it’s not a dream, it’s not a dream, it’s not a dream…

I know her.  From years ago.  Her name is Linda.  O no…she’s waving to me… so I stop.  And roll down the window.

“How’re ya doing?  What are ya up to?” she asks.

“Just getting high,” I reply.

Did I say that?   Is that true?  Does saying it make it not so?

“I didn’t know you got high!” she lightens up.

“Ya, I used to,” I admit.

“When did you quit?” she puzzles?

About five minutes ago.”

Perplexed, she continues, “And when was the last time you got high?”

“About five minutes ago.  But there ain’t no more.  Gone”

She opens up the passenger door and slides in.  You got $20 for one of $30 for two?  Yeah?  Okay, just drive around and we’ll find some.”

Driving commences.  But there are cops everywhere we look.  Some guy got snuffed last night in this hood and Homicide is trotting hot.

“Damn it.  These cops—this is a bust,” I blurt.

“A bust?” she challenges.

I can see it running in her head.  She’s desperately looking around for the cops.  Or is she beginning to think that I’m a narc.  No—she knows she’s got too much on me.  Even if I turned out to be a narc, her lawyer, on the basis of past fraternizations, would get her off.  So she knows I’m not a narc…

“Whatdya mean, a bust?” she reiterates.

“Not a cop bust,” I declare--to reassure her.  I take a moment to look over at her in the seat along side and nod pointing with my eyes and my chin to her spectacular breasts.  “A bust like that!”  I proclaim with a grin.

“You’re silly,” she says, “keep driving.”

it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream…