There is an inarticulate man in the park, where I live in a little wooden building. I have belongings in two drawers, labeled I and II. Some children come along and go through the drawers. I complain to the mother, who says they should be able to do what they want. I take jewelry out of her drawer to make a point, but she is unfazed.
The kids come running back in, horrified that I am going through their mother’s jewelry.
Then I see that the drawers, which are now more like hard drives, are labeled I — mine and II — everyone else.
I am now on the road and spot someone with a broken-down car. I call AT&T Wireless. People start to tell me it’s not where I think it is (I think Amsdell Rd. in Hamburg, NY). At some point I recognise my mother, who is wearing new glasses.
I am going to a concert, which seems far off. It’s not at the lake I thought it was but at one in Connecticut. I am driving down a narrow street with other people behind me in a caravan. We’re trying not to brush the parked cars. Two at the far end are sticking too far out to get around, and there’s no other way to this magical lake. I get out, pick them up, and move them to a corner, mostly out of the way.
The mysterious lake beckons.