I don’t dream very often (or remember what I do dream–take your pick).  Just a couple of times a year.  Most of my dreams are pretty ordinary and predictable–falling, flying, snakes eating donoughts, showing up naked for a chemistry final.  Nothing special.  This one, though, is a pip.

A little background, first of all.  Most of you probably know that I was born and raised in El Paso.  EP is the gangsta capital of North America.  Ironically, it has one of the lowest violent crime rates in the country.  I think it’s because gangsters are generally pretty law-abiding while they’re not out gangstering (they’re afraid of getting pulled over and popped), plus the fact that the EP jails are chock-full of gangsters waiting to get called up on charges.

The Aztecas are probably the most significant and influential EP gang; they’ve infiltrated the federal prison system and are a very large part of the “Mexican mafia.”  Serious business, and not to be taken lightly.

Okay, that’s part one of the groundwork of my dream.  Part two is a lot quicker and simpler, and is as follows:

I worked for a catering outfit here in Craptopolis for a little while last year.  The kitchen is run by a talented and capable chef, and her sister runs the office.

Here beginneth the dreame:

I went to the catering joint to ask for my old job back.  The chef was sitting on the concrete floor, next to non-functional boombox, smiling.

“I was just wondering if you needed some help, you know–I could use some work.”

“Oh, you bet!” she said, “but how come there are sesame seeds in my transmission?”

It went on like that for a while, and I brought it to her sister’s attention.

“Yeah, she’s been like that.  Don’t take it seriously.”

Hm.  Good time to leave.  So I up and left, and that’s when the landscape changed–no longer the actual pancake-flat Craptopolis, but a hilly place with lots of tenements and alleyways.

I was walking up a hilly alleyway, and coming down the other way was an old woman helping an old guy in a wheelchair.  There was a very low fire escape between us, and a little quick mental calculation told me that we’d arrive there at about the same time.  The fire escape didn’t allow space in the narrow alley for the three of us to pass at the same time, so I opted to take the gentlemanly way out and let them have the right-of-way.  Beyond that, I decided to be an übergentleman and help her pilot the wheelchair down the hill–she was a frail old bat, and I knew that commandeering a downhill wheelchair was no simple task.

When we were about half-way back down the hill, she let go of the hand-grips on the old guy’s wheelchair, and off he went like a shot.  I don’t know exactly what happened to him, because I was distracted by this toothless hag hugging and kissing me and saying, “I never cared about him anyway.  Now it’s jsut us.  Let’s go for a walk.”

I was too horrified to think straight.  “Just be polite,” I thought.  “No matter what happens, nobody can ever fault you for being polite.”

More later.

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