Borderline

Last night I dreamt that I was in a hilly urban area. Big city, not a particularly posh part of town. It had a bit of a Latino feel to it, but may have been California. I was in a car--a big '50s or early '60s sedan, light pool green, lap belts, no headrests--with my daughter and another female (I don't know who she was, I don't recall whether she was young or old, but I had the sense that she was important), and the hired driver who was taking us to meet my wife somewhere.

But we weren't going straight there. Somehow, it had been arranged that en route to meeting my wife, the car was going to stop by Madonna's gated residence, where I was to quickly substitute for a gigolo who was scheduled to meet with and, er, service Ms. Ciccone-(probably hasn't changed her license back yet)Ritchie.

So we pulled up to the residence, the driver agreed--according to plan--to take a few laps around the block then return shortly, and I crossed the sidewalk to the entrance, leaving my daughter and the other female behind. Arriving at the gate, I found the security keypad, and in the dimming light of dusk, noticed that the buttons 2, 8 and 0 were more worn than were the others. I tried them in a few different combinations until I heard a ring through the speaker. The line connected, and at the other end, Madonna said, "Hello?" "Hi, I'm...here for you." "Oh good. Come on in and let's go for it." [buzz, click]

Immediately, almost with a whiplash, my mind raced and heart pounded. Not at the moral crisis of principles...covenants vs. the possibility of being with the woman who defined and continually redefined female sexuality for at least one generation, but at the logistical dilemma of how to buy time and hide the deed from my daughter, the other female in the car, and my wife.

After just a few moments, I left the gate ajar and ran back to the street. There was no car when I arrived, but after just a few seconds it appeared over the crest of a hill to my left (which had a sunsetting sky behind it, but I had the sense that I was looking to the east, while it was darkening to the west, and yet it was definitely late evening), speeding down the road toward me and, registering more silhouetted heads in it than jived with the three who had been in it when I saw it last, I knew something was wrong. The car skidded to a stop in front of me. When the interior lights flashed on, I saw several men, maybe half a dozen of them, all dressed in black, looking through the windows at me and holding pistols to the heads of my daughter and the other female.

The end.