This dream took place in my old stomping-ground of NYC, though in the most impossibly quiet, lowest traffic part of Manhattan I’ve ever seen- devoid of cars, wrapped in fog, and teeming with helmeted police and murmuring crowds. Seemed to be a fairly upscale neighborhood, but there were next to no streetlights, and my apartment (rather high up in what seemed to be the largest building on the block) was curiously quiet.
It all started when I went shopping, in a dusty backroom on the outskirts of Manhattan somewhere; they were selling military and police surplus, but I got the idea that it wasn’t on the up-and-up as I had to make an appointment one shockingly bright afternoon to browse the place, and the location was a rather gritty, anonymous old factory. There were no shelves, but I recall piles of various police riot shields lying in corners on the floor, and something they kept referring to as stingers, I believe. Now, these weren’t missiles, but apparently cute lil’ remote-control bombs or something. I was more fascinated with the RC aspect, and bought them all. Then I went home.
My girlfriend in this dream had longish blonde hair and a face that never quite coalesced into somebody recognizable. That’s no surprise to me; I seldom know anybody in my dreams (and it’s usually quite a shock when I do). Suffice it to say she was anonymously blonde and sort of nondescript.
She was not happy with my purchases, and left the apartment immediately, which irked me on some level. So I sat around the apartment, out on the north-west facing balcony, until the sun began to set and the foot-traffic below picked up somewhat. The car traffic never seemed to, however; I don’t recall ever actually seeing a car on my street the entire time I was there. Meanwhile, the sidewalks were turning into those from Blade Runner (though with fewer robotic animals, I suspect)- it was pretty packed, though not particularly loud. The police, whom I had gotten the idea were looking for me, were carrying big, blocky halogen flashlights- probably not as good at crowd control, but I’m sure you could do some damage if you swung hard enough at a perp’s head. The streetlights never came on, but the beams of these flashlights, as well as a few restaurants’ and stores’ lights, cast enough light onto the sidewalks to enable the milling, dense crowds.
As irritated as I was by my anonymous girlfriend’s storming exit, I was bored. And kind of lonely, as I recall. I decided I was going down there. I was hungry. I wasn’t no glass figurine. I had stuff to do, goddamnit. So I grabbed one of my stingers (one that was apparently intelligent enough to serve as a pet) and set off.
I got a vast amount of Italian carry-out- I remember calzones, and pasta, and lasagna. I figured it would be a nice surprise for when my girfriend returned. But as it got darker and darker, and the crowds began to thin then dissipate on the streets below, I began to realize that she wasn’t. I had no idea where she was, and didn’t seem to have a phone or other means of reaching her. I ended up eating the entire order myself, in the silence of an underpopulated apartment block.
I did this again later. I seemed to recall that she was acting in a play or something, and there was some sort of vague idea that one of her costars was too friendly toward her. I got more food, and again she didn’t show.
The next thing I remember, it’s early morning, perhaps 2, 2:30. The sidewalks are empty and there is fog wafting through the streets, shrouding large, fading advertisements of mystery films painted on the sides of brick buildings, intermittently illuminated by the flashlight beams of passing beat-cops. It’s all very Dark-City-meets-Raymond-Chandler.The lights of my apartment are on, but they seem to be the only lightsource on the block aside from the police halogens.
My girlfriend reappears, in jeans and some kind of tshirt. She comes in and grabs some of the leftover Italian, and we talk. About what, you ask? Who the hell knows; I certainly don’t remember (maybe that’s what she’s upset with me about to begin with). After awhile, she goes to bed; I grab a peculiar aluminum bottle of some kind of sickly-sweet deep green soda that tastes a little like watermelon Jolly Ranchers, and head out into the fog and cool dark, past looming, painted actors and actresses engaged in various heinous, stylized activities under their cloches and fedoras.
Here’s where I become more and more convinced that I am involved in more than just some kind of relationship drama, some kind of police-blotter B-story. The police are pretty thin on the ground, but have radios, naturally, and I know that, for whatever reason I’m out and about, I have to steer clear of them. Even more so considering I’m apparently the only other person on the street not dressed like an old-timey copper and wielding a giant halogen flashlight.
I seemed to have been attempting to meet up with one of the people whose ‘market’ I shopped at earlier (though, honestly, I can’t even remember whether this happened the previous afternoon, or a few days ago). I haven’t seen anybody use a phone, and I’m not sure they exist in the Manhattan I live in, though that didn’t occur to me till I woke up IRL. I’m still clutching the stinger of course; this one has a toy-robot-type face, and I’ve adopted it as a pet, like I said. I’m pretty confident I would get thrown in jail for having it, so it’s even more crucial (I’m guessing) that I reach this guy’s house undetected by detectives.
I walk down into what appears to be a combination structure of sorts; there are columns like those in a storm-drain overflow tank, but there also seem to be stores lining the edges like a strip mall. I can see a strip of starry sky running down the middle, and at the other end I can see the backside of my contact’s building, a crumbling brownstone sheathed in warped iron fire-escapes and electric meters, with several bikes chained to the railings of the back stoop. It’s also brilliantly illuminated by a porch-light above the back door, unlike every other building I’ve passed on my trek.
Then I’m caught by the beams of several flashlights. The cops move out from behind the columns that shielded them, their lights, apparently halogen, but with a brilliant amber glow, leveled at me. I can’t see very much. I clutch the stinger to my chest tightly.
And then I woke up.
