Yeah, in the dream I had before waking, I was in the midst of a night of partying—Ray and Phil included. Somehow we were out on a balcony, sandwiched between two closely positioned buildings.
Attached to the opposite building, a few feet down, was a different kind of balcony: a mattress (twin size) sitting on a platform that was securely attached to a wall. You could easily jump from the walk-out balcony down to the slightly lower mattress/platform.
A few of us did, including me. I don’t know what we were thinking. An old friend/douche from early grade school was also present. I don’t specifically recall Ray or Phil being on either balcony, though. Somehow they dropped out of the dream at this point.
So maybe we had a couple beers out on the mattress/faux-balcony. Then it was time to get back to the real balcony. The gap between the two balconies was probably three feet. You had to jump a bit, or at least let your outstretched arms grab onto it a rung of the other balcony as you teetered toward it. Two guys successfully get back over. Then this guy Tim tried.
It was Tim Robbins, as a younger man. He initially didn’t not make it, but he was sort of in limbo hanging off of the side.
I was scared. I looked down once, then no more. We were at least 30 stories up. I knew I needed to have some strength—pull-up strength—to get back; this kind of strength has never been my strong suit but I recall thinking about how I’ve been lifting some lately. And besides, what other choice did I have?
What I did was lean over, get a good grip on an iron bar, pull up one foot to the concrete platform and then push up off of that foot. I swing myself slowly over the short fend circumscribing the balcony and let myself slowly down on my back to a round of applause. I felt really good—accomplished and relieved.
Tim was still out there but oddly no one offered him any kind of hand or help. We all just went inside.
Tim fell. We heard him yelling as he fell. Whoever’s apartment/condo it was said something like, “Don’t worry, Tim! We’ll get the doorman!” This made no sense.
Now Ray and Phil are back in the dream. We walk out of the condo into the foyer/elevator area. It’s a really nice condo so they’ve got someone sitting as a concierge at a type of reception desk out there. She makes some remark about us having a good day. She has no idea about the tragedy that just unfolded. We sort of mumbled, “Not that great of a day….”
I said, “It’s been up and down.”
There were a bunch of little liquor/liqueur bottles on her desk, I guess for sale. One was, “Carmona”, who incidentally is a pitcher for the Indians.
I happened across (in a boat) a crusty old bottle of what looked like ketamine. I looked at it—I pulled it out of a cinder block—it was a prescription of liquid Zoloft for Jerry Seinfeld. It was caked at the top but still liquid underneath (like paint left open).
For some reason I believed you could use it like ketamine (inject or cook/snort) and get the same effect. So I pocketed it.