I just enjoy writing out the memory of dreams. The amount of detail is what entertained me about this mundane one.
A friend from high school was visiting me from out of town. My current next door neighbors Mary and Art had an ’89 Sentra for sale. My visiting friend was buying it from them for our mutual high school friend Sam (but his name was Keith in the dream), with whom my friend was phoning back and forth every few minutes because Sam was sorting out how to get the cash together to reimburse my friend. My neighbors were selling it for $1500, it had like 180,000 miles on it, and they assured us Sentras were pretty much maintenance-free up to like 250,000 miles. We were in these next door neighbors’ house and my friend and Sam kept calling each other. The caller ID on the neighbors’ phone showed a different number every time Sam called to update my friend on payment arrangements. My friend told me it was because Sam does construction for a living and that he was just calling from whichever client’s house he happened to be in at the moment. There were no cell phones in existence it seemed. Other neighbors, from multiple houses away (a man and his 20-something daughter, who don’t exist in reality), kept driving a loop that included riding by Mary and Art’s house, which is where my visiting friend and I were, apparently also doing our laundry there for some reason instead of at my house. The 20-something daughter was in a hot rod or on a Harley – it was loud – and when she passed by she would point and Mary in a cool fashion and Mary would wave; it was apparent they were fairly close friends. The 20-something had matching square-shaped tattoos on both her forearms. When her dad would ride by (separately) apparently on the same loop/route, he was in a 1940s loud hot rod. Maybe 1930s. My friend had this plastic, yellow air-tight laundry bag he was traveling with. There was an odor control feature on it: you would have to fill the top of it/top it off with air by blowing into it like into a thermarest. The valve on it was like a larger, industrial size version of the valves that are on beach balls. My friend was switching out a damaged valve on it by taking a valve from another such laundry bag, and seemed like he’d done this repair before. I didn’t follow how exactly he replaced the valve, but I helped – all he needed was a second person to hold the laundry bag he was fixing it. He was shirtless, because he was washing all but the jeans he was wearing. I awoke.