Tag: Michael

Another Michael Dream

I was at some resort/business conference, mixing business with pleasure. Younger, I was traveling alone but had met with a group, mostly male, but a few female acquaintances. No relatives were present.

Everything was going smoothly. Prizes were being given out, assignments made, directions planned. While off on my own to one side, sitting, I ran into a former female boss. She asked about my health. I told her about my tendon surgery, showing her where the incision had been made. Then I reminded her that she’d known about that. Agreeing, she wished me well and moved on.

I then moved to another place, a tall table with a chair, to wait for friends. A man passed. I knew of him – elderly, with silvery gray hair, dignified, and gay. I also knew his name was Michael, same as mine. We exchanged nods as greetings.

My name was called to pick up a package, I went to a counter cluttered with packages. One was given to me. As I looked at the name, I saw the first name was Michael but a Spanish surname followed. I knew it was the dignified man’s name and pointed out that this wasn’t my package. I was told that the other guy had turned it down, so it was being given to me, and that I should take it and like it because it was a better package than what I would get.

I went off with that and ran into friends, explaining the package thing with them. Then I returned to the tall table and chair.

The dignified Michael passed several more times. I chatted with him, flirting with him about his plans. He was amused but kept quiet.

I then went to be with another group. More prizes were being given out, and I was again given dignified Michael’s package. I then commented that I kept receiving his package instead of mine.

I stripped off my clothes and was in a neon orange speedo. I decided to walk a back over to where food was now being given out. Although I was almost naked and was drawing attention in my bright speedo, I was comfortable, and heard women whispering how good I looked, which made me grin inside. I then got to the counter where I was given a third, larger package for the other Michael.

Dream end.

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Regulars

I am a known coffee-shop regular. The manager gives me a wave and a grin as she deals with the guard picking up the previous week’s take. I put in a fake order, an oat-milk iced siracha dusted with chocolate. The barista laughs. My usual order already awaits me at the pickup station despite five people in line ahead of me.

My favorite corner table is available. I’m soon in the writing realm, pretending to be a famous novelist. Habib approaches, bag in hand. “Michael? Cinnamon.” I don’t catch the other words as a wave of sound takes them out to sea.

I know it’s not mine. But I know another Michael is here. He’s one of five other regular Michaels I see coming through.

“No, it’s Michael’s,” I tell Habib, pointing out the other Michael. The other Michael waves and then gives me a thumbs up. Habib pivots his way.

This is how it goes in the life of a regular.

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He Who’s Like God

My name is Michael. It’s supposed to mean ‘he who’s like God’ in Hebrew. I don’t know how I got the name. Mom blamed Dad; Dad blamed Mom.

I’m mixed about it as a name. Overall, it’s a good name but there’s just so many of us out there.

I’ve used different names at different times for different reasons. Just the other day, I used a different name when I was talking to my wife. I was on a DIY project to fix the oven. As a dedicated Budgeteer, I’m not a noted handyman. But man, I sure do try. So, as my wife was going out the door, I told her, “I vow that this oven will be fixed upon your return, or my name’s not Patrick J. Carpenter.” My name is not Patrick J. Carpenter, of course. That’s the humor of it. I hope.

As a stumbling novelist, I often consider adopting a different name. There are many writers out there known as Michael Seidel. Many are successful and popular. Some are German. There’s also a weather man named Mike Seidel. I think he might be retired. Either way, all those other Michael Seidels cast a shadow over this Michael Seidel. I since speculated, maybe I’ll seek publication as Taylor Sands. Except I looked up Taylor Sands, and that’s a porn star.

Back in the think tank, I changed Sands to Rush. Taylor Rush is a successful doctor. Other options were chased, like Taylor Chase, and rejected after research. For instance, there are 90+ profiles for Taylor Chase in LinkedIn. I finally came up with Taylor Booking.

Taylor Booking, novelist. That might work.

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The Studebaker Dream

Dream fade in. I’m a young adult. I’m with a real-life friend who passed away a few years ago. He’s charging me to take care of his care for him. “Drive it over to the condo and put it in the parking garage,” he tells me.

The car is a silver 1956 Studebaker Golden Hawk in pristine condition. I agree to do as he asks. He and I are on vacation together, along with our extended families. I drive the Studebaker over and park it in the garage. I can see it from the rented, shared condo. The condo is enormous. The living room/dining room/kitchen combo’s entire western side is open to the sun and surf. Yes, surf, because it’s located right above a long, flat beach. Wonderful sunshine and blue sky are visible outside.

The condo is busy with people coming and going, talking, making plans. All of the people are familiar t me. Many are real life friends and relatives.

I’m part of the conversations and activities about our plans. But I’m also distracted, concerned about the Studebaker. Word comes to me that it needs to be moved to let some big truck by. I don’t want to go over there to move it. But somehow I have a black, wireless remote control. Using it, I start the car, back it up, let the truck by, and then park the car again. I end up doing this same maneuver three more times. In parallel, I discover that the remote works on other cars as well. I keep moving cars for people using the remote.

Then we’re all dashing around, doing things, collecting groceries, making meals, eating. As that happens, I discover that all of the Studebaker’s windows are shattered. The car is also riddle with dents and scratches. Non-plussed, I wonder aloud, what the hell happened? I’m concerned about what my friend will say about his car’s condition.

While I’m still fretting, we all go outside to enjoy the sunny beach and ocean. It’s wonderful out there. Then, shallow, long waves enter. News reaches us that there’s a storm far offshore driving these waves. Sunshine glitters along the waves. We talk about what a powerful storm that must be.

I return to the condo for something. When I’m in there, I hear shouting from outside. Turning, I see a long, flat, white wave race up the beach. It’s not deep or thunderous but it was wholly unexpected by everyone. Watching, I see that no one is hurt. Fast moving, the water only reaches most people’s knees.

Although the condo is above the beach, the wave rushes into the condo. It carries me, upright, the condo’s length. I laugh, enjoying the experience. Looking across at the parking garage, I realize that it’s gone, along with all of the cars which were parked in it. I’m amazed but relieved; I can’t be blamed for my friend’s car damage now.

The water swirls around inside the condo. I wish for a towel. Then I realize, damn, I left it on the condo floor. It’s underwater now.

I think, I should have picked up a towel when I saw the wave coming.

Dream end.

A note: the man who passed away shared my first name, Michael. The car in the dream was made the year that I was born, 1956. Coincidence? Who knows?

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