Bill Clinton Haunts my Dreams

I had a dream about Bill Clinton recently. He was much older, hunched over, and bald. At first, it was a thrill to meet him. After talking for a bit, he attempted to move on in typical politician form. But he had said something that I didn't like and I followed him, challenging his words.

I confronted him, seeing my chance to have a debate with a world-renown figure. We talked some more and I kept feeling worse about him and what he was saying. I didn't appreciate his messianic ego or his veiled bigotry. His regrets seemed tired and rehearsed, mentioning how he didn't stop the genocide in Rwanda as if he had forgotten to take out the trash.

Eventually I just walked away. I couldn't take anymore. Bill Clinton sensed that my impression of him was extremely low and he followed me, talking. He assured me that he wasn't racist. He was friends with Vernon Jordan. Black people love him. They called him the first black president. He took another subtle shot at Barack Obama. The level of resentment was more pronounced than the hump on his back. He was pleading with me. I pitied him.

I was standing straight. I listened to him. I halting my willingness to combat his words as if riding a horse. I listened. This was a sad old man who had nothing else in his life but his legacy. I threw the occasional pointed jab when he said something particularly offensive. His body curled with each blow I delivered. This was Bill Clinton as an old man.

Then I woke up. It had been a fantasy land. I went downstairs and turned on the television. I watched a show about Jesse Jackson's presidential campaigns in 1984 and 1988. I learned that he won South Carolina and ran a good campaign, much like Barack Obama. Bill Clinton was the narrator.