Michael D. Davis.

I had a living nightmare last week. A real-life experience of a stereotypical dream from hell. My misery, your mirth, let me tell you about it.

So, I was at the high school working on a story for the paper, and if you haven’t been in the STC high school in the past ten years, saying it has changed a bit is an understatement. My favorite change is the murals.

Several hand painted murals festoon the hallways, thanks to Mr. Doran, the art teacher, and his students. Until the other day, I’d only seen a few. The handful that paints the path to the art room, as I am usually only at the high school to do an art centered story.

While talking with Mr. Doran about the murals and an article I wish to do on them, he started giving me a tour of the wall-based art. We went up one hall, then took a corner. He said at one point a mural was in the hallway by the band room, but that confused me because I thought we had just passed the band room, but apparently the band room is in a different room and where the band room once was is the choir room and where the band room is now when I was there was nothing. And if that sentence confused you, you are following right along.

When we were finished perusing the finished murals, I stopped to talk to an art student who was just starting a brand new mural. After our brief chat, I turned to leave and realized I wasn’t sure where I was. All I saw was hallway, which, other than the murals, looked like every other hallway.

I started forward and was stopped by a student, who asked me if I was a student. This confused me as I have a full beard and a middle finger on the back of my vest — I said no. I said I was a reporter for the local paper. The student asked what I wrote. I said articles for the local paper. The student then asked me why I was wearing what I was wearing. Again, confused, as I was wearing my normal clothes. I glanced down at myself to see if anything was amiss and said, “What? I always wear this.”

The student said, “M’kay,” and backed away in a judgemental fashion. At this point, I felt too insecure to ask for directions towards the exit.

I wandered on till I saw the front office, and knew where I was. Entering the office, I saw Doran was inside. He’d somehow lapped me. I told them how I got lost momentarily, which caused a giggle. I said, “I didn’t pay much attention when I did go here, and now it’s different.”

I don’t think I was lost for more than a minute or two, but it shook me. I was back in high school disoriented in a virtually endless hallway and stopped and judged for my appearance by a teenager, if that’s not a nightmare I don’t know what is. If I had had an asthma attack and confusing math homework that was overdue, it would’ve been confirmed.

Since this incident, just last week, I have told this story a few different times to a few different people. All have seemed to enjoy my miserable incident. My Ma, who sat silent and stone faced during my retelling of the nightmarish event, said when I was finished, “Well, at least you weren’t in your underwear.”

A small blessing, I guess.