Phillip Giuistino gets caught shoplifting, and I become anathema at the survivalist party

 

I dreamed there was a survivalist party going on at the local park. People were setting up camp and "roughing it" for a couple of days, living off the land and forming a makeshift society to ensure that things didn't descend into anarchy. I was responsible for finding dead bees and giving them a proper burial. 

"There you are, soldier," I said to a crumpled bee carcass. "I don't know how we're going to notify your next of kin, since we can't identify your remains."

Samantha rolled her eyes at me. "You're in my spot," she said.

I looked up and down the long row of folding tables, noting that there were many empty spots. I didn't know why she was being so particular, couldn't she see that I was busy? I made a faint protest, but that only escalated things, and soon she was making her case to the superintendent, Bob Hansell, whose face wearied at prospect of sorting out yet another conflict involving me.

"Just give her the spot, Andrew, and let's move on," he said evenly. I grudgingly complied.

Soon, however, there was a more pressing matter to be attended to. The tables had to all be covered before the sprinklers came on. A rapid unrolling of Visqueen ensued, and the gaps where the covers overlapped had to be held down manually to insure that there was no leakage. I pressed down on a section of the plastic, holding two tables together the best I could, but the water was still getting through to the table, damaging the particle board. 

I was aghast. This kind of dereliction of duty could get me kicked out of the collective, and I'd be off foraging on my own. I wandered around the encampment, trying to make myself useful. I caught sight of Bob Hansell and Samantha in a cave, talking in hushed tones. I got close enough to overhear the last bit of their conversation. 

"I heard someone saying that he got mad and blew up at someone earlier," said Bob. "And you know what that means," he added ominously.

I just knew that the were talking about me, so I got on my ten-speed and pedaled away from the park, into the sprawling interchange of freeways, bike paths and city streets of Pico Rivera. I didn't know where I was headed exactly. I had a vague idea about visiting some friends in LA, but I hadn't ever traveled there by bicycle before. I was confused by all the different lanes and signs pointing toward various onramps, all promising to deliver you to some far-off destination.

I kept to the surface streets, and soon I encountered Richard Leon, my friend from the cult. He was walking with his ex-wife, Gloria and with his brother RJ. I almost crashed my bike trying to stop and circle around to greet them.

"Hey, guys!" I said excitedly. "Long time, no see. Gloria, geez! How long has it been?"

They acted as if they couldn't see or hear me. Dejected, I turned back in the direction I'd been headed, towards an industrial part of LA. I rode for what seemed like hours, through parking lots, over bridges, through dangerous neighborhoods, and eventually I found myself in front of a dingy warehouse office. 

I could hear voices inside. It was Richard, Gloria and RJ again. I'd had no idea that this was their office, but given their chilly reception earlier, I hastened to get out of there before I was seen. Unfortunately, I bumped the door with my handlebars as I tried to make my getaway, and the whole troupe came tumbling out of the doorway.

"Hey, Andrew!" Richard said enthusiastically. "Look, guys. Look who it is! Come on in, my brother." We all called one another brother, a token remnant of our Bible study-speak. 

"I can't stay," I said, "Besides, I didn't think you wanted me around, you know, because of earlier."

He didn't offer any explanation, but he looked a little sad that I was leaving. Oh, well, I thought. It was for the best. I was persona non grata at the camp, why should I tarnish their reputation by association?

Off I pedaled, into a more sedate, suburban section of the city, where I met up with another old associate, Phillip Giuistino, a schoolmate from the fourth grade. He hadn't aged much, and he still looked about 11 years old. He carried himself in much the same manner as before as well, bounding around like a stuntman and exuding excess energy.

"We're going to need some stuff," he told me as we walked into a convenience store on the corner of an aging strip mall.

I watched as Phillip engaged the shopkeeper while at the same time placing items in his backpack. He thought he was being clever, but the shopkeeper was onto him.

"Put all of that stuff back," he said, "or I'll have you arrested." Phillip complied, and we stepped outside the store momentarily, but he wasn't done yet.

"Hold my backpack," he said, and he went back inside, leaving me at the door.

He had another, smaller backpack, and this time, he just went for a quick fill up, trying to avoid being seen by the shopkeeper. It was unsuccessful, and the proprietor spotted him right as he was walking out. I tried to warn him:

"Phillip!" I yelled. "RUN!" I considered my words, and I realized that the shopkeeper might think me an accessory, so I added, "Or don't run. Definitely, don't run. Put back the candy first, then run, maybe." I honestly hadn't known that he had planned any of this, I kept telling myself.

But it was too late. The shop owner grabbed him by the scruff like the little hoodlum he was. He tried to wriggle free, but the man held him firmly aloft, his little feet dangling in midair like a wayward kitten being collected by his mom.

"So, what have we here?" The shopkeeper was eyeing the bright orange backpack that Phillip had left with me. 

He demanded that I open it, and I was frightened as to what I might find. If it was anything stolen, I'd surely be going away with Phillip in the back of a squad car. But when I opened the bag, all it contained was a plastic sack full of wild bird seed. 

"Someone's been feeding the ducks in the park," the shopkeeper said, sounding almost accusatory. "Well, on your way, then," he said to me.

While Phillip remained in his custody, awaiting his fate with the police, I thought about returning to the camp. Possibly, with this wild bird seed, I could barter my way back into their good graces. The bird seed was used to lure the ducks close enough to capture, so that the scavenging, park-dwelling survivalist groups could feed their hungry members. Perhaps today, the ducks would be feeding someone, and not the other way around.

----

I awoke soon, and the dream had left me feeling like this.