[8] An American Dream

Last night I had an amazing dream. I dreamt I was in a bar, an American bar. You know the type. You’ve seen it thousands of times in the movies. Smoke-filled atmosphere; busty hooker peddling her wares; a line of drunks and half-drunks addressing non-existent barmaids; the gang of roughnecks at the pool table, struggling to be heard above the thumping country rock beat from a tired old juke box.

I sat in a corner reading the Wall Street Journal, quietly contemplating the day ahead, when in walked two gun tottin’ cops. Real cops with real guns. A voice cried “Freeze!” Instantly the bar room was enveloped in a deathly hush. The pool players stopped their game, one frozen in a stooped position, ready to take a shot. His gum chewing companion stood with mouth agape, having stopped in mid chew. Even the juke box fell into silent obedience, and the celluloid image was complete.

Everyone froze except me. I strode forward, placed my empty glass noisily on the bar and demanded another scotch. The bartender hesitated momentarily, glancing first at the cops and then at me before relenting. I felt the icy stare of every eye in the bar room as the cold barrel of a .38 Wesson caressed my temple.

“Why did’n y’all freeze when I toad you to boy?” the gun seemed to be speaking as the bartender filled my glass, his hand shaking so much he spilled some of the whisky over my hand. As he moved away I grabbed his arm, indicating that he should leave the bottle.

My defiant gesture brought the spectators to life as they quickly backed away from the bar, one or two bar stools being knocked over in the rush. The bartender left the bottle beside me and retreated to the far end of the bar. Calmly I raised the glass to my lips, swallowed the smooth golden liquid in one swift movement and licked the spilled whisky from my hand. Once again I placed the empty glass on the bar with a thud, wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my jacket and, without looking round replied, “Cos it’s my bloody dream pal.”