Dream of: 11 March 2001 "Stuck In Kentucky"

Someone had stolen my red car and wrecked it. As if I were watching a movie, I could see the car crashing on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River where the U.S. Grant bridge crossed from Kentucky to Portsmouth. I was particularly concerned because in the trunk of the car was a bag which contained $40,000. The money (which seemed to be the proceeds of a drug transaction) belonged to my mother. As I watched helplessly, a man walked up to the wrecked car, opened the trunk, pulled out the bag and walked away with it. I tried to scrutinize the man as closely as possible, hoping I might be able to identify him later and retrieve my bag, but he was so far away, I could hardly see him. He was slovenly dressed, overweight, and probably in his early 40s.

Since I no longer had a car, I was forced to stay in a motel in Kentucky, about three kilometers from the Ohio River. But instead of staying in my motel room, I spent most of my time in the motel's front office, which resembled a little country store. The pudgy black-haired man in charge of the motel was about 40 years old. Only gradually did I learn he had added a charge of $150 to my credit card because he had sent someone to look at my wrecked car. Since I hadn't requested this service, I felt the charge was unjustified, and I challenged the man, protesting that the charge was ridiculous and that he should remove it. When he refused, I threatened to contact the credit card company. I disliked the idea of doing so since I knew contacting the company would be a hassle. However, the more I contemplated what I would say to the credit company, the less daunting the task seemed. I would simply describe the events as if I were writing a story, explaining how my car had been stolen and wrecked, how I had been stranded in this Kentucky motel, and how the motel owner had sent someone to visit my car without even notifying me. I decided to try once more to convince the motel owner to return my money, and I told him I would split the charge and pay him $75. When he still refused, I decided I would simply have to contact the credit card company.

I was glad when several old friends came to visit me here in my time of need. Among them was Ramey. Ramey had also obtained a room, and someone told me a black girl was staying in Ramey's room with him. When Ramey walked into the motel's front office where I was sitting, he looked as if he were in his early 30s. When I asked him about the girl, he pulled out a document and asked me to sign the name of the girl, "Carolina Collier," on the paper. I signed "Carolina Collier" almost automatically, and only after I had written the name did I ask Ramey why he needed the signature. He didn't give me a precise answer; instead, he told me he had to leave. I was sorry to see him go; we had hardly spent any time together. I remembered how we used to smoke marijuana together when we had been teenagers, and I wondered if he had any pot in his room. I would have liked to have smoked a joint with him, but now it was too late. He was leaving, and I would just continue stuck here in Kentucky with my problems.

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