January 18, 2005

• The Dream

  
  

   

  
  

  My notebook is nowhere.  I looked all morning for it but gave up and had to rely on memory.  This was three years ago so that gives you an idea of how powerful the dream was for me. 

  
  

   

  
  

  I saw him in the woods.  He was with Kerry, my painter, only Kerry was the age he’d been that first day I met him, back in ’84.  And I’m not sure it was at this point that I knew they were father and son.  I don’t remember what I was doing there, but they were busy doing something manly. Wayne, his dad, was around my age; that is we were both in our 50s.  He looked like a fisherman’s version of Crocodile Dundee, all sinewy and lean.  Not really my type.  The lean part was good but there was nothing soft about him. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Kerry introduced us and then he was gone.  I followed Wayne back to his place, on the Siletz.  We were no sooner inside, when his neighbor appeared at the door.  She reminded me of Pam, my dad’s second wife, when they first married.  His neighbor had that same dark, short hair, the petite figure.  She was pretty in the same homespun way; just off the farm.  She’d brought him a plate of something like meatloaf.  It was approaching dusk, and I got the impression she was hoping to stay for dinner. 

  
  

   

  
  

  I make myself scarce, sitting on the edge of the single bed, in what must be a guest room, except that the bed’s rumpled, like he’d just slept in it.  It’s adjacent to the kitchen where they’re standing.  I’m suddenly tired so I lie down and watch them through the open door.  He thanks her for the food but he’s clearly not interested and she leaves.  Being a very polite and amiable person, this takes a while.  I roll over and in between the bed and the wall, on the floor, are pieces of a puzzle.  There are just a few stray pieces, backed in red.  I can see the dull red now.  I roll back over because he’s come into the room.  I am completely at home here and look up at him, smitten. 

  
  

   

  
  

  He takes me into the kitchen and picks up a cast-iron frying pan.  Opening the door that leads out to the deck, he grabs his net and, leaning down, scoops up a fish, right out of the river.  He plops the fish into the frying pan and standing in his spotless kitchen, with a look of adoration on his face, he offers me up his best. 

  
  

   

  
  

  I woke up and called Melissa.  “You know how I never remember my dreams”?

  
  

   

  
  

  Melissa says, “What time is it?”

  
  

   

  
  

  “It’s time to get up.   Go make coffee, I want you to tell me what this means.”

  
  

   

  
  

  It’s only when I’m explaining who Kerry is — And of course she’s stopping me with, “How much does he charge?  Is he good?”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Can we just focus on the dream?   I mean they guy is not even my type.  He’s one of those hunter-fisherman types.”

  
  

   

  
  

   It was only then that I realized I had a last name.

  
  

   

  
  

  Melissa said, “You should look him up in the phone book.  Better yet, you should call your painter and ask about his dad.”

  
  

   

  
  

  “No, I know all about his dad.  He lives across the street from the woman Mary and I used to have coffee with, when I lived above 45^th.  You remember that playgroup?  Besides he’s gotta be 75 years old.   It’s not the right guy.” 

  
  

   

  
  

  As I’m writing this I’m wondering if I got the name “Wayne” from the dream or if I woke up and knew his dad’s name was Wayne.  It would be like me to get to a guy’s house and not know his name.  Not that I’m loose or anything, I just have a terrible memory for names.  This is why I need to find that journal.  Anyway, the guy looked exactly like a Wayne, a name I’m not fond of.

  
  

   

  
  

  I call Kerry, reluctantly, and relate the dream.  He’s painted inside and out for us, since 1984, but since the divorce I’ve not spoken to him.  So it’s been a while and I know H had him repaint the living room after I left.  So I’m not sure how friendly he’s feeling.  And as I spin my tale, I’m wishing I hadn’t called, except that he’s my biggest clue.  He politely gets off the phone, being no help at all, and I move to the phone book.  I find the name and dial.  Wayne picks up but he’s got the kind of twang that dashes my hopes, that and he’s married.  After embarrassing myself again, I hang up, giving up.

  
  

   

  
  

  To be continued…

  • 1:51 am
  • 4 Comments