Lucid Dreams

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I don't often remember my dreams, but when I do, the dream usually involves Natalie Portman and a 200 gallon tub of Cool Whip. Besides that one, my dreams are just the typical recurring ones, such as :

  • Sleeping through a college final exam.
  • Falling from a tall building and waking just before I hit the ground.
  • Eating 47 Rodeo hotdogs in 10 minutes to win the Guinness World Record.

Last night was different. Last night I had a strange dream about my friend who had a drug deal gone bad. It was one of those dreams that was so realistic, so lucid, that I thought it had really happened even 5 minutes after I woke up.

Let me try to set the scene for you. We were present age (in our late twenties), but in Norman. This isn't at all unlikely, we go to Norman all the time. And let's face it, Norman must be the drug capital of central Oklahoma. It was summertime, everyone was off school, and nobody seemed to have jobs.

I was sitting at home (or at someone's home) on the couch, hand down the front of my pants, watching reruns of Saved by the Bell. My friend came charging in the house and he's furious. My first thought was that he found out I was the one that drank his last beer, but not the case. He started telling me the story of how he was going to buy some weed and the dealer just took his money told him to hit the road. He wasn't the kind of guy to just back down, but the guns pointed at him caused him to think differently.

Well my friend wasn't going to stand for these circumstances. He formulated a plan to make the deal right. Somehow he knew where the dealer lived, so he was going to go to that apartment, break in, and take the drugs when they weren't there.

The time had come, and I decided I would go along, because otherwise the dream would probably have been quite dull (pretend you're seeing a FamilyGuy-style interlude with me typing away at the keyboard while my friend is out risking life and limb).

We got to the apartment, and with my James Bond -esque lockpicking set we were in in a matter of seconds. I kind of wish it had been one of those high tech digital locks like the ones you see on doors to secret hideouts in the movies. You know, the ones that do whatever would be most beneficial to the protagonist whenever he shoots them with a gun. Want the door to lock behind you ? Shoot the control panel. Want the door to open ? Shoot the control panel !

Anyway, we got in, he got the smoke, and we were ready to make our escape. Then unexpectedly, my friend planted a bomb in the apartment and ran off, down the stairs, with me therefore running straight behind. I think he might have had on one of those goofy T-shirts that says "I'm a bomb technician. If you see me running, try to keep up."

He made a flying leap into the apartment pool just a couple hundred feet away, while I still stood there, poolside, and just turned around to see the apartment building explode.

I couldn't believe he took it to that level. What if there were innocent people in the building ? What if small children, dogs, or some crack whores were injured in the blast ?

There was no time to fret about it, we had to get out of there before the cops arrived. By my estimate, we had less than 25 minutes until the cops could be coaxed into putting down the Krispy Kremes and be on the scene.

Next I remember, we were sitting outside a Quizno's, leisurely drinking a couple glasses of iced tea, and watching the firetrucks scream past. It was reminiscent of that Pulp Fiction scene were Jules and Vincent were discussing their career paths in the diner, except nobody had a really cool wallet.

I think the remorse of the situation finally caused me to awaken. Either that, or I really had to pee.

By the way, my friend featured in this story wasn't one of those faceless generic dream people. It was really one of my friends. And if you ask, I'll probably just say it was you.

2 Comments

What if I guess it was terry?

nah, i'm a pacifist. had to be dave. the only reason it sounds like me is because that pretty much happened to me - just reverse style.