Triangle Cars in A Dream
Two dreams remain with me from last night. In one, people were buying cars shaped like triangles. In the other, I was a new commander take over my position.
In the car dream, I was with my cousin, Steve. I haven’t seen him in decades. I was thinking about buying a new car. Steve decided he was going to buy one, two. Another fellow was also buying a car.
Steve ended up buying a new Pontiac Trans Am. Black, or charcoal gray, it was shaped like a equilateral triangle. If it was a door stop, it would have been too stout. I didn’t know about triangular cars. This was news to me. There weren’t any wheels. Not as tall as me, I couldn’t see how people could fit into it, nor how it would work.
While Steve bought his car, another person bought an Audi triangular car. The two cars looked remarkably similar. A salesman approached, asking if I wanted to buy a car with wheels. “Why would I do that, when these were available?” I asked back.
I wanted to drive my cousin’s car, to see what it was like. After a little debate, he agreed. We opened doors, got inside, and we took off. Man, I’m telling you, triangular cars are amazing. Driving it was effortless. They accelerate like a rocket but hold the road like a Formula One racer, but they do not actually ride on the road, but a few feet above the surface. We were a little snug inside but the technology was amazing. The experience left me grinning with pleasure.
In the other dream, I was a new commander. It was my first day. I was in a huge briefing room, waiting for others to arrive. My dark blue uniform was crisp and creased. I wore shiny black and red shoes and had decided to roll up my pants cuff to form a larger cuff and show some ankle.
Proud, ready, and confident, I stood at ease awaiting the others’ arrival. The Commander-in-Chief had arrived to oversee the transition of command and was attending my first briefing. When the double doors opened, I stood at attention and saluted him, and then awaited as the others filed in. They did, taking their seats, chatting about me, impressed by my deportment. After the sat, I did as well. I was a little bothered about my cuffs at that point, ruing the decision to roll them up. We sat and waited.
Nothing happened.
After some period of waiting, I grew aware of another set of doors to my right. I opened them and found a conference room full of seated women. As soon as they saw me, one began giving a report on their finances. Another one interrupted, arguing about allocating expenses to another cost center. I don’t remember any of those details.
Neither dream ended with clear understanding. I liked the elements of triangular cars in the first dream and how effortless and pleasurable driving them were, and the black and red shoes in the second, and being in command. Those cars were amazing, even though I have no idea how we managed to fit inside them. Driving them was cool as hell, like a dream come true.
They were confusing dreams, but strike me as optimistic and uplifting. What about you? Have any intriguing dreams recently?
Cynical Me
“Anyone driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone driving faster is a maniac.”
George Carlin had it right. I stew behind other drivers, awaiting the day when they will be in a self-driving car, leaving me to self-righteously and serenely pilot my car around the roads the proper way.
I have categories for “them,” the other drivers that irritate me. Probably at the top of my list are bizarro drivers, employing a secret logic for their decisions. “School zone with a speed limit of twenty? I’ll go thirty-three. Residential area with a speed limit of twenty-five? I’ll go thirty-three. Country road where the speed limit increases to thirty-five? I better slow down to twenty-eight.”
WTF? I canna fathom their thinking. I’ve written it before and will do so again, their brains are wired backwards. Further proof of this is how they treat yield and stop signs with the exact opposite behavior directed by the sign, and the law behind the sign. It’s a yield sign, so they’ll stop. It’s a stop sign, so they’ll roll through. When “their lane” is ending, they don’t make an effort to signal, move over, merge and integrate, oh, no, that would be too logical. They just keep going straight, hanging onto their lane until others are forced to give way and let them in.
Arrrrrrr!
Let’s not even consider what the hell happens in traffic circles and parking lots. Both of them are like driving in the Thunder Dome. Add rain to the mix….
What is it with rain that it seems to make so many drivers frantic and more erratic? It’s as though the rain causes them to think, “Which out, it’s raining,” and their backward wired brains trigger the opposite of safe behavior. “It’s raining, let’s speed, and not use turn signals, and drive down the road straddling the dividing lines, because we want to be safe.”
Madness, I tell you, frigging madness. Add in some distraction, and OMG. The distraction need not be much. Construction in progress and police cars with flashing lights going off to one side, I can understand, but why are you slowing down to look at people walking dogs? Have you never seen people and dogs before? Are you looking for missing people or missing dogs? Are you not familiar with creatures walking?
This bizarro behavior afflicts cyclists, too. More than half of the cyclists that I encounter around our little town are on the sidewalks. All those great bike lines and bike paths? They seem to treat them like they’re lava zones that will kill them if they enter.
No, I don’t understand. But then, everyone else is an idiot or a maniac. I’m the only sane nut on the roads.
Ragged Dream
Leaving a business conference. Get in my car to drive away. My wife is with me and my car is a silver sports car. I start driving down the road when I notice someone not in their lane off my right rear quarter panel. Concerned they’ll hit me, I accelerate and move to the left. The road is rough and bumpy, with many cracks and potholes, but eventually, with some drama, I get clear of the other car, a large silver SUV.
We come upon a little truck stop. We’re to pause there to meet up with others. They’re already there, including several friends from my life. We purchase food and coffee. Some of my co-workers are there. We gather around a guy who’s explaining what we need to do to collect expenses and be reimbursed. A co-worker asks for an expense slip. I realize I need the same and request it. I’m also given some additional travel money. Pleased, I go off to join my friends.
I’m ready to hit the road; they’re not. I try to complete paperwork but realize a few things are missing so I can’t complete it. Then I worry about my car from something I see through the truck stop window. I go out and check on the car and find it’s fine. Back inside, I hang around a cashier counter, idling at racks of food, map and magazines, waiting for my friends. They come out. “Ready to go?” I ask.
“No, not yet, just a little while longer,” one female friend answers. “I want another cup of coffee.”
“Ten minutes?” I reply.
“No, twenty.”
I accept that but I’m not happy. Returning to the counter, I press a button on a small device and discover I’ve inadvertently purchased three lottery tickers. The smarmy, greasy, toothless cashier demands payment, and I fork over ten dollars. Inexplicably, I return to the device. I think I’m doing something else and hit the button to buy lottery tickets again. I’m so exasperated. The same cashier demands payment, and I do it. And then, I hit the same button one more time.
This time, I can’t find the money to pay him. I thought I had more money. The cashier crows, “Then I’m just going to have to take these lottery tickets back. No money, no tickets. That’s how it’s played.”
His attitude annoys me but I’m more annoyed that I don’t have the money I thought I did. And people around me now think I don’t have money, and that bothers me. Going through my wads of papers I’m holding, though, I uncovered a fifty dollar bill. “There,” I say, trying to show it to others. “I do have money.”
The end.
The Beater
Nice weather always steers me toward washing, waxing and polishing the cars when time becomes available. We only have one car wash in town. Reliable and pleasant ten years ago, it’s a wreck of a business today. Three of the five stalls don’t work. The other two have issues. It’s often a dice roll as to what’ll happen.
I tried washing the car first on Saturday afternoon. Six other drivers were pursuing the same idea so I went back Sunday. Both stalls were in use. After studying their activities to see which might end first, I chose stall one and pulled up to wait.
A woman was cleaning a Subaru in stall one. A beater, I thought, noting the tells of its narrowness, narrow, small wheels and tires, and elderly design. A beater is a car that’s usually old. Typically missing its wheel covers, as this one was, the car runs sufficiently for local errands but isn’t to be trusted going too far or too fast. It usually has mechanical idiosyncrasies, windows that no longer align, or doors that don’t open and close correctly. Sometimes they’re missing knobs and things like the cigarette lighter. Based on memories of friends’ vehicles, I reckoned her Subaru was a mid-1990s model. She was cleaning out its back with some household cleaner and a rag.
“This is against the roles,” my resident citizen huffed within. “You’re not allowed to use rags to wash the car at this facility.” My indignity climbed. “She doesn’t even have money in the machine!”
Well.
My interior philosopher roused himself. “Relax.”
“Relax?” How dare he suggest that I relax. Rules were being broken. Why, without rules –
“What tangible impact do her actions have on you? You’re going to wait a little longer, that’s all that I know. Do you have somewhere you’re rushing to be? No. Show patience and tolerance.”
Well. His reminder miffed me. Mind you, he was right, but still. It’s the thought, right? She’s breaking the rules. And being intolerant and inconsiderate, right? If she’s breaking these rules, what other rules does she break?
“As if you don’t break rules,” the philosopher said. “Distract yourself. Kill time. Play with your stereo.”
I did as he suggested. After a few minutes, I glanced up. She was spraying her car now, actually washing it.
Well.
Another car had arrived. I glanced at the other stall to see how far they’d advanced. Walls obscured my view. I didn’t know how close they were to ending. They were using the wand again, versus the brush.
Well.
I resumed fiddling with the stereo. Her car’s engine noise drew my attention. She pulled up to the end of the stall.
What the hell?
What was she doing?
She continued cleaning but obviously not with the spray.
Was she finished?
I pulled into the stall. Exiting my car, I called, “Are you done in the stall?”
“Yes. I need to do more but I ran out of quarters.”
The facility has a change machine. I always bring sufficient quarters because the change machine is often broken. I collect them for this purpose. How anal am I? “I have quarters, if you need them,” I said.
She laughed. “No, I think it needs more than quarters. It’s an old beater. My last kid has left the nest. I don’t need a beater any more, so I’m cleaning it to sell it. You know, first impressions.” She laughed again.
“I see.” She was right. The car needed more than a car wash. Wax, polish…paint…rust remover….
“I’m hoping someone else will buy it,” she said.
Well, of course it would need to be someone else, I thought with irritation.
She continued, “Somebody must need a beater.”
I nodded. “Yes. Everyone should own a beater at least once in their life.”
Washing my car, I thought of my beater. That horrible brown Oldsmobile was at the top of the list. What a mess it was but my wife and I were both working, and had needed a second car. Other beaters? None came to mind. The cars I owned in Germany, an Audi, BMW and Merc, were over twenty years old by the time I gained title to them but all were robust and well-maintained vehicles. My wife fondly remembers the BMW 2002 as one of the best cars we ever owned. The newest of the trio was the 1980 Audi 100. It was the one that failed us, throwing a rod while blazing down the Autobahn. Likewise, the Toyotas we owned in Okinawa were more than ten years old but mechanically and cosmetically fine. I didn’t consider them beaters. I trusted all of them. Of course, Okinawa was an island. We couldn’t drive far without running into ocean.
The woman finished. “Have a good day,” she called, getting into her car.
I nodded. “Good luck selling your car.”
She laughed. “Thanks.”
I watched her drive away. The car looked okay.
I hoped she sold it. Somebody probably needed a beater.
The Dream Car
My dream memories are weakening. Perhaps as a subset of aging, we begin forgetting our dreams. Perhaps our dreams are the reality, and we’re forgetting reality. Maybe both are reality and both are dreams. Can we hold those two ideas in our heads?
Either way, I remember dreaming last night but don’t recall much of them. Perhaps that’s because I slept almost seven and a half hours. The dream I remember features an enterprise being conducted in my garage. I was recovering and re-furbishing junk and trash with other people. They were at a loss about what to do with it. But I was like, “Just fix it up and put a price on it. That’s what I do. Don’t overthink it. Just price it and forget it, and people will buy it.”
The garage, a double car space, was well-lit. One of my recovered treasures was a car parked alongside me. The car was an almost mint 1965 Ford Mustang convertible. I’d found it and fixed it. Now it was mine.
I had it in the garage but pulled forward. Behind it, in the garage, I’d spread a large blanket on which I’d collected and worked on items. Working on something small in my hand, cleaning it and putting it back together, I was absently answering questions posed by another. I neither remember the questions nor the questioner, nor my answers. What I recall is that some copper metallic exotic car rolled past with a howl of sound outside. And I paused to watch and identify it. I don’t know what make the car was, only that it was rare and expensive, which I was telling my companion, laughing as I did, wondering why such a car was in this neighborhood.
Then the exotic car returned. Slowing, the unseen driver executed a u-turn in the street but didn’t drive away. “Ah, they’re looking at the car,” I said as I realized it. “They’re impressed with this old Mustang.” As they should be, I thought, looking at the car. White, its top was down. It was rust-free, with clean lines, and waxed and polished.
“I should sell that,” I said, realizing that others would want this car, and then smiled, pleased that I had such a car.
Pocket Change
Some loose thoughts rattling around in my mind’s pocket.
- Trivial Pursuit was released on this day in 1979. My wife and I love the game. We eat at Brothers, where old cards are on the table so we can ask and answer the questions. Trivial Pursuit replaced Risk as my preferred game. My friends and I used to have monstrous Risk parties when I was stationed at Kadena AB. Empire became my favorite computer. It ruled for a few years during my Germany tour.
- The Risk and Empire parties always featured beer, wine and cigars. Risk was an iffier proposition where beer was considered. We were on Okinawa. This was the early 1980s. There weren’t many great beer offerings. My friends drank Miller Lite. Gads. I was always searching for something. We didn’t have this problem in Germany, where plenty of decent beers of all preferences were available.
- I was a great cigar smoker back in those days. Churchills were favorites but I liked Madura wraps.
- My beer group met last night. We collect money from our weekly meetings to donate to local STEM efforts. Last night, two representatives from Southern Oregon Area Robotics came and collected $500 from us and give us an update about their progress, victories, plans and losses. This money helps them with material and transportation costs as they compete in robot competition.
- One of the SOAR students last night is graduating high school this year and will be attending design schools. She loves designing cars. I love car designs and my friends do not, so it was terrific to discuss the Ferrari J50, BMW i8 and other designs with her.
- You always need to figure out how they like it. Maybe it’s just me, as a buddy at Onizuka Air Station used to say, but cats don’t all like to be petted the same way. Tucker enjoys a good belly stroke but you must first follow certain protocols to be permitted belly access. Deviations can be dangerous. Whereas DO NOT TOUCH BOO ON THE BELLY. I repeat, DO NOT TOUCH BOO ON THE BELLY. Don’t attempt to scratch his chin, either. We don’t know what happened in Boo’s past life, but he’s tremendously leery of being touched and he will attack you without any warning, so I’m warning you. Yet, someone will always try.
- Quinn, on the other hand, is a little love bug, throwing himself down at your feet, visiting with strangers on the street, whatever. He’s a happy little loving cat.
- A decent dark beer remains absent from our beer offerings where we meet each week. The porter on hand has a cream soda flavor that we detest. Enduring wasn’t a problem, as we imbibed the most excellent Ashland Amber Ale from Caldera and Ninkasi Tricerahops DIPA. As always, the conversation was interesting and the time was gone as fast as the beer.
Michael Seidel, writer 