Posted by: normanlgreen | August 16, 2011

Dream, August 16, 2011 — rubber car & bank loans


Dream, home 4:44 am

Walking down a commercial street to meet up with an attorney at a storefront bank. The sky is overcast and the light is soft. The bank looks closed, but when I try the swinging door, it opens inward. The lobby is less than ten foot square, with a counter to the left hand side. Two women and one man are employed there. They are well dressed and friendly with each other, and though they nod to me they do not address me. The young man discusses a client who has left just before me. While that client was in the bank, they completed an application for student loans, and the results are already available. I marvel out loud at the speed of the analysis. I tell how I had worked for the guarantor for the State of Arkansas, describe the slow process and the clumsy application, how it would take weeks before a student knew what grants and loans for which they were qualified. I ask if any of them have ever seen a pin fed computer form. They humor me, but are little interested in ancient history.

I leave through the front door and encounter a group of tough kids in a bizarre car. They are looking to kill me out of jealousy. Some woman I cannot recall has mentioned me and the leader of this gang has taken offense. They try to run me down with a tiny black rubber car that rides an inch from the street. The three kids ride by sitting on the bare black rubber floor of the four-foot square vehicle. There is just enough head room in the space for them to sit on folded knees. I lean in the passenger window to talk them out of their murder attempt – ineffectual due to the flexible nature of the car. As they shift around on their knees in the open area, the floor flexes beneath their weight. I am reminded of the black rubber used stretched across the head of a souvenir tom-tom I was given as a child. Gravel from the road is visible pressing upward.  I wonder if they can feel the road as they ride.  The gang members are unconvinced of my innocence and very angry.  However, I can maneuver faster than they, so escape into a restaurant.

I slip through the lobby, pass the candy counter with its cash register, and up a dimly lit ramp, the walls of which are veneered with field-stone. The ramp turns 180 degrees before opening up into a private residence – the home of the attorney I was to meet at the bank. I ask him to help me to escape the country. We will use funds from songs I have sold to recording artists. He asks if I have brought any clothes. I pull various items from a valise. “one pair of dark tea-pants” hold aloft an almost new pair of jeans. “One pair of light tea-pants” —  jeans faded to near white. “And two pairs, well, I don’t know.” two ragged pair of work pants, torn at the knees and with the seams failing from the cuffs up the outside of the calves.

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