Dream of: 29 August 1996 "Paranoia Is My Favorite Feeling"

I was riding around in a pickup truck in Portsmouth. Two other fellows were in the cab, one of whom was driving. We finally pulled over and while the driver stayed behind the wheel, the second fellow and I climbed out. Almost immediately, a woman who apparently had been standing there on the street, climbed into the cab, and began positioning herself so she could have sex with the driver. Curious, I also climbed back into the cab, remaining close to the door on the passenger side, so I could observe the action.

The woman had positioned herself with her back to the man behind the wheel, putting her hands on the seat right next to me, with her head right in front of me, looking at me. It occurred to me that the woman might be placing herself in a position so that while she was having sex with the driver, she could also perform oral sex on me. I became slightly aroused at this prospect of ménage a trois, but there was just something so distasteful about the whole scene, I turned and slipped out the still open door.

I only stood on the street a moment before the woman also came out of the truck. The driver was finished with her and had tossed her out.

The driver himself next climbed out of the truck, joining the second fellow and me on the sidewalk. I followed the other two as they turned and walked into a building which abutted the sidewalk.

I realized we were in a part of town where I had rarely ventured, the black section, a section I had always referred to as "the village." The central part of the village consisted of government-subsidized apartments almost entirely occupied by blacks. The building into which the three of us now walked appeared to be part of the housing project, but not a place where people actually lived. Instead we appeared to have entered some sort of public community center where people could meet with each other.

The place was just one big rectangular room, and actually had more the feel of a cheap bar than a community center. About 20 people were in the room, all young tough-looking white fellows, with not a black in sight. The men seemed to be milling about as in a bar; some seemed engaged in some kind of activity such as pool, although no pool tables were in the room.

I felt at ease with these fellows and soon found myself having a good time being with them. They were clearly of a lower class, with none having more than a high school education. I was obviously the only person there from the better part of town, but still I liked being with them. They seemed to know more how to have a good time than the people with whom I usually associated.

As we stood around, a flaky-looking fellow walked near me and dropped something on the floor. I looked at what he had dropped and saw that it appeared to be some kind of white chalky substance, irregularly shaped something like a piece of cauliflower, a few centimeters in diameter. But the thing was obviously no vegetable; clearly it was some kind of drug. I had the feeling that the drug had just been made and that it was straight from the lab. It was lying right in front of me, but I didn't pick it up. I didn't want to have anything to do with it. I didn't mind that the other fellow had the drug, but I didn't want to be connected with it. Nor did I want to have anything to do with the fellow, who appeared to have no idea that a drug like that could be dangerous.

Although the white drug didn't appeal to me, I did think there might be some other type of drug which might interest me. By now I had realized that the two fellows with whom I had come had already left. I wasn't terribly concerned about this, but I thought I would be best advised to get to know the people in the establishment a little better. Up until then I had been fairly reticent, but now I thought I should become a little more outgoing. And it occurred to me that one way to do this might be to smoke some marijuana with them, even though I knew I hadn't actually smoked any pot in years. Obviously drugs were acceptable there, and all I needed to do was to find where I could get some weed. I could then offer some to the others, who would undoubtedly be thankful for my generosity.

One fellow standing near me caught my attention as someone who might be able to help in this endeavor. He looked exactly like Tony Banta (the character played by Tony Danza in the television series "Taxi"). I sauntered over to him and asked if it might be possible to buy some marijuana around there. He immediately told me he could get me some for $5. That certainly seemed like a reasonable price and I asked how many joints we could hope to get for $5. When he said we would be able to roll three or four joints, I pulled out a $5 bill and handed it to him. He took off in a flash.

I was surprised at how quickly he returned. I thought he must have just gone outside and met somebody in front of the building, perhaps some black drug peddlers; he certainly couldn't have gone much further. He sat down at one end of a long table, and all the other men in the room, 20 or more, also took seats at the table.

The Danza look-alike handed me the pot. It was in two small cellophane packets, each packet looking as if it might hold enough for a couple joints. He also handed me what I at first thought was a joint which was already rolled. But looking closer, I saw that it was a small bundle of marijuana stems, about the size of a joint, which had been neatly wrapped together. Obviously those couldn't be smoked and I wondered why anyone would have gone to so much trouble.

We set to work rolling a joint. Everyone's attention was focused on me, and I thought now might be the time for me to say something noteworthy. Up until then I had said nothing witty to set myself off as an interesting person. But the only thing I could now think of was to ask if everyone was sure that there were no undercover cops in the place. I thought that such suspicion would naturally be expected of me since I was an attorney and that I would be naturally concerned about such matters. I was now especially concerned, since for a moment I thought I saw someone wearing a police hat standing near the door. But upon second look, I saw I had been mistaken. I thought I also needed to be suspicious of people in the room simply because no one else there seemed to have given much thought to the possibility of the police coming. I pointed out to the others that anyone sitting at the table with us might turn out to be a nark.

By now a joint was ready and I had it in my hand. Still thinking of the possibility of a cop being present, still trying to be witty, I raised the joint toward my lips, turned to the Danza look-alike and quipped, "Man, I get paranoid when I smoke pot. I love it. Paranoia is my favorite feeling in the world. Give me a light."

I thought this prattle sounded particularly impressive, especially since I had used such a long word as "paranoia." These fellows were probably not accustomed to hearing such big words.

As I raised the joint toward my mouth, waiting for a light, I saw that my hand was actually trembling from anticipation and fear. I purposely exaggerated the shaking even more, to try to put a comic effect upon my paranoia. It worked because people began laughing at my action.

I wondered to whom I would pass the joint after I took a hit. It was my intention to share the pot with everyone at the table. But whether I passed it to the left or to the right, the person I didn't pass it to would feel slighted. I was uncertain which way to go.

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