Dream

Posted on March 31, 2006 in Dreams

My father and I catch a trout. Having no other way to carry it, we sling it outside the window of his Mercedes. We wind our way through city streets — he doesn’t know the way. At one point, we wait unnecessarily in front of railroad tracks. A small road grader comes at us from the left. My father points out a gigantic yellow locomotive (of the European electric style) and says “You were right. It is American.”

The trout starts to come apart, to hang open. Dad drives past the freeway entrance into the inner city. I spy a flower vendor and get out while Dad tries to find a way to circle back. I suspect he doesn’t know his way in the world.

The vendor has large, disheveled stacks of paper bags behind his stand. Up front, the man has more bags, mostly paper, some plastic. I ask to buy two plastic bags.

“What do you need them for?” he asks.

“For a trout my father and I caught,” I say.

“How much do you want to pay?”

I offer him fifty cents. He takes seventy five. I wonder if I will see my father and the trout ever again.

Throughout the entire dream, my father and I wear well-pressed gray suits.