Funrerals and feuding

 

It's been a while since I've had any dreams that I can remember. They have been less frequent and short on details and plot, so I've been reluctant to write them down. But I'll give it a whirl, since last night's dream left me with a bit of a strange feeling.

The last thing I remember, I was sitting on a pew in an outdoor church setting. It was a funeral for a young Vietnamese girl who had died tragically. There was an ongoing feud between several families, and she'd gotten caught in the crossfire. David Chanh and Houa Vang were there, as I recall, sitting atop the seatback portion of the pew with feet dangled down. I joined them, perching myself in the same unlikely fashion.

I was going to be asked to speak, since it was traditional for guests to say a few words. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I tried to keep a low profile, though it was kind of difficult since, as the only white person there, I stood out like a stork in a lineup of sparrows. I'd been on the run and had only stopped in at the funeral to ask a question of Manny Salazar, who I'd heard would be in attendance. 

Before the funeral, I'd been evading some workplace strife related to warranty procedures and unfair job distribution. I was in an unpopular camp and was going to be targeted for some form of retribution by my co-workers. I took my leave of the workplace through a secret exit in the back of a Victorian clothing closet, which somehow didn't seem out of place at all in a modern Honda dealership.

After emerging from the magical portal, I found myself at a coat and tails cocktail hour in the stuffy atmosphere of a ritzy social club. It was the kind of polished brass and mahogany atmosphere suited best for English chaps in their late 60s with monocles and top hats. I wasn't dressed for the occasion, and I felt like a time traveler who was certain to be discovered by any observant partygoer in attendance.

The phone rang, and it was for me. A butler arrived with a tray containing an ancient telephone and handed me the handpiece. I answered it and was shocked at the voice on the other end. It was a guy named Pete, who I knew to be a gangster and also a friend of Manny Salazar. 

"Do you still need that pistola?" he asked me.

"I--uh, let me see..." I was stalling. I made like I was rummaging through some papers in order to buy some time. I didn't have an answer for him, so I told him I'd have to ask Manny, and perhaps I could call him back. "I just need five minutes. I'll get right back to you."

I left the social club and stepped out into the outdoor funeral, already in progress. Manny wasn't there after all, and I didn't relish calling Pete back, but I felt like I might be needing that gun after all. I woke up soon thereafter with an unresolved feeling of unease.