Sitting in the coffee shop, I sometimes take a break to pay attention to the people waiting for their coffee. Some are jittery, constant movement. Like they’ve already ingested a significant amount of caffeine, buzzy as little kids on a sugar high.
Then we have the impatient customer. Frequently tapping a foot, normally with hands in pockets or arms crossed, they look like they’re sighing over the unfairness of having to wait so darn long for their drink. Many of these will turn to their cell for comfort, chatting, texting, reading stuff, watching videos.
Others waiting for coffee assume a cool Steve McQueen demeanor, leaning back with mild indifference. The coffee will come and nothing they do will hurry it, so why bother? It’s not surprising to see some of them casually check cell phones, oozing as they do.
Fourth are those with the coffee stare. Stiff as a bronze statue, usually with their arms crossed, they posture right up against the counter’s edge, eyes opened wide, unblinking, waiting for their order. As drinks are made, you can almost hear their neurons shouting, “Is that mine? Is that mine?”
Finally, we have the laissez coffee set. Ordering, they find a table or sit until their order is called out.
The copter continues the watershed cleanup. I can watch him manuever through the kitchen window. Sounds give clues of his comings and goings. Right now, he’s resting in the air above the peak of a conifered-blessed mountain.
Looks like a good flying day out there on Tuesday, April 23, 2024. Sunshine gleams off windows and cars. Full-fledged green leaves on trees dapple lawns and houses with shadows. A few clusters of cloud islands hold steady on the western horizon.
It’s 17C outside, about 62 F. We’re heading for a 76 degrees F high. Rain has a chance but it’s less than 40% chance. Usually at those odds, we don’t see it.
Mom is supposed to be heading home today. She should actually be there, per the schedule, as she told me she was being released noon Eastern. Which was almost an hour ago. I find that most hospitals are optimistic about when things will happen. Like the military and DMV, there’s a lot of waiting at a hospital. I’m living on a hope that she’ll go home today and be relatively healthy and happy for a while and put some of these health scares to rest.
With that thinking, I tripped down the trail of what it used to be like back home, when I still held the flowers of youth in my appearance. The Neurons responded by conjuring a jazzy Stevie Wonder song that speaks to that essence, “I Wish”. The 1977 song is echoing through my morning mental music stream (Trademark drifting). I found an online offering of him doing the song live in 1982. Sweet. I hope you enjoy it.
Here we go. Stay positive and be strong. Vote Blue in 2024, and let’s see if we can stem the retreat of rights and sanity. Coffee is brewed and ready to be introduced to my body.
I was in the Pittsburgh International Airport baggage area, awaiting our luggage’s arrival as though they’re rare precious animals. We’ve already taken the first needed steps after a long flight of relieving our bowels.
It’s weirdly quiet here; sounds echo in the tall, wide chamber. Other passengers sprinkle in , surrounding the system like an army laying siege to a fort. We’re all cold, with postures as though we’re huddling. Airport A/Cs are usually set low enough to preserve popsicles.
I recognize fellow travelers, such as the tall elderly man who wobbled slowly up the jetway, and the young Japanese woman in colorful fleece pants and jacket who appears as if she’s walking while asleep. Most people are silent as they wait, checking messges or reading emails on their phones; a few start talking on cell phones, giving all of us broad strokes about where they’re at, where they’re going, what’s next for them.
A harsh buzzer bellows. The red light on its single metal tube begins spinning. Mechanical grinding and groaning rises. The metallic system commences its hurried orbit around the central chute.
We watch and wait, watch and wait, arms crossed, sighing, coughing, as the belt goes around bereft of bags. Of course, it’s the end of a journey for the bags, too. Hundreds of yards away, they left the aircraft and are traveling the system. It’s supposed to go faster than the passengers, so the passengers don’t need to wait.
That has yet to happen at any airport I’ve ever used in the United States. At last comes the thump announcing the first bag. A red hard-sided piece slides down the chute with a hiss. We crane forward to see the lucky person who claims the first bag.
It isn’t me. My bag is black, I remind myself. My wife’s bag is brown leather. Sighing, I cross my arms and look forward to the next bag, watching as it bumps along, waiting for its person to show, feeling dismayed as more bags are claimed and the others trot away. Then, finally, a flush of triumph; our bags have cometh.
Bags claimed with grunts of exertion, we hustle on to the journey’s next stage: the rental car counter. There is some relief that all has gone well. I feel myself shedding travel anxiety. Every step has the potential to disrupt safe and succeful travel. Knock wood, it’s gone well for us.
We leave the baggage area tired but smiling, pressing back into the terminal against the flow of people coming down to find their bags. Good luck, I think to them.
The dreams flowed together. All were of a military sort but had nothing to do with my military career.
The first found me with others outside, beside parked cars outside of apartment and business complexes. My wife was with me and the others. All the folk were dream acquaintances, no one from real life.
My wife said with alarm, “I just heard that they’re going to set off a nuke.”
Disbelief coursed around the group. Several said, “They wouldn’t.”
A muted boom froze us. Turning like one being, we looked across and over trees. A bright white light flashed.
“They did it,” someone said, a comment echoed by others.
“We’d better get away,” people said, “get to shelter. Run, hurry.”
The rest ran. I stayed by a car. I wanted to see what would happen to me when the nuke’s energy struck. Seeing it coming as a red light, I closed my eyes and ducked my head, then flattened against the car’s side. Red radiation painted my skin. As I rose, looking at my skin, I thought, I’ve made a mistake. I shouldn’t have done that.
But it was done.
Next, I was with an army in place outside. We were all in woody camo gear. Thin, steady drizzle dampened our spirits, clothing and equipment. Across the valley was a like enemy encampment. We were waiting for them to attack.
The waiting was so tedious. Boredom overtook me. And I was cold, wet, and underdressed. From this, I decided to sneak away to get a outerwear. With continuing glances to ensure I wasn’t observed but also that the attack wasn’t imminent, I stole away from the woodsy front. Behind it was a village with widely spaced dwellings. Free of tension, relaxed, it was a wholly different state. I found the cottage where I’d been staying, went in and found my gear. After changing, I added the coat and headed back out.
Outside, I saw our commanders talking, heads down, close together, strolling. I slipped in behind them, following them, to see what I could learn. Eventually, they went to a place where a whiteboard had a map drawn on it. They wrote on it. Continuing to spy, I realized that the two men were in love with one another but wouldn’t address their relationship, and that was paralyzing their abilities to think, plan, and lead. Dismayed, I headed back to the front.
Back there, I settled back in. Nothing had changed. I stayed for a while, watching, drizzle falling, chill air kissing me, until someone came by and told me I was relieved so I can sleep and eat. Fully dressed, I settled into a bed. Someone else was on my left side. As I slept, others would join me and I’d wake up. Typically a woman, they would curl up against me for warmth, slept for a time, and then leave. Waking to return to duty, I knew that had happened nineteen times. One had been my sister, who came by, laughing, confessing that she’d heard I was warm and comforting.
I returned to duty. Looking through the drizzle across the valley, I saw a smiling white woman with frizzy brown hair and glasses appear. The enemy commander, I knew. I passed the word that she was there and warned others to be ready because she was working her way down through her troops, and I thought they might be preparing to launch their attack. We got ready to fight but the commander went down and disappeared from sight.
Suspecting subterfuge, I began watching our flanks. In a moment, I saw her appear, coming to us from the left. “There she is,” I told the rest, rising to go and confront her. As I went out, though, she transformed into another person who looked almost the same.
Surprise surmounted me. Had I been wrong, or was this a trick? I divided my time between watching her and surveilling the enemy across the valley, waiting for something to happen.
I’d been selected to be a messenger. Don’t know who chose me, nor the message.
I was waiting to get the message in my place, a small apartment in a large high-rise building. Few windows let in light but natural sources outside were diminished by storms. Friends and acquaintances visited. Several noticed that I had four model cars in a case. These were Formula 1 cars from the 1970s and 1980s, 1/12 scale. People bent down to look into the black case to see them. As they began commenting, I turned on the case lights so they could see them. Up front on the right was the Ferrar 312 T which Lauda drove to championships. Behind it a little was a Mclaren MP4/4, a model driven by Senna and Prost, with the markings and settings for Prost’s vehicle. I explained these things to everyone, but then, the time for me to act as messenger arrived.
The message was given on a slip of paper. I went out and delivered it, no problem, despite a deluge. Coming back, I descended a long, steep hill on an asphalt path. Left of me was busy thoroughfare, twelve lanes of newly paved road, packed with cars. At the bottom of the hill was an intersection where a wide new road came down from the right. I needed to cross that wide road. My building was on the other side. I could see its parking lot.
Rain still poured as thunder rumbled. I stepped onto the road into the crosswalk, then looked back and left to ensure the cars turning right from the main road were letting me pass. They were stopped and waiting, so I waved thanks and proceeded. Mind shifting to the traffic coming on the road which I crossed, I saw a huge tanker truck approaching, going way too fast for conditions. I stopped to await the outcome.
The long truck, a blue tractor with a silver trailer, was rushing toward the intersection, sliding with his brakes locked. As he passed me, the truck entered a slow jack knife and then fell over onto its side and slid more, stopping just after entering the intersection. Everyone saw it coming and stopped. No one hit it and it sat on its own, alone in the intersection.
A young Black man on a blue bike had been riding down the hill toward the intersection. When the truck arrived and jack knifed, the bike guy braked hard, slid, lost control and was thrown from the bike.
I rushed to help, recognizing that he was also a messenger. He was conscious but dazed, sitting on the roadway, his twisted bike to one side, rain drenching him. Others came to help him, too. I told them to call for an ambulance. Someone suggested helping the truck driver, but I disdained that; he’d brought that on himself, I thought, and others were undoubtably going to help him. A glance that way confirmed that people were at the truck.
I asked the bike rider, “Are you a messenger?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Are you hurt?”
He shook his head. People went to help him up. “No,” I said. “He had a big tumble. There may be injuries which we don’t know. Wait for the EMT.”
Then I asked him, “Where does your message go? I’ll take it for you.”
My wife has been sleeping in the guest room, driven there by back, hip, and other issues. That left me and the felines in the master bedroom. The cats and I have been comfortable. My wife closes her door because she’s a light sleeper. The cats’ activities easily awaken her. Meanwhile, she runs the air purifier. This habit originated with the Skunk Wars. While we’ve won (for a while — skunks are part of nature and nature usually wins in the end), she still runs the purifier becomes she’s grown addicted to the white noise.
All that is background, explanation to why, at about three this morning, I awoke and said to the cat sleeping by my head, “Tucker, I think I need to use the bathroom. I think I need to have a bowel movement.”
The admission surprised me. This isn’t the time that I usually crap and I’m a regular crapper. I’d been feeling fine and sound asleep. My stomach was mildly aching, though, when I awoke so I went on in there and, lo, it was like a huge dam broke. Relieved, hands washed, stomach fine, I headed back to bed.
All this is background to why I was awake to hear Papi vomit at 3:16 AM. Papi has been sick for two days. Not eating nor drinking water. We’d been forcing water into him via a syringe, along with Rebound. His vomit is always the same: thin, yellow, bile looking stuff. He doesn’t vomit often, nor in large amounts. After checking on him, I returned to bed. 3:28 AM: he came in and used the litter box. I got up to check the results: solid feces.
I was hopeful from there. He’s been looking okay, no wounds, but lethargic and not eating. I’d checked on taking him to the vet but all twenty vets within the Ashland-Talent-Phoenix-Medford-Central Point string of cities and towns except two emergency sites were closed on the weekends. I’m always an optimist, so, I opened a can of food to entice Papi to eat. He wasn’t buying but the other sick cat said, “Yum, yum,” and went to town.
At 4 AM, Tucker and I went back to bed. Papi the sick kitty began banging on the door to be let outside. I explained to him in a taut, rational voice, no fucking way. He kept on for a while, claiming that he’s a cat and doesn’t understand English. Finally, after 4:30 passed by on the clock, he went somewhere to sleep.
I was worried, though. Where was he? Was he okay? I checked on him. Yes, he’d found a living room spot where he’d settled with a glare, because I wasn’t letting him out.
When seven forty-five struck, my wife came to me. She was getting ready for her exercise class, and we needed to call the vet. I talked her into calling so that I could gain a few minutes of extra sleep. Our vet didn’t have any appointments available, she reported back. They recommended we take the cat to an emergency service.
Pushing myself awake, I ginned up the computer and hunted down the list of vets and called. No appointments available. I finally called the emergency service and set up to take Papi in. We left the house at 8:45 and made the twenty-mile drive.
The SOVSC is set up for COVID. It’s a large operation, a fashionable and new metal, glass, and concrete building that looks like a high school. Nobody goes in. You wait outside and the come for your animal when they can. The parking lot was full of vehicles with pet owners bringing animals in for care. We called in, explained who we were, what car we were in, and joined the queue.
Papi wasn’t happy about it and voiced his belief that we were torturing him. We’d brought books to read and coffee and water to drink but Papi was telling us that the car and the kennel wasn’t where he wanted to be. We commiserated; it’s not where we wanted him to be, either. He wasn’t buying this any more than he’d bought the food earlier.
I was struggling with Papi’s sickness. About six years old, he’s always been an energetic, happy, healthy cat, tail up, dashing around, chatting to me about the other cats, food, toys, the way I was petting him, etc. It seemed impossible that he was sick. But he was, like a switch in his body had been thrown.
Time passed. We comforted Papi and watched proceedings with other cars, owners, and pets. The clinic called us for more information. Phone problems were encountered with their system. They were calling people, but nobody was receiving the call, including us. They came out and fetched Papi. They would call shortly. Well, the calls, you know…
They came out and fetched us. We were taken into a small room for a consultation with the vet. When the vet came in, my wife and I did a double-take; shouldn’t this child be in school? (“You know you’re old when everyone else starts looking like children,” my wife later told me.) The vet told us some things that were expected about him being dehydrated, confirmed his habits, then told us that he had some muscle atrophy that looked more long-term. That stunned us into silence. A plan of treatment was set up: hydration and observation. Xrays and ultrasound. Blood work. He’d need to stay overnight, of course. Here’s the total estimate, two grand on the low end, thirty-five hundred on the other end. We need a two grand deposit.
We arrived back home and ate breakfast at 11:30. Here we sit, depressed and wondering, going through the habits and routines that define our lives. I remind myself of shit. There’s a war going on — another one, creating another humanitarian crises, triggering another wave of refugees. COVID-19 has killed or incapacitated a huge number of people. Bad things happen to people every day, including rape, murder, and abuse. Houses burn down. Likewise, horrendous things are visited on animals. And, yeah, we’re privileged enough to have the money to help our fur friend. Others are not so fortunate.
That’s where the brain argues about emotion versus logic. Emotion doesn’t give a damn about what others are enduring. Take your logic and shove it, the emotional neurons shout.
I experienced three distinct airport dreams last night. Two were of the, ‘hey, I’m traveling in an airport’ style, once with my wife, and once without her. They were essentially just in the airport, milling around, waiting for my flights, without any events happening. The third was weird.
My wife and I were in our thirties and looked just as we would in photographs of that time. We were outside on asphalt, between low building with white siding. The buildings reminded me of military buildings erected in the late 1950s/early 1960s. Cyclone fencing encircled the site. Beyond were tall pines and firs in a sandy but flat land sketchy with broken asphalt and foundations where other buildings had been torn down.
We talked as we waited. I asked, “I wonder how much of this land and these buildings are going with us?” Because it was my understanding that they would fly us out by lifting the land we were on. I was struggling to visualize that process.
As time passed, we drifted into another area. Tall, fat, white, cylindrical pillars held ceiling up hundreds of feet above our heads. The paved area was open on all sides. People in knots, clumps, groups, were waiting all around although the center was clear. I walked around a while, looking, wondering when we were leaving, then found that I’d lost track of my wife. As I looked for her, I heard an announcement that our flight was ready and that we need to return to our places.
A stocky pale man with short hair, a red baseball cap, and a goatee asked, “Are you looking for your wife?” As I nodded and replied, “Yes,” he said, “She went to the Starbucks,” and pointed. I turned and saw my wife up on a platform, waving at me. Thanking the man, I walked toward her and waved her toward me, telling her, “Come on. It’s time.”
Recent dreams — or memories of them (probably more likely) — have taken on a flash story aspect. They’re short. Concise.
I dreamed of football again. American football, playing it. My team was a ragtag group of friend. Male and female. We had no uniforms. The rules were a little weirder, too. Our playing field was a funnel about ten feet wide.
The dream initiated me to the middle of the action. I’d been put into the lineup. Others doubted me and my role. Why me and not others? I heard their doubt. Shared it myself. I resolved to impress everyone. Show them wrong.
My team was down. Time was running out. Rain was falling. Desperation hung over us. We needed a first down. The ball was thrown to me. I caught it and ran down the field. Got almost to the goal line before I was brought down. Everyone responded, “That was Seidel?” Yes, it was me.
We huddled. I put forward an idea for one of the women to carry the ball. The rest of us would block. Straightforward power run. That idea was rejected. Something else installed. The results was a shambles. I made my pitch again. I was more forceful. This time, others agreed.
We ran the play. She was not going to score. I ran back and pushed her forward, gathering others to help me. We scored as time expired.
Did we win? We thoughts so. The larger question was, were we advancing to the playoffs? Other games remained in progress. Rain fell harder. We stood as a team, awaiting word. We were told, our record was either oh and three — no wins and three losses — or three and three — or six and three. We didn’t understand. It depended on others, we were told. Wait.
The dream began in a huge junkyard. Discarded household goods abound. My cats, Boo (a house panther) and Papi (aka Meep, Youngblood, and The Ginger Blade) were with me. Running around, they kept fighting, diverting my attention from other events as I break up their fights, scold them, and stop them from stalking one another. They keep at it, first Boo stalking Papi, then it’s the reverse, noisy and intrusive.
Then I’m walking about a densely populated office. Busy, busy, busy, the place is low-ceilinged and enormous. I can’t see either end. I’m lamenting that a major project has been canceled, lambasting management over that, wondering what I was going to do with myself. People agree with me. We’re all disappointed. It’s wrong. It should not have been canceled. A big boss came along and began commiserating. His arm over my shoulder, we walk around, him looking over about to ensure others couldn’t overheard, reassuring me, the project isn’t over, he likes my work and is keeping me on his team, and he has work for me to do. “Don’t worry, good news is coming soon,” he tells me. “Stay patient.” Okay, that buoys my energy. He’s smiling the whole time and claps me on the back as we separated.
Back to walking about on my own, now I wonder, where are my cats? I haven’t seen them for a while. Are they okay? Strangers come up and give me coins. “Found these and thought I’d give them to you, Michael,” a man said, presenting me with a little bag of coins. I find all shiny, new silver inside. New silver dollars, minted this year, quarters, and an oversized silver coin. Shinier than the rest, it just says “The United States of America” on one side and the year, 2021. A mountain range with a sunset (or sunrise) is on the other. It’s larger than a silver dollar, no denomination on it. I guess it’s a commemorative coin. I discover that I already had a red bag of coins. These are added to my collection, where I find that I had another new silver dollar and a large quantity of new quarters.
Pleased and excited, I now become embarrassed as people continue coming up, giving me coins, which are all new, and usually quarters, although some pennies are mixed up in it. “I don’t need all this,” I protest. Others assure me, “Yes, you do, take them with you on your journey.”
ThatI’m going on a journey is news to me. Others passing by give me throwaway details, “It’s the trip you’ve been waiting for,” “It’s going to be a long road,” “You’ll need those coins to get what you need,” “You’ll need them for where you’re going.” I respond, “Where am I going?” No one answers this question.
Then, excited and happy, outside now in a small and busy city square, I’m walking around, beginning my journey. Laughing to myself, I ask myself, “Are you really going? Are you going to do it?” Others call out greetings and wave to me. It’s a festive air. As a wind blows, I look up at blue sky and white clouds.
Michael Seidel, writer 