The dream began at a party, though I am not clear as to the precise environment of the party. It might have been in a corporate setting, such as the lobby of an office building or a prosperous company’s reception area on the upper floor of an office building. The furniture said to me “late 60s-early 70s post-Danish Modern.” The carpet was sculpture-shag, with the shorter part in gold and the shag component in brown.
But the party might just as well have been occurring in someone’s living room, though it would have to have been an affluent person, judging by the size of the room, which I would estimate to be a rectangle of around 20 feet by 40 feet. I was vaguely aware on my far-right-hand peripheral vision of a terrace, though this feature could exist in both commercial and residential settings.
Not knowing anyone at the party, and as is my tendency when amid crowds of people I don’t know, I found a chair and looked for something to read. On the coffee table before me were some papers, which I picked up. You can imagine my surprise when I observed that the item I lifted from the coffee table was a letter addressed to me. It was dated about a year before the time of the party, though I can’t say right now what date that was.
The letter was stapled to the envelope in which it had, presumably, been mailed, in the way that some businesses might require their mail to be organized upon receipt. I do not remember now, if I ever realized in the dream, who the letter had come from, but there was a corporate-looking letterhead on it. I was just beginning, through my confusion at finding a year-old letter addressed to me that I had never seen, to examine the letter, when a man’s voice came from over my right shoulder.
“And I’m just getting started, Clay. Just getting started.”
I looked up to see a man I knew. He’s an actual man, one with whom I’m acquainted in McComb, Mississippi, but I wasn’t surprised in the dream to see him at the dream-party. We are on cordial terms but he’s more of a friend-of-a-friend than a friend. Even a deep examination of my psyche reveals no possible reason for this man to appear in a dream.
I was trying, amid the din of the party, to process the information before me, namely the letter and the man, when he repeated himself.
“Just getting started.”
I rose and asked, “What are you talking about?”
His tone became intense and angry. He jabbed a finger at me. “I’m just getting started!”
We went back and forth, neither of us saying anything new, with me asking what he was talking about and him telling me he was just getting started. Our respective levels of agitation heightened. Despite the fracas, however, only a few of our fellow partygoers seemed to be paying attention.
“What. Are. You. Talking. About?” I demanded, only to observe, standing behind my adversary, two men attired identically in tan slacks and dark, possibly brown, sport coats. I perceived these men to be security officers. Brown makes sense for the sport coats if indeed the party were taking place in a corporate setting, because I could imagine a company wanting its security officers’ uniforms to match the carpet in its reception area.
Each security officer took an elbow of the man who was just getting started and escorted him away. He continued to shout that he was just getting started as he, along with the security officers, disappeared into the crowd.
A moment later, I was still frazzled but regaining my composure when someone rushed in and yelled, “They tased him!”
Then I woke up.