A trip to the doctor's office, drug deals and drones

I dreamed I had to make a doctor's appointment, but I was having difficulty with the details. I was also just a little apprehensive, so I enlisted the help of my friend Emery to hold my hand through the process. 

"I'll be OK if I can just remember the name of my doctor," I told her as we waited in the lobby of a quaint little walk-in clinic. "It starts with a...um. A letter." 

"If that's all you can come up with, we're going to be here a while," she said, making herself comfortable on a futon. 

A solitary lamp in a squarish  lampshade illuminated the tastefully cozy waiting room, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of a 70s psychiatrist's office. The futon was a light wood oil shade of peanut butter teak, with thin black leather cushions and just a hint of Japanese in the smoothly efficient future/retro styling. 

I sat down next to her, and she curled up by my side, resting her head against my shoulder. She yawned and pulled a blanket up to her chin, settling in like a cat on a rainy day.

"Nieswonger...Nietzche...no, that's not it," I continued through the alphabet becoming a little concerned that I may not ever recollect the name of the doctor who I was supposed to be seeing. "Oppenheimer, Paradisio, Persimmons...." I soon gave up and resigned myself to not knowing.

The door opened, and a tallish man with dark hair and a pointy nose stepped through and called my name. He looked like Bob Saget. Yeah, I never would have guessed that one. 

He proceeded to go over my chart with me, recounting my history all the way back to my days in Paradise when I'd first been diagnosed with Type II diabetes. 

"And you're here today, why?" he asked, looking up from his clipboard.

I didn't know the answer to that question, and soon the scene changed. End of segment. 

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Next, I was in a parking lot in a not too distant future version of our dystopian present. Things were basically the same, but there were a lot more drones flying around, spying and prying into everything you did. There were also a lot more people openly carrying guns and shooting down these flying mechanical nuisances, in order to carry out their drug deals in some illusion of relative privacy. 

I was facilitating one such transaction with Carnitas, my old YC Honda co-worker, hoping to make my cut of the profits. $600 for a pound of low grade Mexican grass, out of which I would take $100 for making the connection. 

"Here ya go, Sparky," Carnitas said, cheerfully handing me a wadded up C-note.

"Mind the RFID tags," I warned him. There were electronic trackers in everything. "They don't have much range, but still, it's best to pull them out before you leave the parking lot."

I was admiring the fresh wood paneling on his El Camino. It was even sharper than the original design. Carnitas always did have a talent for restoring classic cars. 

"What else ya gonna do?" he grinned. "I love these old beauties."