I dreamed I was in NYC, in Grand Central Station. It was crowded, and I and all the other people were dressed as if it was the early 20th century, when the station was new. I was running up and down staircases and all over the station, for no apparent reason other than to have fun.
But the fun mood suddenly disappeared when I heard people screaming. I ran in the direction of the screaming, and found an enormous man assaulting people. Before I could do anything, he turned on me and laid me flat on my back with one punch to the jaw. I got up and kept fighting, although I was frightened, and with good reason. This guy was big enough to make me feel small, which very rarely happens, and when it does, it makes me think about my possible effect on other people, and so I try to be extra-polite and gentle around others. He was over 7 feet tall and 500 pounds. At first glance it seemed he was a bit fat, but wherever I punched him, he was rock-solid. I was getting beaten pretty badly, but at least I and a couple of other people were distracting him from hurting other people, so we kept at it, until a bunch of NYPD officers arrived and ended it by shooting him 30 or 40 times, which didn't kill him, but slowed him down enough that he could be tied up with ropes (handcuffs didn't fit around his wrists), and dragged off to a hospital.
Then it was evening, and I and everyone else was wearing ordinary contemporary clothes, and I was hanging out with Dave Foley
and a couple of other celebrities. I've forgotten who the others were. One was a woman, and they were all about Dave's age, which means they were all about my age too, and they were about as commercially successful as he is.
In real life I met Dave Foley once, very briefly, in 1995, as I and a young lady were bar-hopping late at night in downtown Manhattan. I have no reason to believe that Dave Foley recalls meeting me, but in the dream, he knew my name and remembered talking to me and asked whether I and the woman were still together. I told him that the woman and I were never more than friends, and that I had managed to screw up the friendship pretty quickly, too. How had I done that? Dave asked. I told him that I didn't know, but that I had been drunk round-the-clock in those days, and that I suspected that might have had something to do with it.
They were all talking about the big-time show-biz projects they were working on. I felt self-conscious about my lack of success, and so I told a phony story about how I was playing bass in the studio for Dave Wakeling, former leader of the English Beat and General Public.
I made a remark to the woman which was intended to be funny, but she didn't laugh. She seemed very offended.
The others all got up and walked away. I didn't know whether I was welcome to join them or not, so I stayed sitting where I was. The woman had left a big plate of some sort of appetizers, and I was very hungry, so I started eating them. Then I thought: what if they came back right away and saw that I had eaten her food. That would have made it all even more awkward. But they didn't come back.
Later that evening I met Dave Foley again, but not the others. Dave said that he was recording some music and invited me to join in on bass. I admitted to him that I had been lying to try to fit in, and that I had actually never played bass, and had no great ability on any instrument.
The next morning I was wondering around midtown Manhattan, not knowing what I should do to survive and feeling helpless. I was wearing a suit which was new but not very expensive. I walked downtown, and came across a loud and festive Greek wedding reception which had spilled out of a building and onto a street. I stopped and watched, smiling and nodding at the many people in the wedding party who paused to smile and nod at me.
Then suddenly Dave Foley was at my elbow. He waded into the wedding crowd and waved for me to follow him. He came to a table holding mugs of coffee with some sort of topping which looked like whipped cream. Dave took a mug. I took one too, wondering whether Dave was trying to help me by sending me a sort of reach-out-and-take-the-good-things-of-life message.
Dave walked around with me as I continued to prowl the sidewalks aimlessly. He kept trying to offer me employment of some sort or other. Although I needed employment, and would've liked none better than the types Dave was proposing, I felt unworthy, and told Dave so.
"You could be an agent," Dave said. "That requires no talent, and also no hard work."
Then I was wandering around by myself again in midtown, worrying that others could see how cheap my suit was. Then someone put a package into my arms. I opened it up and saw the nicest briefcase I've ever seen, filled with notepads and pens and calendars and such. Paper-based and some electronic gadgets too. All first-rate equipment.
The next day I was living in a very nice West Side apartment somehow, and actors and other performers were visiting me, wanting me to be their agent. Dave had sent me a list of the people who were coming to see me, with gigs each one would be likely to get.
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