It all started when my dad and I were working at this store in town together. We were stacking these boxes of Spanish Froot Loops and arguing about what the cereal was called (neither of us could remember and we couldn’t just read it because the box was in Spanish).
Then this guy walked in. He looked familiar, but neither of us could think of who he was or how we knew him. As we tried to put a name to the face, he picked out a loaf of bread, a carton of milk, and a stick of butter. He put them on the counter and said “Only the necessities.” He then seemed to notice the puzzled looks on our faces, and he said in a very I’m-giving-you-a-hint type way, “I’ve been somewhere for a very long time, and I feel I deserve a bit of a luxury.” He then grabbed a couple packs of Mentos and put them on the counter. He handed my Dad a couple bucks.
“Um, I’m afraid it comes to $5,” my dad said, and the guy gave this little embarrassed smile and put one of the Mentos things back. He walked out of the store.
Then it hit me. “Holy crap!” I said. “Dad, you know who that was? That was Nelson Mandela!”
We ran out of the store to catch him before he left, and just as we got outside, an unmarked white delivery truck pulled around the corner.
“They’ve come back for him!” Dad said.
We grabbed him and shoved him (and both of his acoustic guitars) into the back of our Honda and told him to get down. We sped back to our place and tried to safely rush Mr. Mandela and his guitars into our house.
Before we could, however, the unmarked truck pulled up into our neighbours’ driveway and all these African guys with machine guns piled out, demanding us to turn him in to them.
We refused, of course, at which point my mom and Uncle Darryl came out of the truck.
“I suggest you hand him over,” my mom said. My uncle Darryl just stood there with his arms crossed, looking intimidating. (I should also point out that in the dream his name was Pete Moskau, although this was never actually said by anyone.)
When I refused again, my mom got angry and tried to wrestle Mandela from my grasp. I grabbed a can of spray paint that was in the back of the Honda and sprayed it all over her face. My brother, who was all of a sudden in the back of the car with me, grabbed one as well and joined in.
“Let’s see you hide from the cops now!” I gleefully shouted. “I’ll just send them after the crazy bitch with paint all over her face!”
At this point, Nelson Mandela was standing on my neighbours’ SUV. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll just go with them. Anything is better than this.”
“NO! You will stay put!” I shouted as I laughed and coated my mom (and the delivery truck) with more paint. “Justice will prevail!”