ACT I
I am living in a house unknown to me, and my roommates are three Japanese-American men of varying ages, from early twenties to early thirties. Even though these are strangers to me, in the dream as roommates we generally stay out of each other's way and the energy is comfortable. It appears that I am a new addition to their already established household.
Also in the house is Althea's grandson and his mother, who are working at an art project at a dining room table. I stop to say hello to them and make the little boy laugh.
Two other people -- women, strangers -- are working at the table, creating interesting pieces of art using those colored pencil-to-watercolor sticks. The art depicts the black silhouettes of many people spread against a periwinkle/white background, with purple and red accents around the edges.
I am in my bedroom getting ready to watch a movie. The eldest of my roommates walks in, fresh from the shower. He looks clearly agitated about something. I ask him if everything is all right. Fidgeting, annoyed, he says, "I'm fine, but these damn hemorrhoids! They're so itchy!" I stare at him for a moment in his towel, shocked that he'd be so frank. "Well, have you put any cream on them?" I ask, trying to be helpful. He says no, he doesn't have any. He just kind of stands there, looking vexed, so I say, "I think I have some lavender essential oil in my backpack. Maybe that will help." I go digging around in my bag. Meanwhile, he drops his towel and turns around, assuming that I will apply the oil! I excuse myself from the room and go out into the hall.
The youngest roommate is in the hall, looking preoccupied with something, as though he's about to go to a club. He notices the bewildered look on my face and asks what's wrong. I tell him, "(Your roommate) needs some help. Why don't you go in there and put this on his hemorrhoids?" I try to give him the tiny bottle of lavender. He backs away with his hands up. "No thanks, you're on your own!" I am left considering whether or how I should do this.
ACT II
I am in the subway, on a train, and next to me is Paul Newman. He's young, maybe 35, wearing a dark suit and a hat. He's relaxed, with the newspaper crossword on his lap and his legs crossed. We're riding under the city, the dim lights of the tunnel speeding by. He's talking to me about the subway system, and about another train that he sometimes rides, which he describes as 'much nicer.' We're about to get off the train (or maybe it's just him) and he says, "Here, you can have my crossword puzzle." I say, "No thanks, I'm good."
