Partner in crime

I dreamed I had a girl that I would walk home on an infrequent but semi-regular basis. She was the kind of a girl who would find mischief in just about any situation, so walking down the busy street was a smorgasbord. 

I liked her for her witty banter, the trouble was just a bit of side drama with which I was willing to put up.  She had the most amazing skill of finding someone's weak spot and aggravating it from the tiniest loose thread, until they came completely unraveled.

I saw her as she was leaving her class and hailed her over and we began walking down a long stretch of city street, ripe with trouble. Today we were walking and enjoying our little snide commentaries about all things academic and having a nice time ridiculing other students.

We were walking, talking and sniping when she whips out a semi wet chamois, the kind used to dry cars at a church car wash. Of course, she had no such use for it in mind. Without the slightest hesitation, as if she was making a point about something that needed a little flair, she hurled it at the front windshield of a passing car. 

It struck dead center and splattered its milky opaque moisture all over the window, sending the car careening off to the side of the road. The driver emerged, fuming. He was an older Jewish man, the kind who wore overly thick plastic framed glasses, unflattering polyester pants and perhaps sported a stub of cigar which he didn't need to smoke in order to be annoying with.

We continued walking, acting as if we had nothing to do with it. But as we reached the end of our trip it became clear that he had followed us and was closing in. It seemed that we were bound for justice, and although I was merely an innocent witness to the event, I was guilty by association. 

We found ourselves being interrogated by an equally witty and attractive school counselor. I got the impression that this was her nemesis and that these meetings were pretty regular. We were all discussing my friend's good qualities, such as her aim, and the fact that she could pinpoint a flaw in someone's personality from just the slightest social cue.

After being asked about my part in the event, I simply said, "I'm her friend." 

The female interrogator left us for a moment and the angry old Jewish guy took the opportunity to confront us. He began by calling her on her mischief, saying all manner of mean things about her, which were mostly true, but he didn't have to be so mean about it. 

Then he slapped her multiple times across the face in almost a comedic fashion. Left cheek palm, right cheek backhand over and over, like the three Stooges. I got mad and told him to lay off, but clearly he was exacting the justice she had coming. 

The system, for all of its witty interrogators, would simply categorize her and let her back out into the wild, to presumably engage in more delinquent activity. I was proud to know her, so I stuck around and waited for her to get released so I could walk her the rest of the way home.