I ask Lady, who are those guys down the path? She say, don't know. I say, I'll go see. I think one of them is John Wayne maybe.
I walk out of our cabin (all my dream settings are rented cabins, disposable, never used more than once; I'm the Don Juan of mise-en-scènes), down an embankment and around to a lower level. There is another cabin there, and another to my left down further towards the lake, but none of the three characters belong to either, apparently. I don't look at he lake itself so I don't have to build it. (This is a secret of film noir.)
They are bundled in gray coats with misshapen headgear. John Wayne has on a sort of babushka, and is undistinguished. He is much shorter in person than onscreen, but all movie characters are that way.
John Wayne doesn't look at me, or either of the others, doesn't say anything.
One of his companions places the barrel of a .44 against my chest. The other removes my wallet.
"It like doesn't end, eventually it doesn't. You make movies and then you're off then you make another movie and then another and eventually it seeps into who you are just as it dominates time until you're essentially your character and forget your other, duller ID. Isn't that how it is?
Yeah, says the one counting the bills from my wallet. It's like a functioning alcoholic. He thinks he's only blitzed on weekends and so isn't really an alky since he has a job and goes to it, and then gradually his week collapses from the weekends at both ends toward Wednesday.
I hurry up to tell Lady of my meaningful and teachable moment. I tell ya, I learned a lot, truly I did, I say.
Fine, says Lady, now see if you can go learn where your wallet's gone.
Oh, yeah, I say. I hustle out, down and around. Find not even boot prints in the sand.