I’m at a conference of some sort at a hotel in a city. I become involved with “a new car,” and from time to time there is ambiguity about whether the car is mine, or about to be mine, or whether I will succeed at getting a woman  colleague who is attending the conference to buy it.

Very lucid in my mind is this spiffy two-tone blue and cream colored Dodge sedan with crisp white trim and white side-wall tires. I park it on the front plaza-ramp of the hotel while I go up to seek out the woman to convince her that she should buy it. But I have trouble remembering the number of her room though it is just around the corner from mine—the number of which I also cannot for the life of me remember—and I can’t get her on the phone. In the lobby, I can’t find a house phone. Communications snarl.

In a state of exasperation, I finally do encounter her walking through the lobby. She has already bought “a used car” from another male at the conference. I feel this is a mistake on her part.

When I go back outside—having missed the whole day of presentations—
the brand new car is completely stuck, hemmed in, bumpers touching bumpers, between two other cars. I go to find an attendant to remedy the situation, but can’t get any attention. I go back out to my new car to discover that the hemmed-in car is now not my car at all…My brand new car has been towed, or re-possessed, or something has happened…it has disappeared…

Again, I go to get help, feeling I have really screwed things up by leaving the car parked where I did… figuring I will still have to pay for a car I have rather haphazardly misplaced.

I am muttering to myself, “it’s always something…” But then I’m laughing at myself: “It’s good, all good. It’s just perfect.”