Someone I knew was living in an extended stay hotel but it was more like an apartment. There was a regular hotel next door, though. The hotel occupied the building next door and the first floor of the building where the “apartment” was located on the second floor.
I was visiting the apartment-dwellers for a holiday. I was helping them with their belongings – kind of like they were packing or unpacking…we were moving their stuff around and decorating for the holiday anyway. There were wood floors and we kept wondering if we were being too loud. But, then, we would remember that the hotel was on the first floor and we didn’t have to worry. My dad was there, helping the apartment-dwellers with some repairs.
There were people we knew in other units of the apartment building. We would see them in the stairwell and visit them in their apartments. There was a young man who was moving out on his girlfriend. He had dozens of identical black duffel bags. I helped him carry some of them down the stairs on my way out.
I had a deep tan on my face, arms, and legs. It was almost like I was of another race versus a tan, except that it was not on my trunk. I knew I had a tan and didn’t really think much of it. While I was standing on the sidewalk and chatting with a man, he commented on it, “Oh, wow, that’s what is different! You’re really tan and that’s what’s making you look taller!”
We ventured out into the city. We were headed to a particular place. When we arrived, I realized that I knew the place because I used to go there frequently when I lived in the area. I drove into the parking lot of what I thought was a convenience store and parked the car. When I entered the establishment, it was a diner. I was told I had to move my car because the spot in front of the door where I had parked was special somehow.
Then, we went to an area consisting of rows and rows of mobile homes and tents and temporary structures that were being used to house people. We drove through the narrow dirt roads. There were people of various races, nationalities, and social classes. They were all over, walking to and from the different living sites.
At one point, there was a vehicle blocking the road as if it were waiting to turn into the driveway of one of the living sites. Instead of waiting for the vehicle to move, I pulled around a car, turned and took another route. People standing nearby raised their hands in shrugging gestures, as if to ask why I had pulled around. My mom was with me and asked why I had done that and gave some reason why I shouldn’t have turned. But, I kept on and made a number of turns to get back on the route.
Next, I was walking with a man through the interior of one of the larger, single-level, dormitory-style structures. We walked down many long, narrow hallways and made many turns at t-shaped intersections of the hallways. In my mind, I recalled my mom’s admonition to be careful, that this was a dangerous place. The man and I arrived at a large room filled with rows of cots. It reminded me of old pictures of hospital wards. After a short time, I left the large room and returned back through the maze of gray, narrow hallways, thankful that I somehow remembered the way.
We drove along the city streets. Someone mentioned a place they wanted to see and used an acronym that I can’t recall. It was apparently a school or college of sorts. My mom was driving. She seemed to be familiar with the place and agreed that we should go there. We passed a sign with the acronym on it, so I knew we were close. From what the others were saying, there was something secretive and forbidden about the place, almost a military base quality about it.
I had expected to see students in military uniform, walking in formation, and formal Ivy League-style buildings. Instead, we arrived at what looked like a resort or summer camp. My mom turned the car onto a road made of grass. There were signs that read, “No trespassing,” indicating the place was off-limits. We drove on anyway. I was intrigued but also curious why my mom was trespassing, which was not like her to do.
There were students all along the road, walking in small groups and standing and chatting in larger groups. They were dressed in traditional school uniforms. The girls wore short, pleated mini-skirts and had their shirts open a number of buttons at the top and looked quite provocative. As we passed them, I could tell they knew we weren’t supposed to be there but liked that we were. Some of them urged us on with subtle winks. When I gave one group a tentative wave, a girl in the group made a serious face and narrowly shook her head at me, then winked. At regular intervals along the road, there were black signs with white Playboy bunny emblems on them.
We passed a woman who appeared to be in her early seventies, dressed in the same fashion as the female students, and who resembled Florence Henderson. Soon after, we were stopped by men in green khaki military-style uniforms and MP hats. The Florence Henderson look-alike asked us what we were doing there. She did not seem angry, just curious.
Then, in real life, my cell phone rang and I woke up.
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