A short film opens. I'm in the front row. From here, the upper part of the screen's at such a low angle that the microprisms making it bright overdo it, washing out highlights but bringing out deep-brown lowlights that for most of the audience must be unreadable in the shadows.

In those shadows, I see words. They say (to autistics only, I guess, since only we are likely to detect the subtle pattern) "All-Autistic Film." Wow, the actors too? Impressive--they could pass for normal! Among the four narrators, two very attractive girls. If they're autistics, I can hope to find a girl I like in my own ethnic group. I thought we were all too geeky, not in our bodies. Wrong!

We pace the lobby. I tease him: "WE should be on the program as the world's first ALL-autistic band. I mean, I'm a flamin' aspie, Nic makes couture out of garbage, and you... let me count the ways!" As I blurt it out, I realize... I kinda mean it. We're all on the spectrum. And should be on that stage.

When's the real show gonna start? Ah, here we go... the lights flicker and warmup notes come through the entryway. I trail Mike back through the entrance corridor, five paces long...

And then the ceiling drops on us! And the floor rises. Like a whale's throat choking up. Both floor and ceiling seem to be made of stiff, reinforced cloth, and when they want to seal the theater, they push the floor up and let the heavy ceiling droop...

I'm used to normals excluding me for my geeky behavior, but now even AUTISTICS are denying me a chance to hear other musicians of our tribe?

When neurotypicals lock me out socially, I let them--feel any club threatened by me will be too narrow-minded (translation for non-autistics: BORING) to be worth fighting to enter.

But THIS makes me mad! So I decide to push. The cloth's too stiff & heavy to squeeze through, so I use shamanic power--I kick and shake it, sharply, not with my foot but my will.

BABAROOOOOM! Like theatrical thunder made by shaking a big metal or cardboard sheet. Bet they heard THAT inside!

And I'll keep thundering like the ghost of Beethoven... till they let me in.

And then... not. Gotta teach them--rudeness has consequences.

My music: autistic thunder.

I left... for a week. He emailed later to "explain" that my critiques were so harsh that he just couldn't play with me there.

My apparently telepathic critiques.

Such denials had troubled me for months--Mike'd ask for feedback, then play anything but my suggestion for an hour or so, then play my edit among many as if he came up with it, and adopt it. My journal first complained of this time-wasting, face-saving game five months before this dream. I assumed it urged me to quit tolerating this.

Until, months later, he did it.

Not that the dream helped prepare me much, really. It was still a shock when it happened. And one I haven't resolved.