I'm in my bedroom with a friend; except that it's an apartment, and the friend is someone whom I've never met. We are unpacking boxes, despite having lived together for a long time. In one of the boxes, I find a vinyl record album (Tool, I think. The song it plays in my head lasts until the scene changes, although I've never owned any Tool and don't know their songs that well). There is some dispute as to ownership of the album, and I prove my claim by knowing which box holds the rest of the albums.
Finding this sends me to Paschal High School, in the WPA section, which is curiously larger than I remember it to be. I know that I shouldn't be here; I need to get back to my apartment to apologize to my friend. I go to the councilor's office, but find myself instead outdoor in a flea market on University Drive. I ask someone how to get out of it, and he points me to an old man. The old man gives me a pot and tells me to take it to a boy. The boy is retarded, and greets me like I'm his best friend. I give him the pot, but find myself in front of the old man again. He says that I didn't know what I was giving to the boy, and shows me another pot. I take this to the boy and give it to him, realizing that it's a tool.
Rather than go back to my apartment, however, I find myself in north Fort Worth many miles from home. I walk toward home, but stop at Paschal (which is in reality closer), thinking that seeing the councilor again will get me home sooner. The door takes me to the flea market, where I ask the old man what I did wrong this time. He says that I have to do what I should have done all along, so I lie down to go to sleep...and awaken in my bedroom.
I say that the dream is exactly the same every time, but it can't be because I've been having it since I was ten years old. Yet, that's how it feels when I awaken. The apartment-that-is-my-bedroom, the tiled halls of school, the flea market, and the streets of Fort Worth feel as real as day and just like they do in real life; except that the bedroom is the one here in my parents' house rather than the one in the only apartment I've lived in; I could not have dreamed about high school before I went there; I've only gone to the flea market once and met neither the old man nor the retarded boy; and I never went to Northside before graduating high school (not to mention the fact that Tool did not exist until after I graduated). I remember things like holding the record and pot, talking to the boy, and walking for hours to get home so well from previous times having the dream, however, that I know for certain that these parts, at least, must be the same. Also, by the second time that I talk to the old man, I know that I've had the dream before, but I can't change how I act in it. This is not the only recurring dream I've had, but it's the one I've had the most often, and for the longest time. Besides details, I feel the same emotions each time. I feel guilty about keeping the record, knowing that I've never owned a Tool album. I feel nostalgic in high school, although I can otherwise only recall being uncomfortable there for many reasons. I genuinely care for the boy and want to help him, but have no idea why bringing him a pot does that. I feel anxiety in Northside and can almost recite the names of the streets there, downtown, and in Southside going to Paschal, but know full well after awakening that the trip would take many more hours than I've been asleep. There are so many contradictions that the whole experience seems impossible, yet I have written this dream down at least a dozen times in the last thirty years and still have one of the earliest copies. I feel no fear beyond the disorientation of being where I shouldn't, only guilt and frustration with fleeting feelings of accomplishment (finding the councilor's office, giving the pot to the boy, reaching Paschal after such a long walk, etc.). Altogether, it's an unsettling dream, but I can't stop thinking afterward that it is my real best friend.