In my dream, I am in a large department store looking to purchase a motorcycle. There is nothing in the store that differentiates it from dozens of other department stores: clothing, bedding, cosmetics, etc. -- and somehow it doesn't seem unusual to me to be looking for a motorcycle here.
With me are two young boys. They are not my children, but I'm supposed to look after them during this excursion. They are full of energy and curiosity -- a bad combination for keeping kids nearby in a department store! Throughout the dream, they are wandering off and coming back -- and I give them a stern warning about not doing that again. They always look contrite, but never stop wandering away.
I have trouble locating the "Motorcycles for Sale" department, and have to search diligently to find a store employee who may know where to go. It turns out I have to go to the top floor, but most of the elevators can't take me there.
After some considerable looking around and asking questions, I find myself next to a very fancy elevator that is only supposed to be used by the store executive staff. But nobody seems to mind if I get on the elevator anyway. I do that, after collecting the two boys from their latest gallivanting.
(Somewhere in the middle of this looking around, I find myself completely outside the store near the loading docks. I had taken an elevator that took me -- unknowingly -- to the basement which was used for supply storage. I need to walk around the outside of the store to find a way back inside, but I do that successfully.)
Having arrived at the top floor of the store with the two youngsters in tow, I look around and see a pair of motorcycles on display at a distance from where we're standing. There are a considerable number of customers moving about, and it takes time to wend my way over to the bikes. To my dismay, there are only the two bikes I'd seen on the display floor -- and neither one of them looks much like a bike I would want to purchase. I get the attention of one of the sales clerks, but she claims to have no knowledge of the bikes: that is, if other colors are available, if options are possible, pricing, performance, etc. She directs me to another clerk who clearly has no time for me at all.
As I am ready to give up and head home, one of the other clerks comes over and says something like "Thank you so much for coming to our store! I hope we've answered all your questions about our motorcycle offerings." I unload on her telling her that the store's employees have proven to be markedly unhelpful and sometimes just plain rude, and certainly un-knowledgeable about motorcycles. She seems to take my loudly voiced criticism to heart and, although getting this off my chest felt good, I feel sorry for her, as most if not all of my complaints had nothing to do with her.
I look around for my two young charges and finally see them in the distance. Then I hear gunshot. And it's not at all clear whether one of my kids has been shot. If one of them has, in fact, been injured or killed, I am clearly in a very deep well of trouble.
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