Dream Journal

Old Friends, Covering Up Accidental Terrorism

In the city, walking along the sidewalk to a favorite Mexican place of mine when a light but colorful rain starts falling. Waiting in line alone, I’m concentrating on what my order will be, rock-a-pulco and some kind of snack ball. People keep cutting in front of me though I try to ignore it, when I finally reach the counter I go to the right hand side, I’m told only the left hand side has what I want. I knew this already but I suppose I’m stressed by all the people cutting. I place my order with the smaller, narrow family-run side, round the corner benches, and run into an old childhood friend, Robby T. There’s some tension as we haven’t seen each other in so long, but eventually we make friendly and I move the big wooden tables around.

I leave headed around the back way, down a dirt trail between clusters of buildings. Riding a bike, I pull over in a clump of bushes as I suspect my GPS is misleading me. Decide I need to pee anyway, but reconsider when I spot a group of women I know standing gathered under a tree nearby. Among these is Robin, but also… Emily Wentz. Somehow we begin a friendly conversation, we even smack butts, climbing into a wooden wall alcove for a longer chat. She’s herself, but older, with the reserved energy of most middle-aged adults.

I’m one of a pair of small companion robots (like PintSize from Questionable Content), and my human/creator/master is worried she’ll be caught for a terrible crime. We revisit what must’ve happened — a fiery explosion at the top of a mountainous roller-coaster, a disaster compared to a lava eruption, crowds fleeing in panic. Although she intended no such destruction, she did miscalculate, and she feels no responsibility for the accident victims. Authorities treat it as a terrorist attack even though there’s no motive.

Moving about hastily among backyard garden ponds, we obscure evidence, knowing we’re running out of time. At this point she knows she will be caught, and is only trying to protect people who helped her. While I scratch red marks into a note-taking board (mounted on the wall, using a broad flat scraper, with feigned-purposeful arcs) one such couple speak in Italian from inside their bus home. Able to robotically translate, I understand they’re trying to decide if they can pin some of their unrelated crimes on my friend/master. Something involving a kid I think. Creepy.

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