That Time I Dreamt About Morgan Freeman

                We were in a bar in Alabama; I have never been to Alabama. Nor do I understand why we were in a bar. There were maybe around a dozen people inside. Everyone was in a proper mood. Talking, laughing, drinking, and someone towards the back of the room was playing an ole-timey piano tune, something by Stephen Foster dropped down to ¾ time.

                There were only two people there I recognized. The first was my childhood friend Josh. A big guy, with an even bigger personality, he’d stand out in any bar and was easy to spot. I remember being surprised to see him, because we had not come there together. Made all the more odd since he lives in Tennessee and I reside in Arizona.  

                Nevertheless, Josh was sitting opposite the bar from me, next to a long haired gent who looked a bit like Gary Sinese, but it wasn’t. Because I have never had a dream about Gary Sinise. Also, I would’ve probably had given this piece a different title if Mr. Sinise and Mr. Freeman made cameos in my dream. I’m guessing my subconscious doesn’t have a big enough budget for that kind of dual star power.

                 Anyway, the Sinise look alike had a big olive drab duffle bag. The fancy kind that was reinforced on the sides similar to a piece of luggage you might stow on a plane. The two were chatting and Josh hadn’t noticed me.

                The second person I recognized was of course, Morgan Freeman. Mr. Freeman had a tan panama hat on and one of those tweed jackets you’d see a professor at Berkeley wear in the seventies (and maybe now still). This seemed an odd choice as it was summer and even muggy inside my dream. He was sipping scotch judiciously in the corner of the bar. Alone, but looking confident, content and refined as he usually does on screen.

                Personally, I was on my 3^rd beer of the evening and feeling quite guilty. You see, I had only 2 days ago entered into a no-drinking pact for the month with my girlfriend so that the two of us could train for a half marathon.

                There was a blonde woman next to me who was a total stranger. She asked in a beautiful Irish accent, “If you don’t mind me saying, you look blameworthy mister.”

                I swirled the remaining liquid around in my near-empty glass and nodded. “I have to get home. I told my girlfriend I wasn’t going to be drinking.”

                “And yet here ya sit in a bar…” she was silent thereafter; I guess I was supposed to let that sink in. I did, and then motioned for the barkeep to pour me another beer.

                It was at this moment my buddy Josh noticed me and flagged me down. I left the proximity of the blonde patron and took only my refreshed pint with me and sat next to Josh and his friend.

                “How the hell are ya?” he asked.

                “Pretty good,” I looked down at the full beer in my hand. “You?”

                “Livin’ the dream as always.” Josh turned to the man next to him. “David, this is Frank.”

                The two of us shook hands. Instead of greeting each other we nodded over the din of the revelers around us.  I was now sitting within about seven feet of Mr. Freeman. I didn’t want to appear daft so instead of saying anything about how I was a fan, I just politely observed. To be clear, I wasn’t staring, because after all even in a dream I did not wish to appear rude. Mr. Freeman appeared to still be splitting his attention between the same glass of scotch and a book that was on the bar top. It made me happy that Morgan Freeman wasn’t using a Kindle.

                Josh tapped my shoulder, “You gotta see this,” he motioned to Frank’s bag. “Go ahead take a peek.”

                The humongous olive bag was now open on the bar. I looked at Frank as if to ask, Is this alright? He nodded, and I had to admit I was curious, so I stood to get a look.

                Within the bag was what appeared to be a plastic palette, like the kind you’d find in an artist’s watercolor kit. There were several deep wells lined up beside one another, perhaps six by eight rows. Each tiny well was filled with a different colored liquid in a vial-like shot glass. The liquid they held varied in color from clear to a dark brown that was almost black.

                I avoided Frank’s gaze, but looked back at Josh instead, “What is it paint?”

                He laughed loudly, smacking the bar.

                “Drugs?” I tried again. I could see Frank take offense from my peripheral view. “Sorry.” I whispered his way.

                “No,” Josh corrected me while still laughing, “Its vodka.”

                “Try one, a sample.” Frank offered.

                “I can’t, I gotta be getting’ home I shouldn’t even be here.” I felt horrible when I thought of how awfully far Alabama was from Arizona.

                Before I could inform Josh or Frank about my failed pledge to not drink for a month, I had a small vial of slightly cloudy vodka sitting in front of me.

                “It tastes like Cocoa Puffs.” Frank smiled.

                “Cocoa Puffs my ass!”

                I looked up and saw Morgan Freeman smiling; he had closed his book. Further, he was wagging his finger at my free vodka that had come out of a duffel bag. I never knew Mr. Freeman was so quick to judge others. “You drink that and you’re going to be shitting nothing but air and water for two days,” he warned.

                “This one’s for Driving Miss Daisy.” Josh hollered and did a twirling motion with his finger to the barkeep and pointed at Mr. Freeman.

                “What’s that for?” I asked Josh.

                “Eh, we just buy him a round every time he pipes up; it’s kind of our thing.” Josh smiled and gave Mr. Freeman a thumbs-up gesture. He did the same in return.

                I needed some clarity, “What, for like each movie he was in?”

                “Yep, and he’s been in a lot of movies.”

                “Ok,” I nodded as if this made perfect sense. “But what’s with the traveling vodka salesman?”

                Josh explained, “Most of the bars here in town don’t carry what I like. Frank does. I just like to have the best stuff on hand so I can properly relax, ya know after a meal.”

                I looked around the bar; it didn’t appear they served food.

                As I was opening my mouth to ask, Josh beat me to the punch. “Aaanndd sometimes the vodka becomes a meal.” He chuckled, and then held his hands up as if to say, So sue me. From me, he’d get no sermon.

                Time passed as alcohol samples were drained, and before I knew it everyone at the bar was gathered around Frank’s big bag of portable vodka. Everyone was laughing, drinking, and there may have even been some impromptu karaoke at one point or another. Strange, even drunk in a dream and I start to forget things. There was that fuzzy, remarkable kinship that comes from imbibing together, everyone was happy.

                As the folks tired of the raucous, the more mellow conversation took hold once again. Josh mentioned having seen the new animated version of The Killing Joke, a Batman classic.

                “Aww man, that’s one of my favorite graphic novels!” I couldn’t hold back my excitement.

                From the corner bar, I heard Mr. Freeman giggling. “I never thought I’d see two grown men so excited over Batman.”

                I raised my glass and pointed, “From the guy that was in 3 Batman movies!”

                Everyone at the bar got in a good chuckle, including Mr. Freeman. He was about to retort when I cut him off with a drink order. “Bartender, a scotch for Mr. Freeman, we’ll call it; The Dark Knight Rises.”

                “You got me,” Mr. Freeman smiled and drained his glass in anticipation of his refill.

                Josh slapped my shoulder, “You just pwned Morgan Freeman!”

                “I know, and to think I was going to go home hours ago.”