Dream of: 15 September 2006 "The Lone Ranger"

I was in my small 3-4 room upstairs apartment in an old building in Portsmouth. I was thinking I would like to contact Birdie (my girlfriend in my late teens), and I had a small device like a cellular phone with a screen with which I was able to see her. When I looked at the screen, I saw Birdie sitting in the stands of a football stadium, all by herself, holding a small baby. I had heard she had had another baby. I wanted to call her and ask her what had happened to her first baby, Brandi (born in 1973) who would be grown up by now, but I thought I would have trouble calling her. I could see her, but I didn't know how to call. The picture of her wasn't good -- it would come in, then fade out.


I thought I had some marijuana somewhere in the apartment. I pulled out a black writing pen, thinking I had somehow stuck some marijuana in a little compartment inside the pen, but I simply couldn't find the marijuana. Finally, however, I found a compartment with a marijuana joint inside. The joint was burnt along one side, but the marijuana was still in the joint. Some other green flakes were also in the compartment, so I thought I should be able to make a complete joint out of all of it.

When I suddenly heard someone at the door, I walked to the door and opened it. An old high school classmate, MacDonald (now about 30 years old), walked in. He said he was waiting for someone and he asked if he could stay there for a few hours. I had been cleaning up the apartment and stuff was piled all over the place. When I told him he could stay if he could stand the junk, he acted as if the junk didn't bother him.

He walked over to a shelf containing some books, pulled out one, sat down with it, and said he was going to read. The book he had picked had a dust-jacket. I knew I had some old collectible books, and I was afraid he might damage the dust-jacket, the most valuable part of the book. I was relieved when he took off the dust-jacket and laid it aside. The title on the colorful dust-jacket was The Lone Ranger, and a picture of the Lone Ranger was also on the front of the dust jacket.

MacDonald looked clear-headed. I asked him if he still smoked marijuana and he said, "No." I asked if he minded if I smoked. Since he didn't act as if he minded, I thought I would roll up the bit of marijuana I had and smoke it. However, I hesitated. I hadn't smoked in quite a while and I didn't know if smoking around someone who wasn't smoking would be a good idea.

Instead of smoking, I simply lay down. I wondered if MacDonald had also quit drinking alcohol. I thought I would ask him how he had been able to quit smoking and drinking. I myself had never been able to stop and I was curious about how he had done it. I also had in my mind that MacDonald's father had been an alcoholic, and I wondered how his father's alcoholism had contributed to MacDonald's drinking. 


MacDonald and I were on a bicycle. He was pedaling and I was riding along with him on the same bicycle. He was looking for a place in the country, just outside of Portsmouth, a place where I had never been. We found the place nestled in the hills, rode down a long driveway and ended up near a lake where 30-40 new houses had been built along the shore. The houses were elaborate two-stories. I commented that the place looked like New England (even though I really didn't know what houses in New England looked like).

Some houses were empty. We passed one empty house, then three empty houses in a row. It looked as if nothing were inside those houses. The housing development had seemed impressive at first, but now I was beginning to wonder.

We saw a small one-room building which was empty. MacDonald drove the bicycle right inside the building and stopped. We climbed off the bicycle, parked it, and walked out onto the porch of the building. I finally figured out that MacDonald was interested in buying a house out there and that he wanted to look the place over. When I told MacDonald this place reminded me of a place I had seen in West Portsmouth, he indicated that he had also seen the place in West Portsmouth.

Three or four fellows walked up to us. MacDonald knew a couple of them and he shook their hands. I looked at one fellow and I thought I recognized him. Since I thought perhaps he had worked at the Census Bureau when I had worked there, I asked, "Did you work in the Census Bureau?"

He said no, except for some years in the 1970s. I told him I had worked there in 1979, on Green Street in the west end of Portsmouth. He confirmed that he had also worked there. We shook hands and at the same time we both said, "You can't go back, thank God."

I thought he must have done well for himself since leaving the Census Bureau, if he were living out there in that community. As he turned to leave, he smiled and I noticed that one of his teeth was missing in the back.

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