Old New York/Chicago

I seem to have somehow met up with Morgan, an old grad school colleague, in Chicago. It's night, and we're crashed out on some futon in a darkened, unused banquet room. Seems like there are others sleeping around us also.

I'm awake, so I get up to go check things out in this building. I come across a very small amphitheatre-type set-up in an area that would normally look like a small store in a mall. The seating is recess in the floor, receding away from the hallway to the stage in the back corner. The set is a simple 3 dimensional backdrop giving the impression of a stone building, as in ancient Roman times. There is an entrance nearest and to the (audience) right of the corner, and to the right of that are names "chiseled" into the "stone" in a (textual) column from far up on the set to about 6-7' above the stage floor. They are simple first names, like "Sue" or "Arthur." It appears that they have just finished a show for the night, and are cleaning up. I see a program lying on a seat, and pick it up and browse through it. The production is "Hamlet, " and seeing the same names in the programs that I saw on the wall, I realize that the names on the set are the first names of the actors in the production. I find this ingenious and tell one of the people working there so.

I go back to tell Morgan he's gotta see this theatre and that they're doing this really cool "Hamlet" there.

The next part is a bit fuzzy. I appear to be in another room, this time with someone I know sitting in a small set in the middle of a room. The set piece is something like what I imagine one might wheel on as Jud's hut for "Old Jud Is Dead" in "Oklahoma!" It has three sides and is about 8'x8' (two platforms). Although this person I know is quite content to sit there, I know that something is wrong with that set. He tells me he had just had a conversation with someone who led him there, sat him down, talked for a while, and left. I step onto the set piece and examine the walls, crevices, and underneath the roof and see some white powder residue. I quickly take my acquaintance by the arm and pull him off the set, and as I do, the set ignites in the back, and in a ring around the front. Had he stayed, he would not have gotten out alive.

I'm on a city street. It still feels a bit like Chicago, but also like "Old New York." A man is showing me a map, and telling me I have to take the 6, 7, 9 train out to a certain stop in Brooklyn, over a certain bridge (I forgot the name). He asks if I understand; I do. So I set off on this train, relaxing in a train compartment much like the 6 person train compartments on the European trains, but again with that early 20th century feel, down to the cloth seats and curtain over the window. I am there with my wife and another friend. My wife is asking me if it's true that I ran guns. She asks this without judgement or fear - more like amusement, as if she were asking me if it's true I like to watch a certain, trash reality show and is surprised and humored that I do. I answer that no, I didn't run guns. I just happened to know someone who had good reason to acquire guns, and I knew someone else who could hook him up. So I introduced the two and let them take it from there.

We arrive in Brooklyn, disembark the train and walk out of the subway tunnel into a field nestled in a heavily wooded area. We really are in Old New York - this part of Brooklyn hasn't even been settled yet. It's beautiful, and we just take it in for a few moments. There is the occasional person coming towards us across the field, making there way to the train. All are dressed in turn-of-the-century clothes. I remember then that I need to find a man by the name of "Bob." There's a guy coming up the path who might very well be the person I'm looking for. He's dressed in brown, workingman's clothes with a cap. He's young with red, curly hair and freckles, and looks every inch the Irish immigrant. He's pointedly not looking at us as he passes, keeping his eyes straight ahead. I say, "Bob," and then again a bit louder as he passes, and he stops and turns. "Bob?" He breaks out into a grin. "Yes - so glad you could make it!" he responds, giving me an enthusiastic hug. We chat about I don't know what, as another mate of his joins us. We're having a lively conversation when two constables walk up and try to cuff us for "disturbing the peace" and perhaps "inciting a riot." This is all very casual and matter-of-factly, not violent at all. In kind, we politely protest, withdrawing our hand so as not to be cuffed, explaining that we're just having a wee little conversation outside the train and will be moving on.

Back in present-day Chicago. I run into an old high school friend, Kryn, who has lived in Chicago since he graduated college. We're back in a beautiful, fancy hotel and seem to have run into each other in the men's room. When we exit, he joins up with his mother and sister, who have no idea who I am, and do not seem interested in talking to the "stranger" Kryn just met, beelining it instead to the bank of elevators. "You really don't recognize me?" I give the address of my father's old office near where the used to live. "Oh!" Kryn's mother says in recognition. "well, hi there." Although she is kind in her response, she and her daughter still seem to be distracted and needing very much to get on an elevator back to their room.