There is somekind of tension in the air, and all members of the family are out of sorts. We all seem to be very lazy, or not our usual selves. I think my Mum has gone out on a walk—no one knows where. My Dad is also unresponsive or absent.
There's a phone call for me at the main house which my youngest sister, Melody, takes. She says she'll put it through the outhouse where I, and someone else, are laying down; but she mucks up the transfer and the call is lost. I'm very angry—it was an important call, and she fucked it up.
Back in Tokyo, I presume, I'm in favour with my old company again, and my Boss is putting me back on some work. I see him working with the chief graphic designer, Mincho, on some figures—some kind of economic calculation. He shooes me in and wants me to take this job.
It looks extremely simple: a division with a multiplying factor, then an answer. It's probably some kind of lot calculation; how many garments for how much, and how that changes with order size. When passively looking at it, it seems so simple and almost beneath me (I'm a trained Chemical Engineer); but Mincho hands the calcs off to me, and I can't do them—I need more information than is given, and more explanation of what figure is what.
I walk past Doi and Jun, two street-wear sellers known to me in waking life in Tokyo. They are scruffy and dressed like teenagers (as in real life) and walk past me on the right. As we pass they don't acknowledge, or notice, me—they thought I'd left Tokyo for good, after all. I look back as we pass, and sensing me doing this, one of them, perhaps Doi, does a double take—but still doesn't recognise me. I continue to look, they do another double take. Nothing is said, but I think they realize who I am—we both continue walking, nothing is said.
I see the feminine figure, in tight leggings, ahead of me. As I get closer I see it's a man. As I get very close I see it's a fair haired man with 70s style sideburns and facial hair. I know him (only in the dream) and go toward. I approach very friendlily—smiling, and touching him when we meet.
He's irked at me—it's been a long time since I saw him; and he says I owe him money. What for? For the drugs (he uses some kind of slang, unfamiliar to me at first, but soon remembered; I think the drug he refers to is administered by needle)—he got me and him a shot some time ago.
I'm now irked: after all this time, and he greets me in this way—and I seem to be somekind of patron of his too. He instantly asks for the money owed, and is still acting angry at me. He thinks he should get a large sum; and at this point, I unleash some of my anger out at him. I remind him that I did pay my half for that score way back, and continue: "Maybe of you'd asked for 5 pounds, a tenner—yes, then maybe. I have no money now at all, but nevermind that, give me 1000 quid, oh yes" etc., I try to shame him.
It seems to work a little. He softens his stance, we are still touching and I feel the heat of his leg against mine. We begin to walk together, continuing the conversation. I wake.
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