The Randy Situation and my melanoma, streaking and a dine and dash

 

This dream started nowhere and wound up nowhere. While still dreaming, I tried to recount it to David and Sharon, but in both instances, I was interrupted before I could get anywhere close to finishing. 

I was living in a roommate situation with Randy Mitchell, Jeanette Antoine and some other people. None of us had our own room, and all of us had to share couches. I shared a couch with Jeanette, but it was strictly a feet to feet arrangement. I had to try to explain that to Sharon, who wasn't thrilled about the arrangement, dream or no dream.

Randy was being his usual loud, drunken self and was becoming quite the unwelcome guest. I guess he'd been doing some handyman things around the house, and he just became kind of a permanent fixture. His constant stream of crude remarks toward the ladies was starting to piss me off, so I told him in no uncertain terms that it was time for him to go.

"I think it's time for you to step on, brother," I said from my supine position on the couch.

He stared at me blankly. My statement hadn't registered in his primitive brain.

"It. Is. Time. For. You. To. Step. On. Brother," I repeated the words singly and with emphasis, so that they would sink in.

His eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. I could see his neck veins start to bulge. Typical bull behavior. This was why he had to go. He leaped over the table and towered over me as I lay there on the couch. 

I looked up, expecting a rain of blows, but to my surprise, it was Michael Cardenas who delivered the punch from behind. He drew back like he was going to wallop me, but pulled back at the last second and gave me an exploding fist bump to the chin, like something you'd do to an old friend who you were teasing or telling to "buck up, old chum." I still wanted to get Randy out there, but Carnitas had diffused the situation for the time being. 

The Randy situation had me rattled, and it was having a deleterious effect on my health. I looked over my body, and all these new melanomas were popping up. I tore my shirt at the neck to get a look at my shoulder, and there was a huge spot that had grown larger and was beginning to ooze a dark brown fluid. I decided I had better get out of that toxic environment right then and there.

I left the house to go for a jog. At that point, I noticed that I was naked as a jaybird, carrying only a rolled up bath towel. I thought about stopping to wrap the towel around my waist, but I saw that some other joggers were also naked, so I just tried blend in. Streaking was making a comeback, I guess, since no one was making much of a fuss about it.

After a bit, I managed to fashion some rather crude clothing out of the bath towel and an old gray sweatshirt that I'd procured from some homeless person's belongings. Then I went inside the local diner and sat down to breakfast with David Chanh. I was trying to recount my dream to him, but I kept getting interrupted by the formalities of the dining experience.

"Can I get you boys anything else?" the waitress asked with a smile, after we'd cleaned our plates of the last remnants of breakfast.

"Just the check," David replied, winking at me.

He made a gesture to me that said, "We're getting out of here. Now!" and we left without paying. I had on some makeshift shoes, made from rags, that were binding up on my feet. I had to stop and cut them off with a pair of scissors, which slowed our getaway considerably and garnered a few snickers from the other diners.

Ding. Ding. My text dingy awakened me for the second time, and things wrapped up quickly after that. The closing credits for Pulp Fiction were playing to the sound of surf music.