So, last night I had a unique experience: I dreamed that Anthony Hopkins bashed up my car (it was up for debate whether it was by accident or not).
This is the scene: I was on a trip to the beautiful shores of Martha’s Vineyard (in the dream, it appeared to be for both business and personal reasons. Also, my brain kept forgetting where I was supposed to be and substituting equally shore-lined places) I was leaving the establishment I was working in at that time, which was a beautiful log-themed edifice perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. I exited the premises to walk towards my blue ’87 Chevrolet Celebrity (my long-defunct but still deeply loved car). The parking lot was also stunningly overlooking the same ocean, and the driver door of my car was facing me. As I approached the car, the automobile parked next to it (on the far side of where I was) proceeded to back out at too sharp an angle and too quickly, crashing the front left corner of his car into mine, and then peeling off down the hill.
“Great,” I thought. I hadn’t gotten the driver’s licence number or anything. I crossed over to survey the damage. There was a definite dent, and the small window that, for some reason in my dream, was located near at about where one’s ass would be while sitting in the car, was smashed. I tried to estimate the repair costs. $200? Maybe if I was lucky. $500? Probably more like it.
Just when I was beginning to get depressed, a small stereotype of a Mexican woman runs up to me.
“Meester! Meester! That man broke your carro! Eet was Senor Hopkeens! El Actor!!”
Hopkins, huh? That British, knighted piece of smegma. What had I ever done to him, besides thoroughly enjoy his dry sensibilities and emotional delivery?
Oddly but luckily, the mexican woman had Sir Hopkin’s cell phone number. She let me back into the log cabin office to use the phone (apparently she was now the secretary there, my dream decided) I guess even in my dreams, I’m still cell-phone free.
I dialed his number and before long, he picked up with his hypnotizing British voice.
Him: “Good day.”
Me: “Hi, Anthony Hopkins?”
Him: “Yes, that’s correct”
Me: “Uh, my name’s Nick, and I’m in Cape Cod for vacation. I’m not sure if you realized but a few minutes ago, you pulled out of a parking lot and smashed the side of my car.”
Him: ….. “I see…”
Me: “Uh, yeah. You broke the small door window and there’s a dent in the metal.”
Him: “……My…that’s rather unfortunate.”
Me: “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Me: “Uh, Mister Hopkins?”
Him: “Sir Hopkins.”
Me: “Pardon me?”
Him: “You address me as sir Hopkins”.
Me: “Oh sorry, sir. I figured since you’re a millionnaire and everything, maybe you could come back to Cape Canaveral and take a look at it, or at least give me your insurance info?”
Him: “I’m afraid that won’t be possible…”
At this point, I didn’t quite know how to continue, since he was just so calm through it all, so my dream interrupted the awkwardness by having the ground give way below me, and having me slide down the side of the cliff into the water where a large ship pulled its steam whistle. I think I woke up around there.
The point is: what’s the deal? I never had a problem with Anthony Hopkins, nor had I seen any of his movies in a while, so why am I dreaming about him? More importantly, why was he the antagonist in the dream? We normally get along pretty well when we’re together. The picture above was taken last fall when we were checking out Glasgow together. We got along just fine that trip (though I was starting to get sort of peeved about how he would never look at the camera!)