Category: cars

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.

0

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

0

The Library Dream

Randy and I were going to the library. Randy is a friend who died of colon cancer five years ago. He was a few months older than me.

In the dream, he was the Randy I always knew, although he was driving a black Mustang GT, which is unlike Randy. When, in the dream, we got out of the car, I said, “I like that car. I’ve rented one three times now, although they were the next generation. All of them were white. One was a convertible.”

Randy said, “I know, you told me.”

We went into the library. It was a modern brick and glass building. They’d called me to fix something there. Randy was just giving me a ride. Then he and I were going off to have a beer.

In the library, I sought the head librarian. She gave me blueprints. They were highlighted by supports that I needed to fix. She went off immediately. As I studied the blueprints, Randy asked, “Why are they having you do this?”

I replied, “I’ve done it before, and they know that, I guess.”

Studying the prints and the building, I found where the supports were to be fixed. But as I studied the situation, I decided that what they intended wouldn’t work.

Off I went to find the head librarian.

She was in another section with a man, working on fixing something else. Seeing me, the man said, “Oh, just fix it.”

Showing them the blueprints, I explained to them what I thought was wanted and why I didn’t think they’d work.

The head librarian said, “Well, you’ll have to take it up with him. He’s the one that sent the plans down. I’m just a messenger.”

I’m like, “Who is him? How do I get old of him?”

But the librarian was ignoring me.

I went off again to reconsider the supports and the fix. I remained convinced that they wouldn’t work.

People started entering the library. Some event was going on. Randy and I found books and then sat down to read, along with dozens of others. Most were men.

A woman introduced a man. The man, small and dark, began speaking. I stopped reading to listen to him but he was speaking so softly, I couldn’t hear and understand him.

Randy kept reading. Seeing that, the man walked over and handed Randy a card, and then walked away. He was still talking but I couldn’t hear him.

Holding up the card, Randy said, “What’s this? Let me take my glasses off.” He couldn’t do that because he had a book in his hand. He handed me the card. I read, “See what you’re missing when you don’t listen?” on it. Randy took his glasses off, handed them to me, and took the card. As he read the card and I held his glasses, I realized that my palms were sweating and his glass lenses were getting wet and smudged.

I apologized to Randy as I handed his glasses back. That’s where the dream ended.

0

The Boots Dream

Dream fade in. My wife and I had been traveling. We stopped at a little place. Turned out that an elderly couple owned it.

They were very friendly. Walking around, we visited with them. I noticed some of their yard, driveway, and parking lot was unkempt compared to their business, so I cleaned it up for them. That pleased them, as they showered me with thanks.

As I cleaned, I discovered a car for sale. An old bronze vehicle, it was circa the early sixties, long and wide, with the wing fin rear end popular among American vehicles of the era. As I checked it out, I discovered another car was inside it, and another car inside that. Three nested cars! All were bronze and white.

The man asked me if I was interested in it. I told him that I didn’t want to buy it but I wanted to drive it, if it drove. “Oh, it drives,” he replied, providing me with the keys. I drove it around the parking lot, grinning as I went. I sat inside the innermost car, which was normal size, and drove the three vehicles in one around.

Other friends arrived. My friends and I dressed to go out on the town. I was much younger now. For some reason, I was wearing ostrich leather cowboy boots with my jeans and along duster. I thought I looked great in the dream even though my consciousness within the dream was saying, “What are you thinking?”

We wandered around alleys and streets where cars weren’t permitted, poking in on shops, restaurants, and bars, trying to decide what to do as evening fell. I became separated from them for a bit and walked on my own. When I came across three of them again, I called out, “Hey, there you are. What’s going on?”

They didn’t respond, walking past as if I wasn’t there. That annoyed me. By then, I’d decided I didn’t like the boots or the duster, so I decided to head back to my hotel room. Other friends came by. They called from behind me, “Where you going?” Not up to explaining, I just said, “I’m done. I’m going on.”

I returned to the hotel room. My wife said, “Why are you wearing those boots? Where did you even get them?”

I answered, “I don’t know. They’re not me.” Then I wrenched them off and tossed them aside.

The dream ended.

0

The Wealthy Friend Dream

I dreamed I had a wealthy friend. We were both young men. He came from a wealthy family, and I was lower middle class.

But he was friendly and generous, insisting that I take his car. His car was white; sleek and flat, it looked like a clam. It doesn’t relate to any car I’ve known in real life, but in the dream world, I knew it was rare and worth several million dollars. Dangling the white square on a chain that that was the key, he kept telling me, “Take my car, use it.” I was reluctant because of its price but because I also knew it was his father’s car.

Eventually, though, I accepted. The doors were gullwing type (as seen on the MB 300 SL coupe back in the 50s and early 60s, or the later Bricklin or Delorean). I entered. The luxurious, tech-loaded interior entranced me. Driving it was amazing. Silent and powerful, everything was effortless — and it literally flew. A press of the button took it over the traffic. Amazing.

I returned to his home. He insisted that I use the car. His mother, too, who told me, “Use it whenever you want.” Okay.

Meanwhile, they wanted to feed me. Not wanting to be seen as a moocher, I declined.

Spin the dream world. I’m now in school in a creative writing class. It’s packed. I’m new to the class and a bit withdrawn and introspective, as I tend to be.

The female instructor tells us some rules, then announces that someone has died. We all react with surprise and grief. A collection for flowers is being taken up. I go up to make a donation.

I plan to donate twenty dollars. Second thoughts strike because it’s almost all I have. The twenty-dollar bill is in my hand. The collection jar is on another male student’s desk, as it was passed over to him. He and a female student are collecting and coordinating the donations. I realize, though, that the male student seems to be pocketing some of the money. I’m not sure. decide, though, to just give ten dollars, as I’ve seen others do. Seeing a ten in the pile of money beside the jar, I attempt to surreptitiously get it and put my twenty in. The woman does something, though, and knocks the jar over. It doesn’t break, but the money is a mess and it draws unwanted attention.

Dream ends.

0

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