The Red Mustang Dream

I was a young man, as I often am in my dreams, probably in my thirties. I was in the home of a woman I knew. It was a standard modern place but basic and clean. I was standing in a dining area by a patio slider. She wasn’t there, but two other young women and a young man were present. They were about ten years plus younger than me. We in the middle of a conversation in which I related to them that they were ‘taking the wrong medicine’ and told them what medicine they should be taking. The man walked out to get it even though I told him that I had it with me. One of the women left and the home owner returned. She asked what was going on so the other young woman and I explained it, with me doing most of the talking, telling her that they’d been using the wrong medicine. She appreciated me correcting them because one of them was her niece (I never knew which). The young man returned then, without medicine because he could ‘t find it as “everything is closed”. I gave him a huge black backpack which contained the medicine he and the others needed.

As the young man thanked me, the other woman returned and the homeowner announced that she was leaving. She told us we could stay or go, it was our choice. I said I was going because I needed to do other things. The young man left with me. We walked down a busy small-town street for a bit, and then separated. I went over and got into my Mustang. Red, it was a 1965 convertible in very good condition, highly polished, with a white interior and convertible top. I needed work on it, so I took it to this little place. I backed into a spot and then got out to get a number and get in line, because that’s how it worked there. As I was waiting, another person arrived and backed his car into the Mustang.

I was upset, more so because he shrugged it off and walked away. He was much smaller than me and a little younger. I confronted him, pointing out the damage. Body damage, on the driver’s side front, was very slight, but the tire was torn up. Looking at it, the tire was made of white foam mattress and had lost a large chunk from the accident. He talked to the man about it but he claimed it wasn’t his fault, went and got a number and got into line.

I was upset. He’d hit my car and wouldn’t take responsibility for it. A friend arrived and I told him about what had happened. The guy who’d hit my car was in line with several large companions, who had been there when I arrived. My friend said, “Know how to start a confrontation?” I shook my head and he said, “Let me show you.”

He walked up and attempted to grab the younger guy’s nut sack, but one of the big other guys instead did it to him, saying, “You trying to start a confrontation?”

That didn’t make sense to me. As my friend was released and limped off, departing the business, I decided that I would leave. As I went to depart, I encountered another young man with thick dark hair. He was looking into the shop and asked me if I would recommend it. I told him that it depended on what he needed and how badly he wanted it, but I was disappointed in the shop and told about the accident. I asked him what he was looking for. When he told me, I said, “I recognize you. I read about your story on the net.”

He verified that was him, and then the homeowner from the dream’s beginning arrived. As the young man looked across at her, he said, “Excuse me, that’s my mother.”

Dream end.

A note that the dream Mustang reminded me that Dad had a 1965 Mustang when he was stationed in Germany in the late 1960s, blue with a white convertible top and black interior, with a 289 and four speed. I wasn’t with him in Germany, but he showed me pictures of him with the car with its top down in Paris.

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