The movie theater where I work is different, a wierd amalgamation of an old theater in town, the theater I work at now, and an auto mechanic's shop. Josh is working on something in the back room. He was playing music on a CD player, and we debated how these people got famous and why. Josh points out that the guy we're listening to worked here before. I'm not sure whether "here" referred to the actual theater or just crappy jobs like it. Josh takes his paints, his music, and leaves. Unrecognizable people and myself discuss the fact that Josh has left, and we go out into the second lobby. The box office has been moved here for some wierd reason. We hire a new, sexy girl, who looks a lot like Kitty from the Mayan. She also looks like a girl who works in the local copy shop. Her voice is distorted. Laura shows up late, wanting coffee, but it's too late, all the coffee is gone. Laura begins to describe something she dreamt, and the dream is taken over by that for a while. She finishes. I go into the office, which has become a huge garage. All kinds of tough-ass cowboy types from Wyoming are there. These are the friends of Sasha (supervisor). They beat people up for a living. I drive my old van out of the garage, taking an unusual direction, and find myself in fenced-off corner of the railyard. I park the van at the garage's exit and walk out into the railyard among all the crossings, under a mottled brown sky. The ancient station looms in the background, only it's disturbingly spongy. The earth is brown, rocky, and a little spongy. I see a sign on the building: "Warning: Fast Moving Trains." This looks exactly like the signs over the light rail tracks downtown. A man wearing khaki overalls and a khaki shirt and glasses runs out of the garage. He looks a lot like Harold Lloyd, the silent movie genius. He grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me off the track I'm standing on. A moment later a train screams by. I move to a different track but he yanks me off of that one right before another train nearly obliterates me. This time I notice that the trains are made of the same dry, rocky, spongy stuff as the railyard and station. The tracks are iron and wood. I talk to Lloyd as a third train rushes by on a distant track. Is there any way I could take one of these trains to the South part of town? "Sure," he says, "but go to the goddamn station. Your stuff will catch up with you later." Meantime we'd better get off the tracks. He's the switchman, who sends all the trains onto the right tracks, and only he knows the schedule by heart, well enough to avoid getting pulped by a train. "Look, I can't babysit you all goddamn night, so you better get out of the yard or you'll wind up dead before long." I go back to the van and dig through a U-haul box. I take the most important stuff and fill the backpack with it. Then I drive the van into the garage. The garage had changed into more of a parking garage with ramps and levels. But there's still tools and equipment strewn around everywhere. Before it was a very straightforward auto shop with three or four bays; now it's a confusing maze. To further complicated things, they blocked the entrance, making it necessary for me to go in backwards. The mechanics are irritated with me.