I was in France.
In a dream.
In a basement.
I couldn’t remember how to ask for an iced coffee in French.
Paid in American.
They gave me something in a cup and I threw it out.
Seated on a couch.
The person at the door put my coat in a closet.
Another closet opened and some Littles pretending to be children began playing sugar plum fairy pop perfect glam rock.
Barry Bonds’ son sat down next to me. I know this because Barry Bonds then sat on the floor in front of me as there was no more space on the couch. That and they were wearing jerseys that had text printed on them that said “Barry Bonds’ Son” and “Barry Bonds”, respectively.
Barry Bonds started trying to pull some of that celebrity shit, demanding my seat. His bodyguard, Allen Iverson, was making an even bigger fuss about it.
But I charmingly held my ground.
Barry Bonds smiled and we became friends.
My dad was lost in the hallway, too angry about being in a dream about the French to find his way in.
He would not have charmingly stood his ground, though ground would have been stood.
I am the diplomat of the family.
To France.
To Barry Bonds.
To dream…
