The Dream:
Malcom Constance, age 36:
In the dream I was sitting at my local bar having a drink.
The door opened and a man came into the place, and as he walked in everything morphed into slow motion and music began to play. Like in a Quentin Tarantino film. The Wu-Tang Clan, Curtis Mayfield, crazy Tom Waits organ music, something like that. And the guy, he must have been about 50. He wore a three quarter length sheepskin coat and a lime green pant suit. Black sunglasses. Perfect, silver hair, spiked. He was ridiculous looking, like a pimp, but also deadly cool, and as he walked to a table every eye in the place was attached to him. You couldn’t not look at him, you couldn’t not hear the music that lived like an aura, like a scent, around him. You could tell he believed in satisfying all his appetites. Quickly, a crowd of women, and some men, gathered around him as he ordered from an already smitten waitress. I felt jealous, sitting there alone at my bar perch with no music or pant suit or smitten waitress. He saw me looking over at him, and nodded at me.
“There is nothing wrong with loving something you can’t hold in your hand,” he said.
And as if his words were a command, I woke up in that instant, his music lasting for just a beat longer before vanishing.
