islands in the dream

I don't know what this fragmented dream means that I had recently. Maybe you can decipher. I'm seated in a café along with 3 others, perhaps somewhere in the Keys. Seated at my left elbow is Spencer Tracy, his face hidden by a white panama hat. Crossways sits George C. Scott, and straight across from me is Hemingway. A dream come true right there!

There's heavy drinking going on (surprise!), except I'm having milk. He doesn't think I notice, but Tracy is stealthily spiking my milk. There's boisterous arguing, about what, I do not remember, other patrons and café help are staring in shocked amusement, but I'm quiet.

Suddenly, The Three turn to me for my opinion on a vital matter, probably some Mixed Imbibement Philosophy, and I stand unsteadily. Looking first at Scott, then at Hemingway, then at Tracy's hat, I give it for all the room and veranda, with sufficient force to inflate ladie's skirts and un-anchor sleeping boats in harbor. Shiver me timbers. A waiter grabs my arm ("not soooo hard!"), Hemingway rises slowly and gigantically and takes a wild swing at him, missing. Tracy chuckles and Scott returns his attention to his glass. We are asked to leave by the white pants aproned proprietor.

Outside, we Four are walking away single file in lock step. It seems incredibly chilly, and one asks, "why is it so cold?"
Tracy looks up from under his floppy hat and smiles, "because we're not wearing pants!"