...in my dream.
Last night, I dreamed I was walking in the neighborhood when I encountered a kid of about 10, who in the dream was supposed to be one of the neighborhood boys, who says to me, "Let's go see B'rackObama."
"Where is he?" I ask.
"Down the street, over there."
So I follow the kid, and sure enough, there is the President, with several Secret Service guys, conversing with some neighbors on a street corner.
"B'rackObama," says the little boy, "Come to my house for dinner tonight!"
Mr. Obama smiles, shrugs, and says, "Okay. I'll come! Where do you live?"
The kid recites his address and a Secret Service dude writes it down.
We go back to the kid's house. "B'rackObama is coming for supper," he tells his mother.
"Oh, right!" is her reply.
"Really," he says.
"Really," I say.
The mother, thinking I am humoring her son, decides to play along. She doesn't take the game so far as to go to the grocery store, but using whatever is already on hand, she cooks the best meal she can scrounge up. I help her.
Six o'clock, the doorbell rings.
"There he is," says the kid.
I can see the tall, dark form through the glass in the door. It really is Barack Obama, with his entourage. I go with the kid to answer the door, the mother bringing up the rear. Just to tease her, to prolong her uncertainty another moment, I say to the President, "Sir, you ought to go on television and do impersonations of Barack Obama; you look just like him!"
"Yeah, it's a pretty good resemblance, isn't it?" he laughs.
He comes in and there's a lot of handshaking.
I leave (not having been invited to stay for the meal), wondering, on my way home, whether it would be a good idea for me to invite him to my house for dinner sometime.
Then Demetrios touches my shoulder and the dream melts away as daylight and reality outshine it.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
...in my dream.