I’m in a shoe store, trying to buy sneakers. (The last time I bought sneakers in a store…I guess Foot Locker, most likely…was maybe thirty years ago, if not longer. And yet here I am.) Nothing fits — my feet are too wide, not to mention the prominent bunion on my right foot (which is unfortunately not a dreamed-up condition!). And there’s Paul, looking at me with sad, understanding eyes. Then speaks in that beautiful raspy voice of his.

“You know, I’m about to break for lunch, and I know you’re busy, but I think we can take care of this. My father is a podiatrist and we can just go over there, and he’ll see you and fix you up.”

(FYI, Paul’s father in real life was definitely not a shoe salesman.)

So we go. And there’s Mr. Bart Giamatti, standing behind a gas grill, cooking up a variety of meats. I’m lost for words — why is the podiatrist not…podiatristing, and instead, grilling? But now that I’m here, what can I do? I wait, because that’s what you do in a doctor’s office. You wait for the doctor to see you. Eventually.

I wait a long, long time. So long that I eventually wake up from this dream.