Dream Thiever

In this dream I’m the only monster. Well...except for Carrot Top

I’m sitting in a camp chair drenched in the ick of a humid day. I’m clearly tripping but I’m not sure what from. There’s a pack of 20-year-olds giggling over there. The carrot-top looking fucker has my iPhone. I’m gonna bust his head open.

My dreams are always in Technicolor. As long as I can remember, they’ve always been that way. Literally a movie unfolding before my eyes—I’m in the colors, smells, sounds, sensations so vividly. I don’t often remember most of them except in the few moments of rolling over in the middle of the night “whoa…” Last night’s subconscious adventure gave me a chilly thrill. I sat up and wrote down snippets for today’s recall.

Dreams can be frightening. They can be informative. Some people spend lifetimes analyzing them. Not me. For me dreams have always been fun—or at least entertaining. I don’t have the interest or time to dig into what my subconscious is trying to tell me. Lord knows I’ve spent enough time in self-reflection in my waking hours.

In my youthful REM sessions, I flew around a lot. Jack Purcell sneakers on my feet jumping rooftops—boy superhero shit. Those aren’t so frequent anymore. Nowadays they seem to be more like epics—I do Clive Cussler-like adventures now and then. Movie stars visit me in my dreams. I don’t even get what that’s about—sure I’ve always loved the cinema—but in my dreams the visiting stars are rarely heroic or important—they’re just dudes showing up. Brad Pitt once arrived astride a Backhoe to help me move sand around on the beach. I remember watching a Cardinals baseball game from behind home plate with Jon Hamm. I’ve motorcycled with Norman Reedus. Did blow with Robert Downey Jr. There’s of course a thread of influence to a recent movie or series or book. I’d seen Pitt in the WWII tank movie Fury not long before he popped in for a 2 am visit to my REM session. Tank—backhoe—OK. I know Jon Hamm grew up in St. Louis and is a huge Cardinals baseball fan like me—you get the idea. Never have I actually met any of these men. Its subconscious context.

Last night no screen legends showed up, but A-listers of another kind were there—my wife and a couple of old friends.

Before I unveil the full weirdness of my posterior cortical hot zone action last night—my waking cinematic gambits lately have been dark. Ann and I finally relented and dove into Stranger Things on Netflix. We’re also watching Reacher on Prime. If you’re not familiar, Jack Reacher is a mountain-of-a-man protagonist—borne of the mind of novelist Lee Child. I’ve read probably 20 of the 28 novels. This particular series on Amazon bastardizes the novels—and the character of Reacher—into a more modern-day form of the wandering misfit knight-errant. Violent. Conclusive. Last but not least we’re consuming Season 5 of Fargo on FX and Hulu (speaking of Jon Hamm). If you’ve not watched any of the seasons you should. They’re stylish, funny, and black as coal.

So there’s all that shit floating around in my brain.

My first retrievable sequence in the dream is of Ann and I driving to the athletic fields, unloading a little picnic setup—and then suddenly I’m off in search of my appointed duty.

Wait! Cut! Cut!

Ann is rarely in my dreams. Rarely are my dreams idyllic and lovely. They’re never really frightening, but they rarely start out so placid. I’m paying attention to What. Is. Going. On.

Action!!

Apparently, I’m there to save the day for a lowly recreational football team. There are games going on all across the field complex and I finally find my team. Their welcome is underwhelming.

“Dee you haven’t practiced or even been to a meeting all season,” whined Francis from the St. Louis Lakers Ultimate team. Where the fuck did he come from? Cool.

“Hey Francis! You guys suck—that’s why I’m here. Gimme some of that Gatorade punch and pipe down.”

I huddle up. Suddenly it’s tackle football. OK I can deal. Except I’m in blue jeans and flip flops and an old black Regatta-de-Blanc tour t-shirt. And I’m my current age. And the other guys aren’t—they’re like 25 and big. OK I can deal. This is what the fuck I’m made of (see Reacher). I look over to our QB position—which by the way I should be playing—and it’s my dear friend Karen. Now mind you this is a fierce woman—seasoned executive—borne leader—but she throws like a girl. WTF is going on here?!

Cut!!

Reflecting on this dream this morning over coffee, I could remember the arrogance I felt in that dream moment—the entitlement—I’m the fucking quarterback. I love you Karen but can’t you see? I think part of the purpose of dreams is to work out some of the evil shit in your brain subconsciously before it surfaces to your conscious mind? One can hope.

Rolling—we have speed—and Action!

Now I’m lined up at the wideout position and take off downfield on my route. I get decked and fall flat on my flip-flop wearing fuckface. As I’m lying there, I feel the strongest urge to take a poop. I shit you not—I have to go drop the kids off at the pool—right now! I hobble off in search of the concession restrooms building—don’t really remember any of that action but let’s assume there was a proper departure. I’m kinda stumbling back down the ramp to the fields and I see my team celebrating in the end zone. Karen has laced a pass downfield and they’ve scored! Right about then it hits me—I’m tripping like a son of a bitch.

Cut!!

For those of you normies I’ll explain. Using and drinking dreams for sober people are downright maddening and very real—often painful and fearful. At some point in my recovery there was a shift. I was able to witness myself using or even—like in this particular dream—actually feel the effects of myself using—while somehow being disassociated from it at the same time. Hard to explain but it’s real. I’m tripping—I know I’m tripping—but my mind is at arms length from the tripping.

OK People! Positions! Rolling…and Action!

I’m back at the fields and suddenly the games are over and the players are gone. I didn’t get to congratulate Karen. I go in search of the picnic spot chosen by my sweetie earlier—only it’s gone and so is she. How much time has passed? Cars coming and going from the lot—the next set of games. So much color—and noise. Muddy guys in eye black and cleats and Under Armour everywhere. There was long ones, tall ones, short ones, brown ones. Black ones, round ones, big ones, crazy ones.

Sidebar: Yeah OK—I poached an Eric Burdon lyric here in the telling of the dream—it wasn’t actually in the dream—it’s from Spill the Wine. Can’t afford to be accused of plagiarism in this day and age.

I find an empty camp chair and plop my sweaty tripping ass down. I’m comfortable here—it feels familiar—but I know I’m not where I’m supposed to be. My phone magically appears in my hand. I’ll call Ann! Only I can’t get the phone to work. No matter what buttons I push I can’t seem to get rid of the Taylor Swift TIkTok from my screen. I must be tripping—I don’t listen to TS and I don’t do TT. But there it is and I can’t do anything about it. Must. Call. Ann. Getmethefuckouttahere!

One sweaty boy rolls up on me—hey mister is that T-Swizzle you’re checking out?

I can’t get my phone to work it’s broken.

The red-headed fanboy and his meatsack buddies loosely circle around my tripping senior citizen distress call. I can fix it, says Carrot Top, give it here.

Next thing I know I’m very alone again. Still tripping—and things start getting darker—within and without. Where are those delinquents and my lifeline? I close my eyes and focus—think Eleven in Stranger Things—minus the wet floors—and I see them. They’re huddled around the bleachers giggling at something on MY phone. I’m on them in an instant.

Give me the phone. Quietly the first time. No interruption.

I won’t ask again. I grab a fistful of Carrot Top’s hair and smash his stupid freckled fucking face into the side of the bleacher strut. He goes down in a bloody heap releasing the iPhone. The other little monsters step back in shock—awe—amusement—I’m not really sure cuz I’m tripping—at this bald-ass senior citizen taking back what’s mine.

I roll on—in my flip flops—cuz that’s what Reacher would have done after backing down a pack of wolves. As I’m walking away, I call my sweetheart.

Where are you? Where have you been?

You’re in big trouble mister. Are you OK?

Please come get me I need you.

And then I woke up. And I held her. And I told her of the tripping lunatic I’d just been in my subconscious. She giggled. I wrote down some notes. We went back to sleep. I’m finishing the story over coffee.

Credits:

This is a true dream. This is not a true story.

Names of the living have not been changed. Names of the dead—Carrot Top—are entirely fabricated from the messy but fun subconscious mind of your humble author. Any resemblance to copywritten material or storylines is simply your imagination.

Just another fun and exciting night in the life of 65-year-old newlyweds.