Dreams can provide insight into our deepest thoughts. Using dream interpretation to explore dream symbols and uncover a dream's meaning can lead to a better understanding of ourselves.
cops AND ROBERT'S
May 11, 2008
I arrive at a secure government facility at the NW corner of an
intersection in the NE part of town. The single story facility is
fenced and patrolled, including the parking lot. I have come here to
visit my friend.
As soon as I pass through the gate into the parking lot, the security
team is watching me closely. Near the front door to the building is
the main security guy. He looks the part in the sense that he is a
big tall white man, about 45, with no sense of humor. Perhaps because
he's the boss, he doesn't wear the white shirt and gun that the other
security guys wear. Instead he has casual dress pants and a dark,
patterned, button-down shirt. As I pass him on the way to a parking
space, he doesn't just look serious, he looks angry.
One of the regular security guys (white shirt, gun, balding, fat and
not tall) points directly at me and stares at me. Somehow I know this
means he wants me to park, which I do. At this point I notice I am
driving my teenhood car. I park and suddenly the whole security team
descends on me. I'm still relaxed, though, because I have a reason to
be here and I assume all will be well once they know that.
As the parking lot guards escort me towards the entrance, we are met
partway there by the main security guy, who immediately starts
grilling me: "You're the one who crashed all those computers when you
were sixteen and you killed my monkey!" I calmly responded that he is
right insofar as I am the guy he thinks I am, but I never knew
anything about any monkey. I tell the man that my understanding of
the consequences of my hack is that a single machine had to be
restored from backup and a few files were lost. The security man
doesn't soften at all as we go inside the facility.
[As I tell the man that I'm the guy he thinks I am, but I didn't do
anything all that bad, I have a very specific mental image, which
returns forcefully every time I get to this point in telling the story
in the dream. A light purple plastic pipe, oriented vertically and
about 4 feet tall and 3/4" in diameter, has loosely wound helical
grooves in it (1 turn per inch or less), into which some kind of
plastic helix is seated, with plastic beads strung onto it, like a
helical necklace. The shape suggests that the assembly was designed
to twist, using the plastic beads as bearings.]
"Don't you think we know who you are and what you did?" the main
security man asked. "You killed my monkey!" Somehow I know that he
had carelessly reenacted the scenario from the famous Mabel the Monkey
story, wherein a monkey was on life support, controlled by an ordinary
computer, not suitable for life-critical applications. There was no
way I was going to preach to this big angry tough man about how dumb
he was to have done that, though. I just insisted that I had never
heard anything about a monkey, and I don't see how they could hold me
accountable for such an unlikely consequence of an act that is now
The security man then ups the ante, gesturing to one of his companions
who looks more like a detective/researcher than a security guard. The
detective guy flips pages over his large (8.5x11) notepad, then says,
"You've done a lot more than that. We know all kinds of things about
you." Now I'm worried. What plans do these goons have for me?
There's nothing left to do but ask, a little more meekly this time.
"I see here you typed Control-C and deleted a whole bunch of files,
disabling an important public computer system."
"Are you kidding me?" I am even more incredulous. "That happened
when I was fourteen years old!"
"Yes, but the consequences of your actions have been far reaching and
terrible. Come with me, please, and I'll show you."
I don't feel I have a choice. The security team escorts me through
some double doors into a brightly-lit room that resembles a 1980s
computer machine room. Just inside and to the right is a severely
handicapped man of about 50 with a weathered face, bound to a
contraption that is sort of a cross between a wheelchair and a
hospital bed. The man appears to be spastic, having only very minimal
control of his limbs; even his head tilts unnaturally. He doesn't
seem to be able to speak.
As the crippled man and I make eye contact, a wave of recognition
passes over both of us. I know him as the slimy operator of the big
computer system I learned on in high school, who later got busted as a
dope dealer. He knows me as the only kid he recognized from a small
group of vandals he saw escaping on the last day of school. He had
been tall and attractive, arrogant and a flashy dresser. Now he looks
thin and frail, a faint shadow of his former self.
The main security man says this man became a broken man, turning to
drugs and subsequently becoming an invalid, all as a direct result of
that one stupid stunt. I protest that we all saw him making frequent
system backups. Lost files should have cost him an evening and a
bruised ego, nothing more, and besides, he was already involved with
Still believing that my captors will ultimately be receptive to truth,
I recount the entire story to the group, being careful not to name my
co-conspirators. As I tell the story, vivid images coalesce in my
mind, as a flashback. The images conform to the real story right up
until it's time to get into the getaway car. Instead of the car
pulling up on the south side of the building as in the real story, it
pulls up much closer by, to the north, and the scene looks murky and
"alternate". At some point the car pulls into the circular drive in
front of a small school, probably an elementary school. It's dusk
(also not historically accurate), the school is dark and desolate, and
I tell the driver to stop -- that's perfect -- let us out here.
The flashback ends and I'm back in the machine room. The crippled man
has an expression of extreme urgency on his face, he stares directly
into my eyes and his whole body starts to shake. The head security
guy says the crippled man wants to tell me his story. I size up the
situation: even though it looks as though he'd like to come at me,
he's so disabled that I'm not sure it's really possible. Still, a
look of fear must have crossed my face, because the security man says,
"It's okay, we've got you." The crippled man shakes violently, but I
discern an intelligent look of determination in his eyes, and with
extreme difficulty he starts to raise himself slightly from the
What happens next is subtle and swift -- the next few sentences
describe events that take less time than it takes to read one word of
this story. I feel a slight tightening of the grips the security
guards have on my upper arms. It could have made me feel safer from
the crippled man, but at the same time, my awareness has shifted.
These guards aren't on my side, and the crippled man could be faking.
I prepare for flight. Then I notice that the crippled man's trembling
hand is holding a hose with a blue fitting on the end, and I can tell
instantly from the look in his eyes that he intends to attach it to
me. Because I have been paying attention, I am able to flee before
the guards are ready. I'm not sure of the details but I know I escape
successfully (perhaps without the car).
I am driving a dirty old white station wagon when I get pulled over by
a cop. The cop is white, average height, with very short light brown
hair and maybe a little baldness. The cop asks if I have a gun and I
say yes, a 45 auto, but it isn't loaded. The cop says that's fine,
but he wants to make sure I don't have any ammo in the car, because
having a gun *and* ammo in the car would be against the law. He wants
me to move some things in the back so he can see what's there, and
verify that there is no ammo.
As I crawl to the back of the station wagon, I spot a stray live 22
round. I wasn't intentionally carrying it -- it must have just fallen
out of something at some time in the past. I'm not sure whether it
would be a violation or not, since that ammo doesn't fit the gun that
I have, but I'd rather not put it to the test. As I am moving objects
in the back to fulfill the cop's request, I sneak the 22 round under
something with my knee. I don't think he noticed.
Then the cop and I both notice a couple of plastic bags with boxes of
ammo in them, and we both realize at the same time that I'm pretty
much busted. The cop then assumes a curious demeanor. He seems to be
helping me but it's hard to tell because his advice is so cryptic. He
says something like, "Okay, I'm going to bring you downtown and ask
you a few questions there. Now I *think* there's ammo in those boxes
but I haven't actually seen them and I'm not going to ask you to show
them to me. If I don't find out one way or the other, then your best
bet is to just keep quiet and not admit to anything. But if you think
I *know* there's ammo in there..." My mind clouds as his seemingly
helpful advice gets more and more complicated.
The scene changes and we are now in a hallway at the police station.
The cop is asking me questions and I have a sense that things are
going along fairly well, though I can't be sure of anything. Then
suddenly the main security guy from the government facility comes by,
looking angry as ever, and he says something to the cop, whose face
immediately sours. From this exchange, I know that I am now doomed.
Any hope of getting a break from the cop evaporates.
I am standing in a big front yard to the east of a large two story
house at the north end of a dirt road in the NE part of town. It's
getting dark, but I can see there are no other houses visible on this
street. A big, burly and fearsome man with an exposed chest comes up
to me from the south and starts to attack. I am frightened but I do
my best to defend myself, and my defense is surprisingly effective. I
am able to stab the man in the belly with my knife a few times.
The man then brandishes a rectangular blade with no handle -- just a
thin and shiny piece of metal, 12 inches by 1.25 inch, sharpened on
one of the long edges. He comes at me with it directly, trying to cut
into me. Somehow I am able to deflect his attack and in the process
the thin blade is bent sharply, forming about a 30 degree angle
roughly 3 inches from one of the ends. The blade is now shaped like a
The man then says, "You just made things worse. Now I'm going to put
my mark on you." Our further struggles lead to the angled end of the
blade being pressed into the man's chest, making a bloody mark over
his heart. The mark is shaped like a letter V over the man's heart,
with the apex pointing at the man's left breast.
At this point two things change: my opponent morphs into a scrawny
teenager with a bad attitude, and I have a companion: Robert, who
lives in the nearby house, is now standing to the north of me. Robert
is a teenager, only a little taller than I am, hispanic with dark,
moderately short curly hair, and a medium to heavy build. He has a
very relaxed disposition, even in the face of this violent conflict.
With a smile and almost a shrug, Robert says I should try throwing my
opponent, "like this." With that, he incites the loser to charge, at
which point he calmly flips the angry boy over his knee and onto the
ground. The loser gets up and comes at me once more, and I'm nowhere
near as adept as Robert, but I am able to fend him off without too
much effort. Robert thinks I am being way too kind to the loser.
A station wagon arrives and two attendants grab the loser and place
him in the back of the vehicle. As the station wagon begins to drive
off, down the dirt road to the south, the loser breaks the glass in
the back window, just so he can yell at me some more and call me a
d**k. Robert, a bit put off but mostly amused, asks me if I'm going
to take that crap from him. I say it's okay, he's harmless at this
point, so why worry about it? Robert smiles, shrugs, and walks toward
I begin to follow Robert, but then I notice that I have tiny pine
cones stuck all over me, like the ones from my mom's house, left over
from the fight. As I pick the pine cones off, Robert goes inside the
house without me. It takes me a minute or two to finish picking off
the cones, and once I'm finished, I have an impressive handful of them
cupped in my left hand. I hesitate at the big double front door
because I don't live in the house, but then I reassure myself that it
would have been okay to follow Robert -- it's only been a couple of
minutes. I let myself in.
Inside is a foyer, with a hallway and stairs to the right, and a front
living area to the left and a kitchen further back to the left.
Somehow I have knowledge that many children live in rooms to the
right, both upstairs and downstairs, but Robert is the only one who
lives with his own mom and dad. The others are orphans or adoptees.
A maid happens by just as I am entering, and she eyes me suspiciously.
I say casually that I'm with Robert, and she immediately relaxes,
saying he's in his room. I hesitate, admitting that I don't know
where Robert's room is, and again the maid is suspicious. Luckily
Robert wanders over right then and everything is fine. I follow him
into the Kitchen.
Robert immediately busies himself making a sandwich or something, but
he is still paying attention to me as I stand in the kitchen behind
him. Further back in the house and to the left, I can see Robert's
father on a chair or couch in a den area. He is watching TV or
something and I never see him well enough to describe him.
Robert's mom had been in the den as well, but she comes over briefly
to say hi. She is a heavyset hispanic lady, about 50 or 55, a little
shorter than I am, with longish curly dark hair. I look down and
notice she has paper-thin flat thong sandals and clear toenail polish.
Quickly I look up, thinking that I wasn't supposed to look at her
feet. It's not as though anyone noticed or cared that I looked, it's
just that I felt I wasn't supposed to look and stopped myself.
I look around the kitchen for a while, trying to find a trash can for
my handful of pine cones, but I'm having no luck. Finally Robert
takes notice that I've been agitatedly bumping around the kitchen, and
asks what I need. I ask where the trash is, and in his usual
easygoing way he says it's in the cabinet, and motions lazily to show
me which one. I open the cabinet and discard my pine cones.
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