Dream: Lost on Amimi Street

Dream 20040629, 2:20 AM:
I am talking to a man about a bar tab; apparently, I wrote a check for it, having put it on my credit card on his behalf. He didn’t realize how big it was; it was a large number, something like $469. I’m trying to get him to repay me, showing him my canceled check and a receipt; he looks at the check, and seems astounded that I wrote a check mid-week. He keeps talking about it, and says, “And you wrote a business check.” I tell him it was a personal check, it was from my own account. He can’t pay me back yet, or something like that; I have to wait.

I am talking to Chris, and I ask him if I can borrow money to put in my account until payday to cover for that check, because I don’t have enough with the guy not paying me back. He writes me a check, and I take it, and he walks away; afterwards I realize that he’s written it for the whole amount of the tab, and I only need a much smaller amount to get through; I follow after him, trying to explain. He’s walked through a set of paths in a dark area, I see them crossing and recrossing, almost as if I’m looking at a map view. I sit in a tree behind where he’s sitting on the ground, and try explaining it to him; he’s annoyed with me for following him, and I walk off.

The area I’m walking through is dark, and I’m frightened of it. I walk past a bunch of bushes, thinking that I’m glad that they’re too short to effectively hide someone. There’s a set of taller bushes, and a voice from the bushes calls out something like “Watch it, son” – but it’s clearly the voice of a little kid, and I’m not afraid of it.

I remember something about Ron T., saying that the only way he parks in this neighborhood, is to drive into and out of the brightly lit parking lot. There’s something to do with old teachers, but I don’t remember the details. I go into the parking lot where my car is, but it’s very dark now. There’s a black janitor walking across the lot; I call to him, his name is George, he’s someone I know. He’s carrying a pair of long-handled shrub loppers. I ask if he’s on duty, and ask him to walk me to my car. There are several people sitting and talking on the dumpster in the parking lot corner; I feel like they would attack me if I weren’t walking with George. He seems nonplussed, but walks with me to my car; although I think that it’s Chris’s car (in the dream it’s mine, but it’s his gray Ford Focus instead of my red Escort). I get in – the door was unlocked, which momentarily concerns me, although it seems everything is fine.

I realize that I’m lost, or at least, that I don’t know how to get home from where I am. I drive down the back driveway, which is grown up with grass, and find myself on semi-country roads. Everything seems very green, and almost Appalachian, but at the same time junked up with trash, and the road signs are all rusty and old. I take a few random turns, trying to figure out where I’m going, and without a noticeable transition, I’m driving the 1964 Ford Fairlane that I learned to drive in. I turn down several streets, and they get smaller and more crowded with debris. I end up in an alleyway which is blocked by large boxes and other junk; I remember something big with springs, like a mattress. The car is lodged, and I have to get out and walk. I see a couple of people get out of boxes or little buildings, and think to myself that I should be concerned, but I’m not as scared of them as I was the guys sitting on the dumpster, because these people are white like me, while the dumpster-sitting guys were black. I realize, in the dream, that it’s childish to think that way, but I don’t feel as threatened.

I keep walking down the alley, and see a crazy-looking man and woman walking along, talking. They are tending to a yard; I realize that they’re taking care of a neighbor’s house who is away. The house and yard are exquisitely maintained. The yard is huge, and full of lush growth; I remember morning glories sprawling over things, and a landscaped area that looks like mountains and canyons, although it’s just careful piles of earth. I talk to them, explaining that I’m supposed to be a long way north up in North Dallas, and the man starts explaining that I need to walk up and take the next maximus (he seems to be referring to a large road). I tell him that my car is stuck back there in the last – maximus? pointing to the alley behind us – he says that no, that’s a minimus – the maximus is a big road. I walk across the yard, although it seems that I’m pulling myself sideways along the fence with my hands. There is a large fence cage with big dogs in it; I turn my head to the two people and ask if the dogs are friendly, but as I do, one of them escapes the cage and licks my hand nicely, and I’m relieved. The other dog doesn’t seem as sweet, but it stays in the cage. I have to crawl along the edge of the cage, but the dog stays in the middle. The man is telling me that I should save my energy, as I’m walking over the little mountain area. It feels hollow beneath, and I think that there must be part of the house under there. It’s brown soil, but it almost feels like it’s glued over a form, rather than being a real pile of earth. I get to the front of the house, and am about to walk down the street, when a car pulls up; it looks European, light granite colored, boxy like a Saab or something, and has a faux stone trim panel that matches the house painted down one side. The people get out, and the man of the house asks how they can help me. He makes a phone call, talking to someone in Maintenance, and telling him that they’re at eighty-one eighty-one Amimi – he spells the street name, and it has a pretty rhythm, “ay-em-eye-em-eye.” I look up at a street sign, and see that the cross street is Old Masters; I realize that a board member from the organization I work for has a house on this street, and I start to ask the man if he knows him. Then, I’m sitting in the back seat of their car; they’re going to take me home. There is a small dog, like a long-haired chihuahua, and a girl. The dog is sitting on the back dash, and the girl and I are in the back seat. I look at the dog, and ask if it’s a sweet dog. It quite clearly says, “Mmm… no.” I say that it’s a shame, because if it was a sweet dog, I would pet it. The dog raises its eyebrows, comical like Sir Didymus in Labyrinth, and says, “REALLY?” The dog leans over to the girl, asking “If we (whisper, whisper)” – I can tell that he’s trying to negotiate a situation where it would be OK to be a sweet dog for a little bit, in order to get petted; I think he’s trying to talk the girl into offering him a biscuit or something, because then it would be OK to be sweet. *end*