Stuff Dreams Are Made Of by Don Bruns

thinking? Get a real job. Quit buying into your roommate’s dreams and find something that works for
you
. Have you noticed how many of his ideas turn into nightmares?”
    I told her how he’d turned the truck into a traveling kitchen. I told her about the carneys, Cashdollar’s message of wealth, dreams, and destruction, about the poker games, the threats, and the flat tires. I told her about Crayer and Stan, Henry, Dusty, his gun, and Mug. I think I left out the silent partner. Again, everything came pouring out of me. I’d wanted to talk to her, tell her exactly what was happening, but never figured the situation would present itself. And now that it had, I unloaded. All concern for our relationship, my hurt feelings, whatever, disappeared for the moment. I told her everything. When I was done she was stone-cold silent. Neither of us had touched the eggs, hash browns or bacon, and breakfast was cold.
    “You know, this is a novel. Fiction. No two guys stumble into this much crap, just by accident. Either you are making half of this up,” she paused, “no, two-thirds of this up, or you are the most unlucky son of a bitch that ever lived. I should not only keep you at arm’s length, I should move to another state, west of the Mississippi. Tell me you’re messing with me, Skip. Please, tell me.”
    “Come on, Em. You know I’m telling you the truth.”
    “Jesus, Skip. You’re nuts if you stick this out with him.”
    “Easy for you to say. How much do you make? How much money do you make? My God, Em. I make nothing. We stand toclear two to three thousand dollars apiece when this is all through. To me, that’s a fortune.”
    She was quiet. She was breathing deep through that cute little nose, and I marveled at how perfect her face was. Even the teeth, straight as an arrow. I figured the teeth had been worked on, but not the nose. She was
so
out of my league.
    Finally she reached for her untouched coffee, took a sip and made a face. “Cold.”
    I caught a waiter’s eye and he replaced the two coffees. She nibbled on a piece of cold, greasy sausage and stared past me.
    “Look, we’re seeing each other for the first time in a long time.”
    “We are.” I agreed.
    “When I left the last time we were both in a lot of trouble.”
    “We were.”
    “And now —”
    “I’m in trouble again. Or on the verge of trouble.”
    “Skip, this doesn’t make the relationship very stable.”
    I looked into her eyes. There was a lot here worth saving. “No, but it certainly makes it interesting.”
    She squinted, a frown gracing that lovely face. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
    “Maybe. But there’s a grain of truth to it. I’ve got an uncle named Buzz, and —”
    “Buzz?”
    “Buzz.”
    She shook her head. “Buzz is not a name. It’s the sound bees make. It’s a condition.”
    “Like getting a buzz on?”
    “Yeah.”
    “My uncle Buzz, he told me something about life.”
    “Oh, jeez, a life lesson from Uncle Buzz. I can’t wait to hear this one.”
    I ignored her sarcasm. It had been an hour and she was already down on me big-time.
    “Buzz said ‘the only thing we have to look forward to in life is the next big revival.’ ”
    Em sipped her warm coffee, leaning back in her chair and staring up at the clear blue morning sky. “So Buzz was a philosopher?”
    “Well, we’re all philosophers sometime in our life.”
    The morning sun crept under the shade of our umbrella and Em reached into her purse and pulled out her Ray-Ban sunglasses. I couldn’t read her eyes, but I could hear the sarcasm drip from her voice.
    “The next time you see Uncle Buzz, please tell him for me that life is a little more than looking for the next buzz.”
    “Think about it, Em. What else is there? I mean, I’m trying to get to the next level. That’s what he was talking about.”
    “And how does that fit into
big trouble
at the yellow tent?”
    I knew how it fit in. I’d spent half the night, looking up at the stars,