Posted by: normanlgreen | January 14, 2012

Dream, January 14, 2012 buying guidance

Dream, home 7:05 am

Somewhere in the middle of a trip with my youngest son and several of his friends, we must abandon the car to reach our destination. We pick up a trail through the woods. This trail ends abruptly and we must slash our way though dense fir trees with dark and heavy branches closing in around us. I recall that Keaton said that we would have an opportunity to come back and clear a proper trail – for wages. Light shows through the last bit of forest.

We push through into the lobby of an office building. The boys leave through the glass door, while I turn to the receptionist. She stands about five feet tall, is of indeterminate middle age. Her hair is dyed copper, and she wears black-rimmed cat’s-eye glasses. She reeks of sarcasm. I attempt to explain that we have been invited here. She interrupts me. I cannot recall the name of the professional who rents an office in this building who extended to us the invitation. I feel the boys getting further and further away. I pause in my statement, as I have trouble recalling the name of the man. She interrupts me. I say “perhaps, if I could finish my –” She interrupts me. “sentence.” I say to her mumbling back. “I will not trouble you further.” I walk out on her reply.  Turn-about is fair play.

Outside, leaning against a hand rail at the edge of the sidewalk, a young man waits for me. I cannot place him among the friends of my son, yet he seems familiar – and he seems to know me. He promises to lead me to Keaton and the rest, and to get us back to the car.  He is tall and thin with dark wavy hair, and carries himself with confidence bordering on smug superiority.

We have to pass through a shopping mall – one of those with no right angles, shops and passageways meeting at odd diagonals. Built into an awkward corner is a little stage where a handful of actors in togas hold a tableau from the assassination scene from Julius Caesar. As we pass, they commence to move and to deliver the lines. I can almost chime in, speaking their lines with them, but each line is delivered half a second before I can recall it. Their stage is at the entrance of a high-toned department store. My guide and I pass through a small portion of the store before exiting to the parking lot. He turns to our right and enters a small cocktail bar thrust into a nearly unusable space created by the absurd angles of the mall’s architecture.

To the right, small booths line the diagonal wall. Opposite them, and almost parallel, is the bar, with glass shelves of bottles behind. A woman with blond braided hair tends the bar – she is the proprietor.   There is a hand done caricature on the wall behind her.  It shows ropes of braided hair piled on her head like  German maiden at an Octoberfest. My guide takes a seat in the furthest booth, where another young man is already sipping on a bottle of beer. Four adults who have been seated at the bar stand and put on their coats to leave. They mumble in disgusted tones at our entrance. I recognize one of the men as Phil, a retired film editor. He nods to me and as there is very little floor space between booths and bar, he is forced into a position to shake my hand. His wife, Andrea, a writer and publisher, turns to face me. I ask why they have to leave so abruptly.

“You need to be more careful of the company you keep.” she says. Phil underscores her statement with a confirming nod.

“But,” I explain, “he is the only one who knows where my car can be found.”

They leave. I walk to the booth, where my guide sips on a clear bottle of Corona. He tells me that I need to buy him another. His friend opposite him smirks through his bushy red beard. I turn to the bar to order – it is not a full step away in this tight space. I ask if they have any coffee for me. The proprietor answers that they make a faux Irish coffee with heated Pepsi, cream, and whiskey. She shows me her new menu with descriptions of many complicated mixed-drinks. She cannot grasp the idea that I do not want alcohol. She is proud of the menu, bragging that she had the printer destroy two print runs due to miniscule quality issues. “That’s just how picky I am.” She says, handing me a bottle of beer. I pass it back to the kid who downs the last of his first bottle and hands me the empty.


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