This is going to be one of those dreams that makes less and less sense as it goes along. You’ve been warned.
* * * * *
I’m in Portland, and I’m hanging out with Justin and Lara, two musician friends who are also from Portland. I’m driving the three of us to see the Dandy Warhols in a little tiny club that is in the upstairs of a weathered three-story house, above a tax place and a living space. I have my huge cello case in the front seat, and Justin and Lara are sitting in the back seat. I park the car outside a nearby house, and we run into a drummer friend (not anyone I know in real life) who lives in the building. We talk for a while, and I ask him, “Is it okay if I bring my cello inside?” He agrees, and I take the cello out of the front seat, put the seat back into its normal position, and shut the car door. DrummerGuy unlocks the front door of the building and leads us upstairs into his apartment.
The apartment is a very clean old three-bedroom place with hardwood floors, a sofa and chair that are olive green and look extremely comfortable, and a large bookshelf filled with books and CD’s and various other things. He shares the apartment with four other people, one of whom is a drummer too, because when we walk in, the door to the bedroom on the right is open, and the light is on, despite the fact that no one is home. A set of drums is clearly visible in the middle of the room. The guy leads us to the left, into his enormous room. His drums are in the middle of the room, and he has about ten little tiny splash cymbals of different sizes. I’ve never seen someone use so many (one or maybe two is what most people use) so I set my cello case down, grab a drum stick and start playing them all to find out what they sound like. He says he’s thinking about selling some of them, and asks if I’m interested in buying one. I say I might be. Lara says she wants to get going, so she and Justin and I say our goodbyes to the drummer and go for a walk through the neighborhood.
The so-called neighborhood is really an insular collection of houses and tiny businesses. [It’s similar to the real-life clump of houses and apartments in southwest Portland that is on the hillside across Interstate 405 from the university, and is only accessible from one street.] We are a bit early for the show, so we step into a record store and look around for a while. I walk to one of the corners of the room, to find that the room actually connects to a larger department store, so I walk through the small door and step into the store.
This appears to be an employees’ entrance or a fire escape route or something, since it puts me into the very back corner of the department store. There are rugs and bath towels, and various home decorations on the shelves. I’m taking a look around at the layout of the store, when someone calls me by my middle name. I turn and see a man in his fifties pushing a sort of homemade wheelchair, which is a large, gray plastic milk crate on wheels. It is stuffed with pillows and blankets, and there is a small, slightly deformed black and white cat who is propped up vertically, reclining on a pillow against the side of the crate. The man gestures toward the cat, to let me know that the cat is the one who had spoken to me. I walk over to where they are.
The cat repeats my middle name and says, “Do you remember me? Andrew Fischer. We were in middle school together. I have Down’s Syndrome.” [For the record, I did know someone by that name when I was in school, but he didn’t have Down’s Syndrome, and he most assuredly was not a talking cat.] I tell him it’s good to meet him, but that I don’t remember him from school, and that to my knowledge, no one in my school had Down’s Syndrome. He seems quite certain that he knows me, though, so I decide to stay. He has a sweetness about him that is apparent from the first moment I meet him. His wheeled crate is large enough for me to sit in, so I climb into it, facing him. His blue cat eyes are extremely large, and one of them is quite misshapen, and looks very different than the other eye. He has mucus dripping from a place on his forehead, and looks a bit grotesque. It seems that movement is quite difficult for him.
He has a very clear speaking voice, and he asks how I’ve been, and what I’ve been up to “since middle school.” He is particularly interested in hearing about my musical endeavors, and when I tell him that I’m with a couple of my musician friends to see the Dandy Warhols, he mistakenly assumes that I am a member of the band, and he gets very excited. I ask how he’s been. I forget his name and call him Ross by accident. He gives me a strange look and says, “It’s Andrew.” “Sorry,” I say uncomfortably, “I know someone named Ross, and it just slipped out.” He smiles and says, “That’s okay.” He starts to become tired, and I look at his caretaker and ask if I should leave. The man doesn’t answer, but I can see that Andrew the cat is becoming very weary from the effort and excitement of a conversation. His eyes are almost closed; poor little guy. I tell him I’d love to have his address, and I reach into my shoulder bag for a pen and notepad. I can’t find them, so I stand up and climb out of the crate. His caretaker asks me something, and I find the notepad. I turn back toward Andrew and say, uncharacteristically loudly, “Okay, buddy, lemme have your address.” He had fallen asleep, and when I spoke so loudly, I startled him awake. I lean in closer and say quietly, “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry to scare you. But I want your address so that we can write to each other.” He smiles slightly, and says, “That’d be really nice,” and then falls back asleep. I turn to his caretaker, with the notebook open and the pen ready.
Lara and Justin return at that moment, and I introduce them to my new friends. We all stand and look at the sleeping cat, and that’s when I wake up.
