Seven Feet of Hell

I was perusing a Medialine thread when the following bubbled forth...

Once in a blue moon, I'll have that dream, more of a flashback really. There I'll be in the studio, rolling that pathetic red barrell out to Marvin while the local car commercial audio echoes from the rafters. Good ole Marvin takes the barrell, unlatches the door and reaches way down into the crush of thousands of hand-scribbled postcards. Pulling one up, he reads an awkward name from Lizard Lick or some other such forsaken place.

"You have seven minutes to call and claim your Seven Feet of Cash", Marv rattles off.

With that hated music bubbling underneath, the director punches a button and Marvin's visage turns to a cheesy graphic. As it does, I sprint down the hall, dropping off a copy of the postcard with the control room before heading up to the lobby to see lovely Mae.

She's always on the phone when I enter, sometimes shooing off mistaken callers, other times congratulating winners and telling them how they can get their cash. As she runs through the details, I pace and scheme, jotting notes and chewing my fingernails.

During the very worst dreams, the phone call never comes. After a flurry of confused viewers, the phone's blinking lights dim and Mae and I stare at it in near silence until the seven minute time limit is up. Reluctantly I take the abandoned postcard and trudge back to my office, where a desk full of storyboards, graphic requests and promo blather demands my attention.

About then, I wake up screaming. There in the darkness I realize I escaped that hell eight years back and I lie back down, slow my breathing until falling back into the grateful arms of slumber...

That's when some assignment dork calls my house with tales of an overturned semi, an early morning shooting or a fellow photog calling in sick. Oh well.