Category: cars

The Crashing Dreams

What does a smoking motorcycle, a Mustang without brakes, and a double-decker tour bus have in common? Well, they were all part of my dreams last night.

In the first, I stepped out of my house and walked down the street. What’s striking for me is that this is my real house and street, where I’ve lived for the last fourteen years. My neighbor, who’s resided beside me that entire time, was on his motorcycle with his girlfriend. (Said neighbor typically has six to nine motorcycles in his garage.) This one was a gray bike with a sidecar (which he does not own). I paid little mind to them other than to wave, as they, talking and on the bike, passed, heading down the hill. But I heard her say, “It’s smoking.”

Watching, I agreed; the bike was smoking. I couldn’t tell where the smoke originated.

Backward, they came back up the street. I thought he wanted to say something and prepared to tell them that they motorcycle was smoking, but after passing me going up the hill backwards, they went down back down the street trailing growing plumes of gray smoke. As they reached the bottom, the motorcycle burst into flames. The then rode back up the hill toward me.

The dream ended.

In the next one, I was at home with a female friend. We were chatting as we sat on the sofa. I asked her if she wanted something to drink. I offered cranberry juice, beer, wine, and, of course, water. Before she answered, my wife came home.

Several people, including children, were with her. One man carried a complicated toy. As this all happened, a Ford Mustang appeared. An older model, it’s on golden jacks to hold it up. Parts are strewn around it. Someone says, it’s a project car.

I played with the complicated toy. A basketball-sized light grey sphere, it had multiple buttons. Pushing some caused wings and wheels to extend or retract. Pushing another caused videos to play in a small screen.

After playing with the sphere, I checked out the Mustang. Its wheels and tires had been removed. Despite that, I got in with intention of moving it forward a few feet, as it was blocking things. I did move it by releasing the parking brake, but then discovered it wouldn’t stop. With the guy yelling, “Stop, hit the brakes,” while running behind me, I gently came up to a stop against a square metal rod that was sticking up.

“Why didn’t you stop?” he wanted to know, catching up.

“This car has no brakes,” I answered. Though it was still on jacks (how the hell it rolled forward, I have no idea), I pointed out that the brakes had been removed.

Despite that, he insisted, “It has brakes,” though I kept pointing at the empty wheel wells and telling him, “No, it doesn’t, look.”

I finally walked away from him in exasperation. My female friend was standing close by. “Oh, my God, I forgot your drink,” I said. “What would you like?”

“I’m just leaving,” she replied.

I then realized the guy and the Mustang was gone. “Where’d they go?” I asked my wife. “He doesn’t have brakes. It’s not safe. We need to stop him.”

The dream ended.

Next, I’m driving on a narrow street through a town. Though it’s two lanes, it’s extremely narrow, crooked, and uneven. A white, older van tries to pass me. He swerves dangerously close as he does. I speed up. Ahead is a double-decker tour bus. I can’t believe it’s on these streets. It’s swaying back and forth, threatening to tip over to one side or the other.

I want to pass the bus. I can’t because the white van is in the other lane. The white van turns off but the road has narrowed to one lane. I can’t pass the bus now. As I feared, it wobbles hard right. Falling against a building, it crashes to a halt, blocking the road.

The bus is leaning against the building. I stop. First, I need to see if everyone is okay. Second, I want to get pass this bus and go on.

I enter the bus. I’m on the top level. I find that it’s actually three levels. I call out, “Is anyone hurt?”

Various replies come back. Many say, “No,” but some say, “We’re alright.” Others say, “Are we there yet,” and “We’re hungry. When are we going to eat.”

I explain that I’m just checking on them, I’m not part of the company, but someone will be coming along. Meanwhile, I work my way to the front of the bus and then down the steps. Once down, I exit the bus and leave.

End of dream.

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Sunday Slivers

  1. The skunks came back.
  2. I’ve installed outside lights in the front to dissuade nocturnal visitors. These lights are solar-charged batteries with motion sensors because skunks aren’t supposed to like lights. What else can be done to stop them? The web suggested mothballs. I deployed them. After doing that, I heard a noise and checked it out. The lights were on. A skunk walked up to the opening, lifted the board, and entered foundation. Damn it. Lights and mothballs had no effect.
  3. I escalated from mothballs to ammonia. “Put some ammonia in a bowl with a cloth to deter skunks,” several sites recommended. I did. The first skunk to show up seemed deterred. Not the second. Skirting the bowl, they headed on in, then left twelve minutes later. So…grrr.
  4. I know they’re different skunks by their tails and stripes. One skunk has white in the tail while the other’s tail is all black. White tail also seems smaller. White tail is the one who ignored the ammonia.
  5. I doused the board with ammonia and set it up again. No visits last night were recorded. I’ll refresh the ammonia tonight. I want to ensure there are no skunks (or other animals) under the house before I permanently fix the space.
  6. Watching television, a Ford commercial often plays. It extols Americans’ belief in speed. Yes, we believe in speed (snark). I’m not certain what they even mean. Are they defining speed as a value for our society? Sure, if you’re into fast food. Highways are limited by speed limits. Ford isn’t encouraging us to haul ass down highways over the speed limit, are they?
  7. That same Ford commercial tells how Americans love the great outdoors. They show a car — well, an SUV, to be technical — rumbling across the land. That’s not being outside, Ford. That’s being in a car. It’s called driving.
  8. Yeah, I know, splitting hairs in modern America and overthinking these things, aren’t I? I’m still simmering about how ‘literally’ is now used, along with ‘decimated’ and ‘obliterated’. They’ve all become weapons of hyperbole.
  9. We didn’t receive a Visa bill this month. Freak-out city. What happened? Why not? Going online to our account, I navigated to statements. No September statement. WTF? Why not? Occam’s razor: we didn’t charge anything on it. Really? But wouldn’t they/shouldn’t they send a statement to tell us they received the last payment and that we don’t owe them anything?
  10. When we told friends about not receiving a Visa bill, their response was astonishment. Like, “Wow, I don’t think that’s ever happened to us.” Yeah, we’re all standard American consumers. Charge it. We always pay it off, though. Every month.
  11. Tucker, our black and white moo-floof, has established a new routine. After using the litter box in the morning, he then steps out. Releasing a little cry, he tears through the house like the devil is after him. After going from his litter box (yeah, weirdly, in the office), to the farthest spot in the house (the master bedroom), he’ll pause for a few seconds. Then the second leg is initiated in reverse direction. Don’t know what’s behind this. I’ve talked to him about it. He says there’s nothing wrong. His urine and feces seem okay, fur and eyes look great, excellent appetite. Seems happy and healthy, and the litter box is clean. Well, you know what I mean.
  12. Tucker’s post-litter box sprints scares the hell out of the other cats. Our home has hardwood floors with rugs in the kitchen, halls, dining room, and foyer, carpeted in the bedrooms, office, and living room, tiled in the utility room and baths. This mixed terrain means that as Tucker takes corners and encounters the hardwood or tile, he’s sliding, scrabbling for traction, and making a lot of damn noise. The other cat’s don’t hold to see what’s going on. They react, “WTF!” and hit the pet door running. At least twice, the other two boys reached the pet door at the same time, which caused another, “Ack!” freakout moment for them.
  13. Cats. They are characters.

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The Unlocked Doors Dream

I was in a city. Busy, busy, busy, I was trying to take shortcuts to get from one place to another.

As I rushing along, I saw an MG TC. In beautiful shape, I was familiar with the car, and was aware that an elderly man owned it.

What the hell, I thought. I’ll take that. Then I’ll return it to him later.

The car was cream-colored, it’s top down. It fired up immediately. Off I went. The drive was magnificent. Its smooth ride amazed me. Driving on residential streets through autumn weather, I encountered no traffic, stop lights, or stop signs. It put a smile on my face.

As I arrived at my destination, guilt and worry struck. How was I going to get the car back from here? Why did I take it? What’s wrong with me? He’s an old man and that car is his treasure. He’s going to worry about it.

Another man came along. As though aware of my thinking, he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll get the car back to him and take care of it. Go on.”

I was reluctant; this didn’t seem right. But the man had already taken the car and was gone.

I turned and went on, entering the building. Inside was a cypher-lock door. I entered the combo but it didn’t work. Others were arriving. No one knew the cypher code. “He must have changed it,” I said. Finding a phone, I called to get help, dialing extension 2884, which used to the telephone extension used for U.S. Air Force command posts around the world. Whatever base you were on, if you called that extension, you could reach the command post.

I dialed it but the door was unlocked as I did, and then an old friend opened the door from the other side. He said, “I saw you on the monitor and came out to let you in.” As we entered, I headed for ‘my’ door. “Oh, no, my door is unlocked,” I said with worry. “All the doors must be unlocked.”

“No,” my friend said. “I just unlocked your doors for you.”

The dream ended.

Image from MGexp.com/registry. Sorry, not my car.

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The Camp Shower Dream

I was at a camp. Everyone at the camp were sitting in a large building with orange wooden walls. The building had three rooms. One was a small shower. The largest room was filled with rectangular orange wooden tables and chairs. The third room was small and bare.

All the campers were in the room with the tables. Most were seated at tables, but a few were standing. I was standing, back behind the leader to one side. The leader looked just like Enrico Colantoni, the actor. He made an announcement that everyone was going first be allowed to take a shower. People began getting up and moving toward the shower, located on the end of the table room.

I told the leader, “You can’t do that like that. It’ll be chaos. People in the shower will come out and have nowhere to go because everyone will be waiting to go into the shower. It needs to be organized. Have everyone leave the room and go wait outside. Call them in one table at a time.”

He dismissed the idea, but I kept preaching it to him until he capitulated. As he explained the plan to the assembly, I walked around the third room. Empty except for broken extra furniture, I listened, kicking furniture pieces as I did.

I realized that it was cold outside, so sending people out to wait wasn’t a good idea. Returning to the main room, I saw it was already empty. Six people were emerging from the shower, the first group.

I told the leader my concerns about people waiting in the cold. He said, “They’re okay, they’re waiting in their cars and running the heat as they need to.”

I reacted, “They have cars?” That surprised me.

The dream ended.

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Layers of Dreams

I was walking, and needed to cross the street to get my car. I decided to sell that car and get a new car. A new car wasn’t available, so I kept walking.

It was a suburban street, one like a winding paved street through a housing sub-division. My mother came by in a car. She was driving a big green convertible. The top was down. Ice cubes filled the back.

She stopped to offer me a ride. I said, “Why are you driving this big boat?” It looked like a ’63 Lincoln. She replied, “It’s my car.”

“Why is the back was filled with ice?”

“In case I need it.”

Thinking, why would anyone need so much ice, I got in the car. She said. “Of course, I really shouldn’t be driving. I’m drunk.”

I said, “Let me drive,” and opened the door to get out. My wallet fell onto the street. I kicked it a little ways away. As I went to get it, my mother drove off. I could see her looking in her rearview, so I kept shaking my head.

I went into a store to buy a new car. As I walked around, I encountered others and realized that I wasn’t wearing a mask. Finding a mask, I put it on and continued walking around. I encountered many others without masks. I always asked them, “Why aren’t you wearing a mask?” They began avoiding me and leaving the store.

I was at home. People were coming for a meeting. I was preparing snacks for them. Mom was helping. I arranged food on plates. My wife came up with a large platter of uncut cheeses. “What should we do with these?” she asked.

“Cut them and put them out,” I replied. Then, I cut them all with one knife, making little slices as Mom and my wife watched. As I was placing the slices on plates with other food, someone said, “The plan is changed. We won’t be eating. We’re meeting someone else.”

My wife asked, “What do we do with this cheese?”

I answered, “Wrap it up.” Then I wrapped it up, to show her what I meant.

I still needed a car. Going outside, I found a gleaming black machine. I circled it, admiring it from different perspectives. “I think this is my car,” I told a friend who came by.

He laughed. “Of course it is.” Seeing confusion on my face, he said, “It’s always been your car.”

Dream end.

2

Stake Out

He hadn’t planned a stake out. When had he ever? But usually he had coffee or water. Neither were present today.

Weather was good, though. Smoke was clearing, letting stray sunshine sneak in. No rain seemed likely.

Good. He hated rain on a stake out. Always ended up with steamy windows.

At least this car was decent for it, an accidental good choice. The Mazda CX-5 was his first SUV. The front seats were roomy and comfortable. Lots of space to relax, wait, and watch.

Not like most his cars. The Porsche was a joke on a stake out. The Mercedes and Audi were alright, the Bimmer a little tight. Still, it was better than the RX-7s — three of them– and the Camaro and Firebird. The last RX-7, though, the R1, was the worst. Pretty car but the interior was made for driving and not sitting and waiting.

Movement. He sat up, poised to move. Yes, there was his man.

Jumping out the car, he hurried forward and waved his hand. The tow truck driver slowed his vehicle. He pointed across the street the gray Ford Focus. “Over there.”

The tow truck diver nodded.

Ben walked to the Focus to wait. Funny, he’d never done a stake out in it.

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The Car

Monday, I was settling back into my writing routine. Had my coffee, had surfed the news and fed the cats. The cats were now asleep. I was ready to write.

Well, first, one quick computer game. I’d just begun when the phone rang. Churlishly, I checked the incoming number. If it wasn’t someone looking for me that I wanted to talk to, I was going to let voice mail answer.

It was my wife’s cell phone. She was out making food deliveries to shut-ins, something she does once a month with Food and Friends.

I answered (of course). (No, there wasn’t even hesitation.) “K’s answering service. She’s not home right now. May I take a message.”

“My car died.”

“Died?”

“I’m trying to start it. It won’t make any sound.”

“Are there any lights?”

“Just one that looks like the little teapot.”

“Where are you?”

“Corner of Terra and Siskiyou.”

“I’m on my way.”

I was dressed and just needed shoes and mask before I was on the way. I figured, battery, but was surprised. I’d bought her a new battery two years before. She doesn’t drive it much. Other thoughts: alternator, maybe solenoid switch or starter (didn’t sound like it, though). I had cables, and would try jump-starting it.

But first — “I have to finish the route,” she said, transferring the food to my car. “Then we’ll worry about the car. I just have two stops. Then I’m supposed to pick up money from Judy. She and a friend want to donate to help some Y employees who lost everything. I’m taking up a collection so I can buy gift cards.”

I already know all of this but it’s part of her process to go through her own checklist aloud. She’s not actually talking to me.

We complete all that and get back to the car. Because of where it’s parked, my cables are too short to reach it. I head back home because I have a longer set, and return.

The car won’t take a charge. Although the radio comes on, the engine won’t turn and the starter makes a tinny clattering noise. I know the sound: it’s definitely a flat battery. But it’s a five year battery that’s two years old.

Probably the alternator. I can’t change it myself with the arm I have. I’ve swapped out three generators or alternators in my lifetime (also replaced a starter before). That was decades ago, when I was younger. Besides, that Ford’s engine compartment is too packed. The traversely mounted engine is festooned with wires. There’s not a spot of daylight in it. The cars’ engine compartments of my youth had room to work, less wires, and simpler belts.

I’m also annoyed. I’ve been after my wife to replace her car for about fifteen years. We’ve had it for seventeen years. Since the beginning, my wife has complained about its squeaky brakes. Its auto transmission also does some odd clunking. Then there was the seat fabric; it’d worn through, so I’d put some custom seat covers over them. It looks great, but it all points to a cheap car.

That’s not a surprise. When we bought the car, one of her requirements is that it use regular gas and it costs less than fifteen thousand dollars because she insists on paying cash for cars. The woman does not like having debt.

My annoyance has been growing because I’ve been telling her that parts will start failing. “But I don’t use it much,” she answers. “I just drive it around town. And we keep it in the garage.”

“They’ll start failing from age and fatigue.”

“But it only has a hundred and five thousand miles on it.”

“That has nothing to do with it. It’s still a 2003 car in 2020. Driving it less is actually worse for it in many ways.”

She’s not listening. A tow truck is arranged. The car is taken in for testing. “You need a new alternator,” they tell me.

I nod. “Yeah. I know.”

2

The Pie and the Professor

I dreamed I made a pie. I think it was something creamy but it looked like it might have been key lime. The flavor was never addressed.

I was talking to a friend on the phone. A retired Yale professor of literature, Herb, he’s a social activist and someone I admire. Never dreamed about him before, though.

I told him about my pie during my telephone conversation with him. He said it sounded good, so I told invited him over to have some whenever he was in the area.

Next, I’m walking down the street. It’s a sunny, pleasant day. A dark blue Volkswagen is coming toward me, a diesel, from its sound. I think that can’t be my friend, because he doesn’t drive a VW, but then he pulls alongside, and it’s him.

He puts down his window. “Michael! I came by to taste your pie.”

Well, cool. We go into the house. I’m about to serve him a slice when my phone rings. A woman on the line says her name is Lily and she’s my friend’s wife. Except I know his wife and her name isn’t Lily.

She tells me that she needs him to come home right away. I relay this information. He replies, he’s going to have a piece of pie first. I relay that to Lily and hang up. Then I serve Herb some pie. Grinning — as he’s so often doing — he sits down to eat.

Dream end.

4

Another Changing Dream

Found myself wealthy with dreams last night. This was my favorite.

I’d left the military and I’d change clothes, twice. We were in a busy olace, an amalgam of city, countryside, stores, restaurants, and airport. It changed with where I ooked. That seemed right.

Now I was running late. Friends (K and W) and wife (B) accompanied me, and waited. I told them, “I need to take care of some of my change. There’s so much, I want to deal with some now.”

They mildly complained but I laughed them off and went to my car. Hard-edged and shiny, it was bright lime green wedge, exotic, expensive, and new. Yet my things were in it.

Young, energized, feeling liberated, I opened a panel up, revealing a long, light gray tray. Normally hidden from view, it went half the car’s length. Phones, electronic gear, clothing, paper money, and silver coins were in this tray. I couldn’t reach them because it’d all slid to the back, facts pointed out (with a laugh) by K, W, and B.

I replied, “Watch.” Jiggling the car caused the stuff to shift forward, letting me grab it. “There’s so much change,” I said, laughing. The others asked me what was funny but I didn’t explain. I put handfuls of change in my pocket to use, and then took some clothes to put on, and took a blender and a phone and put them into other parts of the car.

Traffic was heavy. We needed to go. After putting sunglasses on, we took off. The trip was short and fast. I swear that lime green car was flying.

After parking it and exiting, a dream about shopping began

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