Friday, October 18, 2002

Mystery

In the lobby of a fancy hotel with Dad and Stacy. Bellhops appear to take our coats and bags. We sit on orate couches. Another bellhop comes up with a silver cup of steaming hot water and a mug of shaving cream, I am supposed to follow him to a room to get cleaned up. Instead I sneak down the hall and into a storage room full of old stuff and work benches. I am looking through things, trying to find something. A man working at a tool bench asks if he can help me. I think I’m busted and take a risk – I tell I just started work here and am checking things out and that I love seeing all this old stuff. He leaves me alone. I go through a stack of Disney posters looking for a particular one. There are original drawings and autographed movie posters. I find two of the poster I am looking for and choose the one in the best shape. I roll it up and stuff it down the front of my shirt. I leave back down the hall, but can’t find the family.

Crutch and I are carrying a large crate down the same hallway. He wants to set it down and open it in a large open room (like a conference or ballroom). But I say we need to put it in the storage room since it locks. I think there are weapons inside the crate. But what for? Are we hiding them from bad guys or selling them? There is someone in the storage room, so we try a locked office. The office we choose belongs to our creative department. But a woman tells us that we have to get permission in advance to store anything in there.

I am engaged to a woman. She has just introduced me to her family. Her sister is killed. The sister’s husband with us, but doesn’t do anything. The next day, I have to tell her parents that their daughter is dead. I am getting along with the parents and as we are talking I realize they don’t know. We have just gotten onto a tour-type bus. I tell them their daughter is dead. The mother asks, “Why didn’t they tell us? Did they want to spare us?” Then she loses it and begins crying uncontrollably. The husband holds her. A woman (the bus driver or a tour guide?) tells me that they are turning the bus around because she is crying.

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