On Friday, May 28, 2010, around 9:30-10:30 AM, I dreamed I was at home, looking out the back window, by the kitchen table, with my mother. We were irritatedly talking about people getting in the backyard. It was probably late in the day, getting toward evening. We saw some kids going along the top of the fence, but then it seemed like it was the concrete fence across the alley, not the wooden fence we have. Then a woman was out there and took the kids, slowly, to the backyard of a house a little to the west and across the alley from us. She was talking to them, pleasantly it seemed. Then she got a call in the house, which someone there evidently transferred to her cellphone, and she was saying something like, "Is that the spammers again? I have to take this." As she got back to the house, talking and listening on her cellphone, she turned and looked back at me. I somewhat grimly waved at her, and she waved back.
It got dark. My mother was worried about someone getting in the yard. I went out and looked around a bit. Things were not exactly as in real life. I think the two male mulberry trees were still there, and there were a few things sitting around, on the porch and in the yard, that aren't there in real life. I located a pickaxe, but I think it was mostly the head, I think the wooden handle was mostly rotted away. I picked it up and may have carried it to some place on the porch. We also had a dog we don't have in real life, a medium-to-large size one, as well as at least one small one that may or may not have been similar to ones we have or have had.
I went back inside and told my mother that I didn't see anyone, and told her about the pickaxe, which could be used as a weapon by us. Things were taking on an increasingly chilled, ominous feeling, like something was going to happen. It seemed important that we leave a message about the pickaxe, and send a message about it to some other people, in case they needed to get one, and so they would know about it, and so there would be a record of it if something happened to us. My mother had put something on the refrigerator, held by a magnet, a kind of violet strip of old thin construction paper, with straight lines drawn on it dividing it into boxes. I was talking back and forth to my mother about the measurements, while she was trying to call someone and leave a message. I was talking about the approximate measurements of the head, how big it was, and was giving the thickness of the shaft, which seemed important. As I had measured it near the head, it was something like 2 3/4 inches, and I was writing it in some of the boxes, then I realized I had gotten it wrong and it was actually 3 3/4 inches, and I wrote it in another box. I needed to change the others somehow, I might have to do it later. Then I thought that it would be good to make a small drawing of the pickaxe head, so that there would be no question about how it looked. Then I saw that my mother had already done it, on another narrow scrap of the same paper, that was a little to the right of and partly over the paper I was writing on. The image was drawn vertically, and a little crudely, but was good enough. It was much bigger than I would have done, maybe half a foot or so long. I had been intending to draw a much smaller image.
Then the woman and the kids were back at the fence, near the gate. She was telling them to go inside the yard and get something. They went over the fence and started digging in the yard, and came up with some pale shallow plastic things, like things to put paint rollers in when you are trying to put more paint on them. One of them had a huge pile of scratch pads [small blank notepads, around 3 x 5 inches] from the radiator shop, with advertising on them. It wasn't what they were looking for, though, they were looking for something else.
I was getting mad, and told my mother that I was going to go out there and stop them. I was intending to scare them off and gather up the scratch pads and take them inside, but when I went out and started walking across the yard toward where they were, or had been, I suddenly saw a huge horse, light brown in color, striding purposefully toward me. It was probably around 8 or 10 feet high at the top of its head. I started backing away. The big dog, which had come out from its place of hiding on the porch, stopped and started to back up a bit, too. I turned and started going more rapidly back to the house, the horse was moving too fast. While its eyes looked a little uncertain, it seemed that it intended to head right for me.
I got inside and got the back door shut and I think locked, and went around the counter to the dining area, telling my mother what happened. I went back to check on the door, staying back by the end of the counter, and saw that the horse was bashing at the window in the door with its hoof, looking angry. It didn't seem that the window could stand up to it, and probably not even the door itself. I saw the window, which was longer now than in real life, bending sharply inward, taking its thin metal frame with it, and the window cracking in several places, with big horizontal splits going across it, like it was a plastic sandwich reinforced glass, like a car windshield, and not just regular glass.
I went away, back into the dining area, nervously talking about it with my mother. I went back then and checked, expecting to see that the horse had its hoof and leg through the glass, but instead saw that it was a man there, with his leg hanging through. He was wearing a black mask over his eyes and a black bandanna around his head, and was evidently a burglar. I went back in the dining area and nervously talked to my mother about maybe somehow trying to get the pickaxe. I couldn't remember where I had left it though, was it somewhere on the porch or out in the yard? Then I went back and found the man had gotten most of the way in; his arms and body were in now too, only his other leg was on the other side. He was holding a very small gun in his right hand. I went to him and started trying to twist his leg around. He was looking at me surprised, like he was thinking, don't you see have a gun? He kept trying to get the gun pointed properly at me and I kept twisting his leg and moving it around and up in the way. Then suddenly he had it in his other hand, with a clear shot at me. I stopped, there wasn't anything I could do to block it. I let go and backed up some, wondering if he was going to shoot me, then abruptly he had a another small gun in his other hand, too. He took my mother and me hostage, and took us along with him. He didn't seem really interested in what we had in the house, at least for now. He wanted us to do a job for him, to help him steal something, I guess to prove our loyalty, and in any case make us useful. We left and went out into the night with him. The area now seemed more like Fallon, Nevada than Arizona.
He sent us toward a supermarket. We were supposed to search in the trash cans out front for something that was left by an associate, something from the store. He stayed well away, in the darkness by another building, but it was pretty dark where we were too, not much light to look at the things with. We took out some things. Some of it looked a little interesting, like the paint roller-type shallow container I had seen in the back yard, but we didn't find anything like we were supposed to be looking for. It hadn't been described, only that something would be left there, but we didn't find anything useful or valuable, at least toward the top, where presumably it would be. Something had evidently gone wrong, or maybe he hadn't been able to get out here with it yet.
Suddenly, there was a commotion of some kind in the store. He had evidently been found out. We hurriedly left.
We were wandering around then, wondering what to do. It seemed like a good time to talk to someone in law enforcement, get them involved, but we were also afraid that the man, the crook, might be mad at us and try to hurt or kill us. We finally decided to try to find someone. I remembered seeing a man a bit earlier who I knew was a police detective. We went back to the general area where he had been and eventually found him. We told him about what had happened. He listened and was trying to devise a plan about what to do. He talked to someone on his cellphone about it, and we went to a place where I had earlier seen the horse parked on the street, in a parking place. The horse didn't look so big now, more like the size of a normal horse. I told the man that the horse might know something and be able to help us, though I wasn't sure about its reaction. It looked back at us with a little bit of a mad, irritated, uncertain look as we came toward it. Then it was thanking us profusely as the man untied its rein to free it, and it started talking about how they had mistreated it. It agreed after a pause to help us, seeming to be reluctant to get involved with the man again, and then resumed complaining about how it had been treated.
My mother and I went back to our house, which looked a lot different now, but found the man and his associates were already there, and in the process of stealing some things from it before they left. The man was inside and was handing stuff out to them. Besides the man there were two other people, a somewhat short middle-aged Oriental man and a very tall muscular man who appeared part black and part Asian, and wasn't wearing a shirt. They saw us, and the head man seemed to want to get us, perhaps kill us, but they got in an argument. The others, particularly the Oriental man, didn't want to do it, and the Oriental man wanted to let us go. He was yelling at the head man, and he had a weapon that was two heavy hooked-together dark sticks. The hooks were just heavy eyelet type things and weren't sharp, they were curved around so they were almost closed and had blunt ends. He was swinging it around his head, threatening to throw it at the head man, but the head man threw an odd thin metal black piece, very slightly bent, with a wider thing at the back end, like a small light gray pipe that went over it like a handle. It hit the Oriental man in the leg near the hip, going almost straight down, and went in deeply. He screamed, but kept on standing.
The fight continued, all three of them in it, generally separated quite a bit from each other, 10 or 20 or more feet at times, throwing things at each other and yelling. It may have been mostly the associates, widely separated, fighting the boss, but it seems the associates sometimes threw things at each other too. Sometimes a couple of them got close enough together to get into a struggle, and try to swing their sticks or whatever they were holding, trying to hit the other person's back or whatever else presented a good target, or trying to stab the other person, if the weapon was of that type, and sometimes one or the other of them would get tossed or flipped. Then they might get separated by a bit and sometimes one would even chase the other briefly, till the person chased got far enough away or the fight became more equal again.
After a bit either the Oriental man or the part Asian, part black man threw some of the sticks at me. I managed to avoid them and they landed at my feet. They were apparently intended to hit with the hook and cut into a person, though the hook was curved over and blunt. It seemed the proper way of throwing them was to swing them around your head and somehow quickly unhook the one that wasn't being held, to let it go flying at whatever was being aimed at. I got two of them sent at me, still hooked together. You could hook three together, I saw it done, and let loose two and still be holding one, though I'm not sure it was done in this case. I was trying to throw them back, and I think I did, throwing both, not trying to get one unhooked, but it was awkward and I don't think I hit my target.
At some point, I saw the horse coming back, a pleasant and hopeful look on its face, but as it got closer it became aware of what was happening, of the crooks being back and the fighting. Its eyes widened and stared at the scene, and its expression drifted downward into a surprised dismay. It leaned its body back, pushing at the pavement with its hooves, slowing itself to a halt and then backing up. It turned and left, looking back once or twice at us, a nervous grimace on its face.
Then the Oriental man was going off with the head man. They had some kind of carriage, like a horse might pull, but no horse this time. It was filled with stuff. They were going along beside and behind it, pushing and guiding it I guess. They had gotten pretty far away already, maybe a hundred feet. I had a couple more of the heavy dark hooked-together sticks, ones that had been thrown at me, and I took careful aim, thinking I could get them this time, and threw the sticks. They flew forward at them, scooting along the ground after a while, but still heading straight for them. It looked like I might get them. I think I even had a line attached so I could pull on it, to drag them back when they got hooked.
All of a sudden the sticks stopped and started coming back, going backward, and I saw that they had one or two more sticks hooked onto them. The tall, muscular, part Asian part black man was standing a few feet from me, laughing, and pulling on the line, dragging them back. He had thrown his own sticks at them, and hooked them. I was apprehensive about what was going to happen now, but he seemed friendly and genial, not wanting to harm me, and amused at the situation. He didn't want me to harm the others, either, or get in a fight with them. I had a feeling that I might be able to get him to help us later, maybe help us escape or even turn against the others and get them captured by the police, if I could convince him to do so. He seemed close to being able to do it, but I wasn't sure how close or if I could convince him. He didn't seem willing to let us go at the moment though, or maybe I was too intimidated to even try.
The others came back. Maybe he called and signaled to them, waved them back over, it seemed he might have but I'm not sure. We were captured again.
Then we were together somewhere else, and they were working with various things, bent over some, working at them, with some open boxes around with things in them. They were working in or near the boxes, separated from each other by probably six to eight feet, getting things ready for the next job. The head man was saying, talking about the next job, and what had happened this last time, "At least there were no witnesses."
I was standing a few feet from my mother, who was to the side and slightly behind me, and we were probably about eight feet in front of him, and I said, "But what about next time? What about the next time?" He stopped talking and lowered his eyes, looking thoughtful and subdued and a little chastened, but he continued working, bent over his box. I stopped talking too, suddenly feeling strange and vulnerable, thinking that perhaps I had said too much. We were, after all, witnesses.
More happened earlier, and some more happened in town after we first escaped, but I don't remember it.
Labels: criminals, dogs, dreams, horses, mother, nevada, radiator shop
