It’s been thirteen weeks so far, all of us pretending to be friends, but really hating each other, fighting each other for that one prize, that one goal – to be Donald Trump’s next apprentice. I don’t remember what the task was, but there were five of us left and Donald Trump, ‘The Donald’, decided to mix it up last minute. He is ‘The Donald’ after all – he can do whatever he wants. The two teams that were left, three of them vs. the two of us, were dissolved and it was now each man for his self. Whoever lost wouldn’t have to go to the boardroom and try to cut up his pal in order to save himself. Whoever lost would do just that – lose – with only his self to blame. There we were. The five of us in the boardroom after Week 13’s task, for each of us to go out, on our own, and make money using what little materials we were handed. Mr. Trump looked at one of the men, congratulated him on making over a thousand dollars profit, in only one day, with the little seed money he was given. He went on and on about how he was a champion and blah blah blah… He looked at one of the girls sitting just next to me (if my fuzzy dream memory serves, I think he called her Sandy), and said she was equally amazing, having made only ten dollars less than the man ahead of her. Then he turned his attention to the man sitting on the other side of me, saying that even though he made just ten dollars less than Sandy, it was still an impressive amount, and more than enough to get him to move on to the next round – to be a member of the final four, the elite of the show. Then smiles left Donald Trump’s face, as they left his trusted companions George and Caroline’s faces. He looked toward me and the one other girl left in the running. “You two really disappoint me,” he started, and I knew I was done right then and there. On and on he went. He’d fired two people at the same time before – what’s to stop him from doing it again? I’ll tell you what’s stopping him – the brunette, the other girl that was left. He’s cutting us both to pieces about how poorly we did – no point for second place, let alone fourth, and stuff like that. She’s arguing him, debating him, and when the tears start forming she believes she’s justified in yelling at him. “Rules are rules,” he starts in, “and if there weren’t such tight rules, Benjamin, I’d fire you on the spot. Fifty bucks? Those three people over there made a thousand a piece in the same time with the same material. Fifty bucks?” “But you,” his attention now turned to the brunette, “only made forty dollars. Not only did you do the worst, you can’t even conduct yourself in a professional manner. You’re fired.” She starts wailing. I think there was some begging, but it was indecipherable from the shrill cries and sniffles. Two fingers pointed to the door, ‘The Donald’ said, “Out.” I’m getting slaps on the back from the other three survivors, and all four of us are just looking in astonished laughter at the still convulsing brunette who just won’t shut up. George is laughing at her heartily – very out of character for him, and Caroline’s dabbing tears of her own, tears of laughter, from her eyes very politely with a handkerchief. Mr. Trump, however, just maintains his scowl until it proved to be all that was needed to usher the loser out of the boardroom. What’s the big deal about this dream? After a long absence in writing down my dreams, why did I write this one down? Because everyone remembers the dream where they come in first, where they win, where they overcome. I remember the dream, and I remember it fondly, where I barely, JUST BARELY, scraped in forth of five people. I didn’t win anything – I just moved on to, potentially, lose the next round. Now THAT’S funny.
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