Last night I had the strangest dream. I came face to face with John Travolta striking that iconic pose from Saturday Night Fever, the one that catapulted him to fame. But in my dream, he was heavier, older, with a thinning pate of salt-and-pepper hair. Instead of the three-piece disco getup, he was sporting a t-shirt and jeans. The jeans were faded, but also frayed, more like vertically ripped, almost from top to bottom, and around each pant leg. The girls were going gaga. I asked one of them why he was wearing torn jeans, and she blurted out: “Those are his Fiasco Pants!”
Many hours later, deeply zenned-out while counting laps in the pool, I unlocked (part of) the dream’s mystery: On the day of the accident, I was wearing my beloved, faded khaki pants; the same pair I’d worn through countless countries and assorted adventures. Those khakis, and my white Nepali shirt, had been snipped off my body while I lay in the E.R. I vaguely remember hearing those snips and rips, and seeing strands of cloth around me. No doubt a fiasco.
As for the nocturnal appearance by John Travolta? Not a clue.