I am on a balcony inside a huge hall. The colors are hues of brown. The floor level which stretches to the horizon is crowded with bearded men wearing brimmed black hats and skull caps walking around, apparently aimlessly.
I leave the balcony and enter a small conference room. Inside there are ten, maybe fifteen bearded men, some old, some middle-aged, also wearing skull caps or hats. They are seated on folding chairs, not in rows. Some have pulled their chairs close to each other and are engaged in conversation. They are apparently discussing who is going to be assigned to me. I notice one man, younger than most, balding, with a friendly smile. I hope it is him, I think.
The friendly man gets up from his chair and comes over to me. We speak but I don’t remember what either of us said. We go to a door, walk out into a huge green grassy area. First, the friendly man says, we are going to work on your golf swing.
I am in a small room that is apparently a staging area with a small group, ten or twenty others. We are all in military style camouflage clothing. There are small packs on the floor and assault rifles. We put on our packs pick up the rifles and head out the door into a tunnel. The tunnel walls, floor and ceiling are a transparent white fabric. We break into a run. I am in the front running effortlessly. Outside the tunnel, but in another interior, we can see others, apparently friendly, doing things. The actions appear to be some sort of manufacturing but is also military. Some are armed.
The tunnel takes a very sharp turn to the left. I am pleased at the turn. Now they won’t be able to shoot into the tunnel and get us from behind, I think.
As we spill out of the tunnel into a warehouse we are met by Che Guevara. This time Che is being played by Duncan Renaldo who was once the Cisco Kid. Che tells us to get ready. The train will be coming shortly. Sure enough when I look through a crack in the metal warehouse wall I see a train coming. The train arrives and we all begin shooting. Armed men jump off the train and shoot at us and charge the warehouse. People are running and shooting all around. I keep firing and firing, frustrated because I’m not hitting anyone. Then I am alone but for one armed man charging me. I shoot him several times. When the bullets hit they cause little puffs of dust. The man falls. I approach and look at his face. It is grey with grey parchment skin peeling, almost like a mummy’s.
In most tug boat dreams the tug leaves the water and climbs through an intricate erector set like structure (or maybe a frame work like a roller coaster’s) that towers above New York Harbor and stretches on into Brooklyn. Or, the tug leaves the harbor and we power through lower Manhattan traffic of both boats and cars. Usually we have some close calls but continue unscathed.
This time the tug stays on the water. I am a deckhand and the captain is a twelve or thirteen year old boy with thick curly brown hair. We are preparing to pick up a large flat decked barge which for some reason is very difficult to handle. Someone from the office is standing on the dock. He is dressed in a suit. I refuse to speak with him. I continue moving lines around making the barge secure to the tug. You’re doing a good job, he says to me.
After a short time underway we enter a huge covered docking area, an interior with calm water. Some ships are in there also, but mostly it is an empty area with wide slips and long, low concrete piers. On one pier a formally dressed singing group, both men and women (like the Manhattan Transfer, only there are more of them) beckons us to come to their pier. We know that is not where we belong and continue on. In a short time we come to another slip. On this dock there is a group of Korean singers dressed in reds and blacks, in clothing cut in the style of Flamenco singers. We know this is where we belong and with a great deal of effort, backing and filling, the captain gets the barge to the dock. The Korean singers and dancers clap their hands, smile and otherwise welcome us joyously.