I am walking with my mom and sister on a sidewalk in California not wearing shoes. A homeless man is not wearing shoes. My mom says, "I can't believe you're not wearing shoes." I am looking at him. He has very large toes.

Suddenly police run up to us and put potato sacks over the head of the homeless man and over the head of my mother, tie a rope around the sacs, and throw them on the ground against a chain-link fence. My sister and I cry that our mother is not guilty. The police men run up to us, tearing off their badges and frantically pointing to their names, saying, "Please write us! Please write us up! Please say what we did! Here are our names! Here are our numbers!"

Later their faces, and their whole bodies, are concealed in plastic black armor. Their arms are crossed. They are standing below a yellow slide, watching little kids slide down. What are they patrolling? My sister and I pick up Bobby's friend Jake. Then Bobby is driving me somewhere in my car. He nervously talks about flying to Portland later if he can make the flight.

We are in Los Angeles. We come to an intersection. Or it could be Oxnard because of the intersection. I say, "Take the 1. We can drive up the coast. It will be nicer that way." I am excited about this, but he barely responds. He must be thinking about Portland.

We stop at California Pizza Kitchen. We are suddenly the watchers of a table lead by a brunette with black bug-eyed sunglasses, a little boy, and her husband who sits meekly to her right. She says, "Well I'm going to order a sundae first." I don't know if it is for her or her son. This would change how I interpreted the way she ordered it, either belittling her baby or feeling guilty herself. A clown is taking their order. Gumballs are his beard or his face or his hair. He leans over and I am the camera intercepting a vision of him which is a rainbow of gumballs attached somewhere on him. The husband says, "You ordered the wrong ice cream." She says to the waiter, "Oohhh, vanilla please, not chocolate." Bobby seriously wants one of the gumballs. I say, "You probably have to go inside to the machine." He says, "but I can't get a white one from the machine."

He walks over and there is a close-up of the gumballs stuck inside at the edge of the opening and little kids' hands trying to reach for the white ones which for some reason cannot exit the machine.

Bobby remembers Portland, that we are in a hurry. "I've got to get out of here," he says "Let's go," or he shows me we have to go by turning his shoulder away from the place and walking away.