Damnit! My Cessna isn’t working again. It sounds like engine trouble. This has happened before, but this time, I’m REALLY uneasy about it. A quick check with the manufacturer tells me what I need to do next; this lemon’s going back to the dealer, and I’m getting a new plane. I think I’d like one with more blue in the paint scheme…
We’re in the car, Jen and I, heading toward the dealer. I’m in the back seat, and Jen’s not alone up front. Thea might be with us? I’m so bummed about the plane that I didn’t even notice who got in the car, and I’m not really paying attention now either. The Cessna is on my mind but obviously absent from our vehicle. It wouldn’t fit anyway–I’m sure we’ll arrange some sort of pick-up-the-old-one when they deliver-the-new-one just like with that old washing machine.
Its grey out–its been raining a lot, not unlike yesterday afternoon. The air is moist and ionic, and is permeating into the car’s cabin through a million invisible cracks and weatherstripping failures.
We never make it to the dealer. Our “quick stop” at Patrick’s house becomes an all-night affair. Its a party! Before long, me and 30 of Patrick’s closest friends are listening to him play piano–he sounds really good! This piano he’s playing bears an uncanny resemblance to a 1914 Richmond Co. which I once bought and then immediately returned to Lipham Music.
Its getting late–I’m standing across an unmade king size bed from Jen. By unmade, I don’t mean dissheveled sheets–I mean no sheets. The imposing hand-carved and darkly stained head and footboards make this bed look like its straight out of a mideval castle.
I’m telling Jen I think its time to go, and that I’m prepared to drive us. Keep in mind, this is a party atmosphere–everyone’s been drinking, save myself because of my bull-headed adherence to this anti-chemical attitude. Jen doesn’t share that attitude. She keeps telling me that I need to call a cab. I explain to her that we don’t need a cab–that I’m fine. “But it prevents you from wanting to call” she says, suggesting that the alcohol that’s not in my system is clouding my judgement. “But I don’t drink, remember? I’m fine–I don’t need to call a cab.” The look on her face is enough to tell me I’m not going to convince her–she can’t follow my train of thought and get to the same conclusion! I’m feeling really tired anyway, so I let all of this slip away to this dream:
I’m at a bowling alley with my large immediate family. We’ve rented a few lanes near the left end of the row of identical lanes. The lights are all up and the place is pretty busy, but nobody is bowling. Not that they could if they wanted to, which they probably do, seeing as they are here–the lanes are turned off. A number of people are bustling about, getting the right size shoes and picking out the right size ball. I’m working on the latter, and come across a young woman, perhaps around 21 trying to find a ball. Only moments before I had one in my hand that, thinking back, looked like it might be perfect for her. It was 8 lbs and red. I went back to get it. By the time I handed it to her, it was 5lbs and blue. She seemed unhappy with my offer.
Shortly thereafter they kill the lights. And start to turn on some of those flashy club-lights that are all the rage in bowling alleys these days. Someone is on the PA system, boring the hell out of us while we all wait for them to turn on the damn lanes!
I “wake up”. Its the next morning. I’m watching television at home. What’s on? None other than the Patrick Hughes show! And today he’s got his son on with him.
I can hear some clattering in the distance. Without going to look I know its Jen & Thea in the kitchen, but have no idea what they’re up to this early in the morning.
Back to the show–Patrick has his kid doing some sort of weirdness, and I decide to play along, like you might when watching Mr. Rogers as a 4-years-old-boy.
So the key ingredients in this little play-along are a coffee mug and some tomato-y coloured dough.
Back on the television, Pat has filled the coffee mug with this dough, and is now insisting that his son step his foot right on into that sticky mess. Pat! Why would you do this? Oh, well, the kid seems to be going along with it so I might as well. MAGIC! Each of our respective feet go straight through the bottom of the cup, as though it weren’t there. I have no idea how this is possible, let alone how my foot and disproportionally large man-leg were able to fit into a coffee mug. My larger concerns were with my now dough-covered leg. But then even more magic–I didn’t step back out of the mug, yet here it is, safely back in my hands, still full of dough.
Following the riveting action on TV, I repeat the process with my other leg, and before I know it, I’m inundated with dough. Its everywhere, covering every limb, invading every orifice. My mouth is full of it–I have to shift it around just to breathe!
I muster the loudest mumble I can to get the girls’ attention. Thank God! I hear them coming down the hall, so I muster-mumble again to tell them I need a baking sheet, thinking “I need some place to spit this out”, as though any of the floor space around me was clearly out-of-bounds for saliva-covered dough-balls, despite the urgency.
The girls appear at the door and Jen leaves again, almost immediately. Presumably she’s left to get the baking sheet? Thea’s still standing at the door, smiling and laughing at my predicament–it must look pretty funny. She’s dressed oddly–wearing something from Morticia Adams’ closet. That and her white & gray makeup make me think she must be headed to some sort of costume party, even though its not Halloween?
Still mumbling, I manage to invite her to come in–I want for her to see the television and the insanity that Patrick is imposing upon us all. This way hopfully she will understand better how I got into this mess. We’re laughing. Maybe I’ll get my Cessna taken care of today.
Mental sidenotes:
- If you haven’t figured it out yet, this was a dream I just woke up from
- I do not own a Cessna. Nor do I know how to fly a plane. I think flight school is something I probably need to do before I die.
- I’ve never been to Patrick Hughes’ personal living space, and so have no idea if the house in my dreams bears any resemblance. Nor do I know if he can play piano.
- While our travels were certainly in Gainesville, I’ve never been on those particular roads.
- While I woke up in “my house”, it bore little resemblance to the pile ‘o blocks I call my home.
- Thea might remember the dough? It was the same stuff from the night we tried to make pasta using Misty’s cheap plastic pasta maker many moons ago.
- As I’m re-reading and editing this, I’m cracking myself up. I don’t know why!