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that at some point in the very near future I will wake up and the entire fantasy will be ripped away from me and perhaps I will even feel worse but who cares? In my dream I am directing a movie starring Matt Damon, who is, strangely, playing himself. He is playing himself and in the movie he has given up acting and is now pursuing a career as a comedian. He is failing miserably in that he isn’t funny, but he’s packing the house every night because people are mesmerized by this superstar-turned-not-funny comic. His agent is livid but likes the money. His wife, who loves him and whom he loves, is confused, especially since his now-famous punch line to every joke is to raise his voice and, apropos of nothing, shout, “And I hate my wife!” There’s one joke that has me laughing so hard—even though it’s not funny—that even as I sleep I am afraid that I am laughing out loud, on the plane, and that people are perhaps looking at me. But I’m not so afraid that I actually wake up. There’s this moment where I’m aware of giving myself the option—would you like to wake up? Would you like to keep sleeping?—and, oh my God, it isn’t even a choice. I stay sleeping because the dream, this kooky movie that I am directing, is so good and so unexpected and so very wonderfully far away from my real life. But this one joke he’s telling seems to go on forever. And everyone—the entire auditorium, me, his agent, his wife—we all know the punch line and still we can’t wait. He tells the audience that a few years ago he had an affair, and, as though we share one brain, we can all suddenly see the woman. She’s wearing a blue dress and she is a goddess and every single person understands the affair just by looking at her and instantly we have forgiven him. All we want is for him to say more. He tells us about a commercial he filmed in Germany. A commercial! Matt Damon in some extended commercial in Germany! The audience is overwhelmed. He says, “And, so, obviously, why all this happened is either because I met someone or because I love Germany or because I HATE MY WIFE.” The auditorium erupts in laughter. His wife, who is home alone in some kitchen but who I am able to see from where I sit directing, is crying. But me, I am busting a gut. I am loving it. This is my star. Matt Damon is my star. And only I understand.
    A hand on my shoulder startles me awake. It is the stewardess from before takeoff.
    “Ma’am?” she says. She is smiling, like she is amused with me. Like I’ve done something embarrassing and therefore charming and even quasi-adorable in my sleep.
    I breathe in and sit up straight and try to widen my eyes as a way of answering. Matt Damon is slipping away from me too quickly and I feel that familiar sadness filling up the void he’s leaving behind.
    “We’re here,” she says. “We need you to deboard.”
    I look around and it’s true; we are on the tarmac and the plane is empty. Outside my tiny window it is full-on night.
    “ATL is waiting for you,” she says. And then, almost too sweetly, as if she knows the reason for my flight down here and is sorry for me but also relieved that it is me and not her and so all the kinder as a result—her kindness a thank-you note for taking the sadness from her life and injecting it into my own—she adds, “We’ll be clearing out the trash for at least five more minutes. You can take a little bit of time.”
    Is it wrong, is it so utterly wrong, that this generosity reminds me of everything I hate about the South? And about Atlanta specifically? It’s not that I don’t think her sweetness is genuine—though, that said, why would it be? It’s that it reminds me of all that is fake about the sweetness of the South. It reminds me of my father and his family—the family he came from and the family that he kept growing after his first three children finally left the state.
    “Thanks,” I say, already standing, already brushing off my slacks and