I’m in a small supermarket. I grab a juice-box of apple juice from a glass refrigerator case. I pop the straw into the juice-box and have a sip. Then I throw the box to the floor and stomp on it, causing apple juice to spray in a wide radius around me. A heavy, middle-aged, African-American woman working at one of the check-out isles clearly sees me doing this. She comes over and angrily asks me why I stomped on the juice-box. Looking her right in the eye, I say, “I did no such thing.” The scene shifts.
I’m in a golf-cart on a rather hilly golf course. I’m on the cement golf-cart path driving toward the next tee. My brother is in the passenger’s seat next to me. There is a cart ahead of us with four elderly men in it. The cart is going terribly slow and I am furious that they won’t go any faster. I bump the back end of their cart with the front end of mine. I hurl epithets at them at the top of my lungs. They are clearly frightened but still unwilling to yield right of way or speed up. My brother tries to calm me but has no effect on my rage.
The dream ends.
