For reasons that were never explained, my brother, one of his friends and I were walking around in a residential section of Memphis. I recognized the street as belonging to one of the city’s more famous citizens.
“That’s B.B. King’s house” I said matter-of-factly. Neither of them was overly impressed.
The fact that this was a very ordinary neighborhood, not the kind that would have been home to such a musical icon, didn’t seem to be relevant in the context of the dream. Nor did the fact that B.B. King had died nearly 3 years earlier, a detail that became very relevant when he walked out of his front door toward us on the sidewalk.
“Mr. King” I said nervously, “We apologize for lingering in front of your house.”
“Call me B.B.” he said warmly, extending his right hand. “What do they call you?”
I introduced myself coyly. Meanwhile my brother and his friend conveniently disappeared from the dream.
B.B. was suddenly brandishing a pair of cereal bowls and a box of Wheaties. “I was about to have some breakfast. Would you care to join me?”
Unsure of what to say, I nodded. He handed me a bowl and poured a generous portion.
“Oh, that’s plenty” I said, trying not to be greedy.
“I’ll have none of that false modesty” B.B. replied sternly.
It was the same when he poured the milk, completely covering the cereal in its cavernous bowl. He headed off any objection I might have had with a glare.
And then we ate, right there in B.B. King’s driveway. It was the best bowl of Wheaties I will ever have.