Looking out the window. The house was my mon’s house, but the garage was Mr. Bridgeforth’s house.
I see a big, blue truck driving up, sideways. The front two wherls are turned sideways, and the back two are off the ground. This way, they pull right up into the driveway.
I get to the inside garage door in time to see the loading ramp fully extended. It bumps into a rectangular folding table, the particle board kind, and then pushes back another inch, compressing/denting.
They deliver whatever it is (cannot see for some reason.) Then, they backbup at an angle and mash into my Flex’s bumper.
“HEY! WATCH OUT!”, I say.
The fork lift guy just says, “No Problem.” It’s heavily accented in local Spanish, and with a big smile.
“Fuck you! It is a problem! Este auto es me babe! Me amo lo!”
“Ehhh. Get a Suburban S.”
Then I woke up.
There was more Spanish but I am not as fluent as my dream self.