Dream of: 20 August 1996 (2) "Whispering My Dream"

Before we had sat down, Anderson and I had been walking along a hallway in the building, talking to each other. I had been happy to see him and as we had talked, I had suddenly remembered Anderson had appeared in one of my dreams the previous night. I had immediately begun telling Anderson the dream, knowing it was my wont to tell people when they appeared in my dreams. My narration of the dream had continued all the way to the couch, where we now sat.

We had sat down right next to each other and I had moved close to Anderson, whispering the dream into his ear. Besides not wanting anyone else to hear the dream, my telling of the dream seemed to have more impact when it was poured straight into his ear. At one point Anderson even lay his head down in my lap so I could just bend my head over and whisper the dream to him.

When I had finished the telling of the dream, and we were still sitting next to each other, I happened to look down and notice my pants were unbuttoned and unzipped. I quickly zipped them back up and buttoned them, furtively glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. It didn't appear anyone had, and I was glad, because I certainly didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea and think I was doing anything with Anderson other than telling him my dream.

***

I was still in the same lounge area, but now I was sitting with a woman from my past: Cathy, with whom I likewise was once friends, but whom I hadn't seen in quite a while. (Cathy also somewhat resembled another person from my past: Mary Biester, an attractive attorney with whom I had been friends many years before in Dallas.)

Just as I had done with Anderson, I was now telling Cathy one of my dreams in which she had appeared. The dream was quite long and as I told it, I could see that Cathy seemed to become impatient. I wasn't sitting as close to her as I had been with Anderson, and I was definitely not whispering the dream into her ear. I was simply trying to relate it to her as faithfully as I could.

When I finally finished telling her the dream, I thought we would then start talking to each other. However to my surprise, she immediately stood up and with an expression somewhere between anger and disgust, she said, "So long."

I stood befuddled as she walked away. I asked myself what I had done wrong. I couldn't even now remember myself what had been in the dream which I had just told her, but I had the feeling the dream had something in it which had offended her. That made me stop and think about what I had been doing. Maybe I was carrying this business of telling people about my dreams of them too far. Indeed, as I now thought back on it, perhaps that was part of the reason why so many friends disappeared from my life. At a certain point, perhaps I had offended everyone through my dreams. But I couldn't recall any specific instances where that had happened, and the idea seemed pure speculation. Nevertheless, I thought I should be somewhat more guarded in the future about telling my friends the dreams in which they had appeared.

As I now looked around me, I was confronted with yet another disappointment: the reunion appeared to have ended. Everyone seemed to have already left before I had had a chance to talk with the rest of them. I didn't know whether they had all simply moved together to another location where I might be able to find them, or whether the party was over. I thought I would like to look for them, but I didn't know where to go.

I began walking down a hallway, thinking I would probably just leave, but just as I reached the end of the hall, I saw a room with a bar in it, something like a nice lounge bar in a hotel. This seemed strange to me that a bar would actually be set up in a college building, but I hadn't been around a college in a while, and I thought it must just be a sign of the times.

There was no wall on the side of the bar facing the hall, and I could see all around the bar. I didn't intend to go in, and I was just about to walk on by, when something caught my attention and caused me to stop and pause a moment: standing right in front of me, just inside the bar, was a mesmerizingly attractive woman. She was blonde, dressed in a short white dress, and probably not more than 20 years old. She was probably about five foot six inches – about six inches shorter than I. She was petite but had an exquisite figure. She wasn't flashy, she was simply naturally attractive. I couldn't take my eyes from her.

It was early in the evening and dancing had just started out on the small dance floor. I looked at the woman; obviously she wanted to dance; just as obviously – there was a dearth of men in the bar. Two other young women were also with the woman in white, but they were rather plain compared to her, and I didn't pay much attention to them.

It didn't take long before I found myself inside the bar, facing the woman and talking to her. She quickly made it known to me that she wanted to dance, and although I protested that I wasn't a good dancer, she insisted until finally I had her in my arms on the dance floor. I was awkward, stumbling, missing my steps, but it didn't much matter. She had such a wonderful personality and she didn't seem to mind my clumsiness. She didn't even seem to mind when I started spinning us around in circles, an action which I soon had to stop because it was making me dizzy.

I couldn't dwell upon my embarrassing dancing ability, because I was too engrossed in the feel of her body in my arms. My sense of touch seemed heightened, giving me the most intense pleasure just by being able to touch her back and her hand.

We talked some as we danced. She asked me why I was there, and I told her I had come for the reunion. It was clear that she had heard about the reunion, and I saw her give me a questioning look. I immediately thought I understood the look. She was thinking I must be quite old if I were going to the reunion. I immediately hoped she wouldn't think I was too old for her. I knew that in fact I looked much younger than I actually was. I wondered, now that we were so close to each other and she could get a better look at my face, whether she would be able to detect my actual age. But I didn't seem to have to worry. Although I could feel her scrutinizing me, she showed no sign of rejecting me, and she seemed satisfied with me as I was.

When we finally stopped dancing, I noticed the club had begun to fill. As we walked off the dance floor and into a section where tall round tables had been set up, I also noticed the clientele was quite different from me. It looked as if most people were about 20 years old, and many appeared to be of a rough character, such as young motorcycle hoods. I was somewhat apprehensive, especially since I seemed so out of place, but it appeared no one was bothered by my being there, and I thought I would be able to handle a problem if it arose.

It didn't take long for it to arise. As we walked past the tall round tables, I managed to brush up against some young dude wearing a blue-jean jacket with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders, and his arms covered with tattoos. I immediately knew I had a problem, but I kept walking. However when I heard the fellow call out to me, I turned around and faced him. He rose from his chair and walked up to me. He was obviously upset, and I thought it was because I had brushed up against him, but it soon became clear that something else was bothering him.

On the back of my left hand, in blue ink, I had written down my home telephone number, the last four numbers of which were "1413." This fellow standing before me was now incensed because I had written the number on my hand, and he repeated the number several times. I immediately became alarmed because I realized this man, a potential maniac, now had my home phone number. I tried to dissemble, explaining to him that the number wasn't mine, but that it belonged to someone else, and I had merely written it so I could remember it. But I had the feeling he wasn't buying it, and it looked as if I had unwittingly put my private life in jeopardy.

However, as I talked to the fellow, something else seemed clear. Although he was dressed like a lunatic and although he had covered his body with tattoos to make him look even more threatening, he really wasn't dangerous. He was just a young fellow who liked to look that way. For all I knew, he might even be a college student. At any rate, I didn't feel any immediate threat from him, and I only felt the need to disengage myself from a rather annoying situation.

At the same time, I felt somewhat intrigued by this young man, and his mate who was still waiting for him at the table. Thinking I might like to talk with them both a little more, to learn a little about them, I hit upon a solution: I asked them if I could buy them a beer. This seemed like a pretty expensive bar, and these two characters didn't seem to have much money. They reacted just as I had hoped they would: with effusive gratitude. The three of us headed for the bar.

The place was really crowded now, and I had to jostle my way through the crowd. I had lost sight of the girl, indeed I wasn't even thinking about her anymore. I was only concerned with getting the drinks. Once at the bar, the two roughnecks ordered: one ordered a Coors and the other ordered a Coors Light. What pussies, I thought to myself, to order a Coors Light. What kind of hoodlum orders a "light" beer.

For myself, I would have none of that. I wanted a beer that was strong, and I asked the bartender if he had a beer called "Red Dog." He reached into a small refrigerator and pulled out a large bottle, probably containing a quart of beer. The bottle had a most peculiar shape, starting with a long neck down to a wide flared-out bottom. It didn't appeal to me. I just wanted an ordinary beer bottle, and I began looking around in the refrigerator until I found exactly what I wanted: a brown bottle of Red Dog beer.

I asked the bartender how much everything was and he said it was twenty-two dollars and something. That sounded expensive to me, but I pulled out my wallet and began looking for some money. I thought I had some twenties in there, but I knew if I didn't have any cash I could simply use a credit card. In fact several credit cards fell onto the bar as I searched for the cash, which I finally found and handed to the bartender.

At the same time, I began questioning what I was doing. It occurred to me that this wasn't my first trip to the bar. I couldn't remember exactly, but now I was sure I had already bought one round of drinks either for these two fellows or for someone else. It was all starting to add up. Surely there were a lot better things which I could do with my money than spending it on drinks in a bar. But it was too late now; I was already moving ahead. And besides my thoughts seemed a little disoriented and confused. I was spilling stuff from my wallet on the bar, and I had even pulled things out of my pants pocket and laid them on the bar. Almost subconsciously I noticed a small baggie of marijuana in the pile of things I had laid out there. And only gradually did I realize I also had a long brown marijuana joint in my hand which I had been continually sucking on. It occurred to me that this was certainly an unusually open place, where I could just smoke marijuana right out in public or lay it out on the counter. The bartender obviously saw what I was doing and he didn't seem to care. A black man standing next to me on my right also clearly had been paying attention to my smoking pot, and he didn't seem to mind. Or did they?

Suddenly, as if regaining consciousness, I realized what I was doing. Smoking marijuana wasn't permitted in there. My thoughts had obviously become so distorted by the pot, I had lost complete consciousness of what I had been doing. Only now, as I grabbed up the little baggie of marijuana, did I realize that the bartender was on the phone, probably talking with the police, and that the black man standing next to me was probably an undercover cop, getting ready to arrest me.

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