In my father's house...and auto dealership

I had a dream in which I was working at my dad's Honda dealership and living in his mansion. It was one of those tentative, tenuous situations, and I was not at ease with the arrangement. I was constantly under his scrutiny, and my stay was conditional and performance based. Excel at work, or you'll be fired. Keep your room spotless, or you'll be out.

Driving home one afternoon in an Odyssey mini-van, he confided in me that one of his friends had a vehicle with a door lock that was acting up.

"It's just that when you press the button, the door won't unlock," he said, taking a drag from his cigarette.

I had a series of questions lined up to try to determine the nature of the problem, but he skirted my troubleshooting process and cut to the chase:

"One of my techs already replaced the actuator," he said, expecting that I would be as stumped as he was. Door lock actuators are the obvious culprit.

"OK," I said, then I took another tack. "But does the door unlock from the inside button?" 

"I don't know," he said, and he kept on driving, flicking his cigarette ash out the window. "We never tried that."

"I'd have to look at it," I told him. "But there is a chance that your tech didn't hook up one of the rods, and maybe the door actually is unlocking, but the little plunger just won't pop up."

He tried my suggestion right then while we were driving, since apparently, we were driving his friend's car as we spoke. The door was unlocking, but the little plunger stayed down. He quickly slammed the door, and we continued driving toward home.

"You will get to keep your job a little longer if you can get the plunger working again," he said.

I took that as a win, since I was pretty confident that I'd be able to figure it out. Effects have a tendency to have causes, so I was just going to take things logically, one step at a time.

Back at the mansion, he was setting up for a pickle ball game with his friend. I didn't know who this guy was, but he seemed to shadow my Dad like a stalkery boyfriend. He kind of creeped me out, and he had this habit of standing way too close and leaning in even further when he spoke. I busied myself finding a suitable racquet.

"I left my racquet at the country club," I said to an indifferent audience of two. Tough room, I thought to myself, and I kept sorting through some of the loaners my dad had in the closet. 

None of the racquets seemed to be the right size, and some were completely wrong for the application. Racquet ball, pickle ball, squash -- who knew there were so many different types of racquets? I finally settled on one that looked exactly like the one I used to use in the '90s, when Sharon and I had briefly joined a health club. It was a smallish, blue composite with the typical faux leather wrapped handle.

"This one will do," I said. But they had already left, so I put the racquet back and went looking around the house to see what I could see.

It was an interesting place. He lived in the top floor of an older apartment building. The outside wasn't in the best shape, so I was surprised to find that the inside looked like a millionaire's lair. It was filled with antique furniture from the Victorian era, and the rooms all had high vaulted ceilings with fancy moldings and expensive looking chandeliers. 

It must have been designed for a giant, though, because some of the dressers were 12 feet tall at least. I opened a door and found myself on top of one of these ridiculously tall dressers. It swayed a little bit, so I assumed I'd better not continue walking on it.

"That's OK," my dad said, startling me as he addressed me from somewhere behind me. "It's secure enough in its corner there." I wasn't convinced, so I stepped back into the hallway.

"I have to find a place to put my bike," I said. "Perhaps I can put it out on the balcony if it is private?"

He told me that it was indeed private, and that they owned the entire floor of the building, but the neighborhood wasn't the best, and so it might not be safe from a highly motivated thief. I decided not to risk it, and thought about bringing it into my room with me, but there was beach sand on the tires.

"Just leave it in here," said my dad's ever-present mystery friend, stepping uncomfortably close again and talking directly into my nose, his pelvis brushing against mine in the process.

I took a step back, thanked him for his advice and left the bike in the hallway, sandy tires and all. I wondered just how long it would take to get myself kicked out of this living arrangement. I was sure points were being taken off for not warming up to his friend's not so subtle advances. I don't know what kind of a deal he had going with my dad, but I got the impression that if push came to shove, I'd be the one who had to go.