Thursday, November 25, 2004

Dreamblog, pt. 1

On a trip with Shaun, Adrian, Jarrod, and Doug D, on our bikes. Our bikes are all old—the brakes don’t work very well and they’re all colored brown and tan and bland. We ride past a general store and stop to pick up some supplies for our trip. The shopkeeper is an old man, and while we’re in the store he’s talking about how he hates Jews. The others walk out, ignoring him with their heads down. I stay, arguing with him. I keep starting to leave, but the old man says something else that winds me up. I tell him, “You people want the Old South back, but you can’t have it. The Old South is dead, no one wants it anymore.”

I’m holding up a dustpan and waving it at him, thinking about hitting him with it. The old man holds up a piece of pipe and tells me it costs $1.37. If I want to wave something in his face, I should buy it and he’ll know I’m serious, that I’m a man. I leave the store and get on my bike and catch up with the others.

We ride down a paved road through the woods, passing Josh Kramer’s house. Doug D asks if we’ve ever seen the inside, because it’s really nice. Shaun said he’s seen it; Doug D asks if it was when Shaun was there at a sleepover with Jarrod and Shaun says yes. I’ve seen the inside too, at a sleepover with Jarrod, but no one asks me.

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