In the dream, I was rounding the shoulder of a hill close to my house — a side-street shortcut between tree-choked residential lots — when Law Enforcement, in the form of one man in a subfusc uniform, halted my little Fit putter-car and commandeered the wheel, citing some sort of incomprehensible violation that I could not grasp having committed but felt unable to contest.
He was the spit image of George Dubya Bush.
Look, he said, pointing up the quickly darkening hill to the creepy figure of a man taking a guerilla piss at the side of the road — the contraband stream glowing in the reflective lime color of safety vests and road signs. Evil people are moving in the county and we have to mount a resistance. As he drove my car through the twilight streets, other men could be seen, their forms shot with darts of the same luminous limelight color. I wondered who was more dangerous, the past-presidential vigilante who had seized the wheel of my car or the murky, phantasmic pishers he was claiming to defend against.
The dark guys in dreams are no joke. At least in our slumbering brains, there are entities who wish us ill and act with all the energy of the primal and inchoate.
But Dubya. That was just unfair. You always felt it was practically unkind to point out to the poor bastard what a dumb fuck he was, but if he’s driving your car? in a critical situation?
I hate dreams like this.