Being J Lo

I was J Lo in my dream last night.  As I was leaving the stage, a man staggered up to me and tried to say something in my ear.  He was tackled but struggled hard and managed to get away.  One of my bodyguards received a minor cut from a switchblade.  The would-be attacker ran out the main doors, all of us in hot pursuit.  From the top of the stairs, we watched him escape into the sewer system.

Police cars skidded up, men in bullet proof vests piled out.  Badges, walkies, and dogs were in plentiful supply; a full scale manhunt was assembled.  Suddenly I realized I had to pee and there was no time to go back to my dressing room.  A sign led downstairs to the rest room.  There was a long after-the-show line.  Apart from the occasional double take fading to uncertainty no one recognized me.  I finally got to use the end stall.  It had no door, but was guarded by Kiko, a muscular Puerto Rican dressed in white satin vest and leather pants.

"I'll make sure no one takes any cell phone pictures, Ms. Lopez," he assured me.

To get to the toilet you had to climb a flight of stairs.  As I sat on the literal throne, panties around my ankles, the wall on the far side dissolved.  Members of a royal dress ball milled into the room, chatting discretely, and sipping champagne from the delicate flutes held in  gloved white hands.  Three people sat at the bottom of my stairs as I deployed the last square of toilet paper. 

For some reason I had taken off my stockings.  While I leaned against the toilet for balance to put them on, a white-haired woman in a russet satin ball gown and small half crown took a seat, as if the toilet were a convenient chair.

The woman introduced herself as Edith, the duchess of somewhere-or-other vaguely german-sounding, and related a soft-spoken anecdote about her ex-husband that included historical references to Vatican edicts on marriage from the 1600s-1900s.  She spoke in perfect precise syllables - the Queen's english.  And she had questions for me - not about my singing career but about my relationships.

"How does one survive a terrible divorce?" "Is it possible to ever trust again after discovering your loved one with the maid?" "What do you do to cope with loneliness?"  I was keenly aware of the Puerto Rican traces lingering in my answers.

I took her hand and kissed it before taking my leave, an awkward moment as I realized I had yet to wash my own hands; she didn't appear to notice or care.  At the bottom of the stairs a young royal apprehended me and demanded to know why I was impersonating a celebrity.  He refused to believe who I was, and left abruptly, after delivering a promise that he would return with the police.

I made my way through the banquet tables, feeling completely out of my element.  I tripped on a chair leg and almost bumped into the real J Lo.  She was a few inches taller, and thinner but wore a nearly identical outfit; I allowed a moment of pride - surely hers had taken hours to construct whereas mine had been hastily assembled during the 90-minute show - including time to pose and dress figurine dolls of her backup dancers - all from the vantage point of the lighting technician's balcony.

I flushed and stammered, "I love your work so much."  She gave an uncomfortable smile and turned away, just as a police officer took my arm.

To get to the interrogation room we had to pass a long corridor where my father, a rabbi, was giving a reading from the Torah.  His back was to me, so he didn't see me being dragged past, hand-cuffed and in tears.
The lead detective demanded to know the details of the conspiracy between me and the escaped man.  I honestly said I didn't know; I just liked to make costumes and act out doll scenes of various artists' shows that passed through the concert venue.  Clearly he felt I knew more than I was telling.  He slammed the table.  I woke up.