most excellent drum-like sound. So there I was tapping away with my fingertips having a great time through innocent fun.

Boom ditty boom ditty boom-boom di-boom.

Boom ditty boom ditty boom-boom di-boom.

Boom ditty boom ditty boom-boom di-boom.

Boom ditty boom ditty boom-boom di-boom.

Until finally in her kitten-like voice modulated just so she whispered in such a way as to not scare me off, not discourage having natural fun, to keep fun alive but to stop for the moment at least,

Stop playing with my Goddamn stomach you fucking idiot!

Well. I can take a little hint. Don’t need to drop a house on me. No sirree. 

Boom ditty boom ditty boom-boom di-boom.

The sound of a water-belly drum is quite nice.

But before all that I had a series of dreams drifting in and out of wakefulness and getting up to go to the bathroom. I got so sick and tired of getting up all the time, avoiding catastrophe, evacuating small amounts and cleaning my butt with wet paper towel all the time. My butt was getting sore. So I dropped two Imodium and that put a very quick end to all that.

I dreamed I was working.

That again. 

Will these work-related dreams never cease? That was a-a-a-g-e-s ago. 

I had forgotten how pristine an environment the Federal Reserve Bank is. 

It’s perfect inside. 

Everything is spotless and perfect. Everything is perfectly operational. There is not one single thing out of place. There is no unclean surface. No unclean fabric. The vast flooring is spotless. All operations are perfectly coordinated. They’re neurotic.

Everything is perfectly coordinated and that is their flaw. They are the most predictable thing that exists. 

I’m in a group. I am not the main person. I don’t even know what our full plan is. That is yet for me to discover. All I know is the steps of our plan. The timing of everything is flawless. The guards are so perfect that they’re actually unwitting co-conspirators. We’re going to make off with a fortune for each of us. An unspeakable fortune. A fortune of fortunes. And nobody dies. The guards are armed and they’re well-trained. In our case, they are trained to trust us as we are trained to trust them. Our plan is to violate that trust. As a team.

The guards actually open doors for us. They recognize us and they raise the seven-ton segmented door. We wait in our van inside the double door compartment as the heavier bullet-proof, barge-proof concrete-filled steel door is lifted. We drive through and now we are in the garage. The guards direct us to park on the far side in an isolated spot. 

My team pours out of the van and we go through people-size door into the working bank area. Another guard controls that door too. The bank’s own self-trained guards do not examine the contents of our packages. He is trained to trust us bringing packages into the bank. We pour through the door.

These real guards have their own shooting range in a sub-basement. They are FRB employees, not hired from outside. They even have their own floor between floors in which the corners poke out behind camouflaged glass that give them access to the regular first floor at strategic points: the lobby, the parking lot, the garage, and the none of your business. They oversee regular business from their own floor. While operating on the first floor inside their own separate spaces behind bulletproof glass.

As a teen I knew the scion of the family who owned the company that made that glass. He was a nut.  

And that glass is thick. You can tell how thick by the spots with trays for passing papers and pens and cash. You can stick your hand in the tray and feel the width of the glass just above it. It’s much thicker than you imagine. It covers your whole hand. That’ why it’s green. There are so many layers. I examined that glass many times. Don’t even think about shooing a bullet through it. The bullet will ricochet off and end up hitting someone else on your own side.  

Next we split up male/female and went directly into separate bathrooms. 

Here again the bathrooms are spotless. They actually sparkle and with no discernible scent.

In real life there is rarely anyone else in there. We always have the bathroom to ourselves. The place is clean as a kitchen, and everyone does use the bathrooms but there is hardly any overlap. I can count on one hand the number of times anyone else was ever inside there the same time that I was. Bathrooms made to accommodate several people at once are never tasked with more than one person. 

But in the dream it’s actually crowded. Each man has his own stall. Everyone is doing their own thing. There is very little talking going on inside. I enter a triangular (!) stall and rapidly disrobe. I change my clothes in a constricted area into the new clothes I brought in with me. This is part of our trick. All my gang are also changing their clothes. This is to disassociate our working selves and misdirect suspicion away from us. I change quickly. I am the last person in the bathroom and the first person out. That’s how fast I changed clothing. 

The old clothes are put in a cloth carrying case similar to a purse that nobody questions us having, the same carrying case used for transferring bank documents. 

But I see that I am slowest of clothes changers of my nefarious group. They are already finished.

The scene ends. The plot abruptly ends.  In real life I must get up and go to the bathroom again. Right now.

What a bummer!

I really wanted to finish that dream. 

We could have stolen millions and not hurt anyone. There are any number of ways we could have done this so long as we are prepared to completely trash our earlier selves. Eventually we’d be found out so we’d have to exit the country immediately to a non-extradition country before we are found out, and be satisfied staying there the rest of our lives.  

I was very curious which plan our team decided upon. If the plan was to steal the cash they intended to shred then I’d be disappointed because that really is filthy cash. 

I’d rather we steal pallets of new bills. Or pallets of one dollar coins that didn’t go down all that well because they so closely resemble quarters. There are literally millions of those held in storage. Pallets of sacks of them stacked on top of pallets that form walls of unwanted dollar coins. Just sitting there. But they’re hard to move.  You need machinery for that. Loading a truck. All that takes too much time. There are other ways we could have embezzled that all rely on misplaced trust and all of those ways will be discovered fairly quickly. Within hours. Certainly within the day. So they have to be pulled off even more quickly. And the pulling off has to be complete. Not just out of the building, or out of the city, rather, out of the county with all the loot. And that’s not so easy to pull off. It’s emotional because you have to leave everything and everyone that you care about behind. 

I was very curious which idea we decided on. It must have been something involving high par value Treasury Bills. Everything else is too bulky and too heavy, too slow, too involved. 

It was a fun dream. And urgent poo ruined it. One of some ten through the night.