It begins an effective modern nightmare--problems at work, being yelled at by the boss, too much to do and not enough time to do it in. It's so frightening because, unlike ghouls and vampires, it can and probably will happen tomorrow. I work the 9pm-7am shift at Kmart, just like in the waking world. I am, officially, a "Stock Replenishment Associate"--I'm a full time stockperson and part time doormat. Because the store is closed to customers, we're all locked in, and the lights are on 50% of their usual brightness. Kmarts are dismal places. I'm bent over, struggling with a heavy cardboard box, when a dark blue shadow covers mine. Someone has walked up behind me. I straighten and nearly jump in place. It's Peter Gabriel behind me, in beautiful impeccable clothes, standing as if he was the tallest man in the world, when in fact he is only the tallest of us both. His arms are crossed in front of his chest. He scowls. His eyes burn a deep knife stab of blue. "Hello!" I say, "What are you doing here?" "What IS this place?" he snorts, turning his nose up at the surroundings. He seems so angry, so capable of violence, that the other employees and my boss cower and shake at the sight and sound of him. "This is where I work," I tell him. "Then why are you here?" he growls. "Uhh," I'm thrown off balance by his question. "I have to eat?" "You're not supposed to be here," says Peter sternly. "That's what everyone tells me," I shrug. Peter rolls his eyes, purses his lips together in a tight line and seems to be visibly counting to himself. When he's hit a certain number, he says very deeply, over emphasizing every word, "Now is the time you're supposed to be thinking about me." "OH!" I gasp. "Geez, I'm sorry!" I concentrate hard. The Kmart dissolves into puffs of harmless air that drifts away with the breeze. "Honestly," Peter says in a softer tone. "I began to think you didn't want me here. I was beginning to go crazy." I quickly wish up a Babylon--a beautiful Taj Mahal-like palace with a cushioned couch for a throne, sweet sherbet and beautiful, shapely, scantily-clad harem girls waiting to tend to his every command. "Hmm," Peter Gabriel muses, nodding very slightly. He lies back on the couch where two girls fan him, one begins a manicure, another serves the sherbet and another removes his shoes and rubs oil onto his feet. Peter calms down considerably and the air of violence drifts away like the Kmart had. Peter looks at me and smiles crookedly. "Well," he tells me, "it's a little cliche, but it's a definite improvement."

Where the dreamers dream...