dreaming is

Was on my way to a place of books and knowledge, when I met my two teen-age neighbors who I'd befriended recently. They were "cool" guys, one small, one rough, both "tough". I noticed they had packed some weapons today, each a black gun of some sort, they must have been really bored. Didn't think too much about it until they shot a few people down right in front of a mixed part of town: a fancy man, a fancy woman, and a child. I didn't see them all, as I made it inside. No blood, no cries; I was going for where wisdom lies. The bookery was in the basement. I went. Straight to the information desk where the book lady sat, we began to chat. It was I who spoke mostly, she started getting annoyed. "Just one more question before I go..." I said "what's the meaning of dreaming?" She looked at me from across the information desk, her face young, intelligent with dark-rimmed sixties-style glasses. "Dreaming is a process..." is I think what she said, for my thoughts were so loud and insistent that I couldn't hear her anymore, just saw her mouth moving, words blindly spilling, while my own contemplations swamped my mind. Or did she say progress? Why do I miss the most important answers to my questions? I need to learn to listen better, silence consciousness for the sake of growth. "...for example..." she was saying "...I use it to develop the characters in my novel, which you don't need for you have plenty to read already..." she smiled at me, suddenly nice. I nodded approvingly as if I had understood it all, every golden word she had spoken, too ashamed to admit that I'd become victim to my ego-centric conscious. I made my way outside again, trying to make sense of what she had said, wondering how much I'd really absorbed. Outside the door by the bus stop, stood my two friends awaiting the public ride home. I greeted them jolly, but they were mad. The rougher one got aggressive and started to beat me. "Don't you say anything, not a word! You're going to tell!" I had been a witness to their crime. I assured them that I wouldn't say anything, for we were friends, but their anger was unstoppable. Nobody standing around seemed to mind that I was getting beat up, he kept hitting my face. Nobody cared. I took off in the opposite way to the bad side of town, where street vendors stood at wooden tables selling food, Mexicans and New Orleans. I went towards a Mexican man who was selling tacos and kind of explained what was going on. I couldn't go home, for I'd have to go past the bus stop where my neighbor boys stood. I was afraid. Nor did I want to pull out my cell phone and talk on the street since I had once gotten robbed. I checked and Andy hadn't called anyway. So I decided to stay by the Mexican man who treated me with dignity and I felt safe knowing he was Mexican, a family man, a husband, a hard working man. The tacos were great, so were the sauces, I ate. He told me how cruel the gringos could be...that was not the word he used. I realized that my neighbors, who I thought were my friends, were not once they had something to hide. A friend can be an accomplice to crime, but a criminal can afford no friend...