Who is Joe Brasco?

I really don't like talking about my previous career. I sort of fumbled my way through it for 25 years until my skills and qualifications no longer met the industry's changing needs, and got out. Or was thrown out. That's been about eight years ago, and I still have occasional dreams about it.

I dreamt overnight that I was back in my old job, returning to work after the four-day Thanksgiving weekend. The place was being completely remodeled, right down to the sheet rock on the walls being replaced.

There were a bunch of strangers wandering around. Some were clearly remodeling people, but others seemed like they might be new coworkers who had arrived during the holiday break –– I couldn't tell for sure.

I sat down at my desk, which seemed to be in some sort of large wardrobe closet, and began working on updating the web site. Here's an anachronism, because updating the web site is what I do now, not what I did then.

Behind me, I heard the news director talking to someone at another desk. "I asked you last week to fix that text block on the water page," she said. "You've got the background and the text hover color both set to salmon, and when someone rolls their mouse over it, the text disappears. Can you please fix that today?"

She walked off, and another coworker walked up. The coworker responsible for the salmon-colored text –– who, by the way, was someone I actually worked with in my previous career, but not in web design, said, "She bitched me out for this. I was supposed to fix it, but since Carp is here, he ought to take the blame, not me."

I smiled, because I realized he hadn't seen me at my desk, and didn't know I could hear him.

Then my boss appeared at my desk. She had a young, sandy-haired guy with him. "Joe here can't get e-mail. Do you know what's wrong with it?"

"Well, I just got back from the weekend about five minutes ago. If he's new, he probably doesn't have an account set up yet. I'll get with IT on that. What's his name?"

"Joe Brasco," my boss replied. "Remember that name," she said, walking off with the new guy in tow. "It's going to mean job security someday."

And then I woke up.

And I laid there in bed for a few minutes, trying to figure out who was playing the part of the news director in the dream. It was a woman, but there was no face or voice attached to her –– just the general sense of a woman. It wasn't the woman who had actually been my final boss in my previous career. I laid there in bed, suddenly astonished that I couldn't remember who the hell my boss is now. Who is the news director now, I asked myself. Why can't I remember? God, I'm getting old.

And then, maybe ten seconds later, it dawned on me: I couldn't remember the news director because I had not worked in that place for eight years. I wasn't there, didn't have to be there, didn't have to know who the news director was, didn't have to worry about Joe Brasco's e-mail.

And I went back to sleep.

Just now, I Googled 'Joe Brasco.' I found 170 hits, none of which looked like something that would have been buried in the back of my subconscious. I don't know who Joe Brasco is. Maybe I jsut made up the name on the fly.