January 21, 2005

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  The Dream

  
  

   

  
  

  Part III

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  There are a couple trucks in the driveway and they appear to be workmen.  I have no idea what I’m going to say but I get out of my car and approach them.  The shorter one takes the lead and I stammer around until I can think of no other course of action than to relate the gist of my dream. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Instead of laughing, the short one says, “You sound just like my wife.  She puts a lot of store into her dreams”

  
  

   

  
  

  I can see by the reaction of the other two that they are more skeptical.  And I’m really wishing I had my journal because, for the life of me, I can’t remember what their answer was.  But at this point I remember asking if anybody was named Wayne.  The tall one, with the white ponytail and beard, was the one who must have been single.  Because the short one sprang into action.  He starts telling me about how the tall one had this place down the road, just like I’m describing.

  
  

   

  
  

  I look deep into his eyes and ask, “Do you fish?”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Yeahh,” he says, carefully, looking at my red sandals and red patent-leather bag.  I am wearing a short, wrap-around skirt with matching short-sleeved cotton T-shirt.  My lips are red and my hair is done.  He’s looking alarmed but the short one wants to hear more.

  
  

   

  
  

  I am noticing the tall one’s biker clothes and making noises like this was a big mistake.  The short one sees me giving up and steps in.

  
  

   

  
  

   “His place sounds more like what you’re talking about.”

  
  

   

  
  

  The tall one’s just watching me but the short one has pulled out a pen and paper and says, “Give her your address.” 

  
  

   

  
  

  He writes down his address and phone number and even his last name, and hands it to me.  He’s starting to look a little more receptive.  I thank him, shaking his hand. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “I’ll go see if it’s the place,” I say.

  
  

   

  
  

   We are staring at each other, trying to make snap judgments.  I turn around to leave, feeling three sets of eyes on my back. 

  
  

   

  
  

  I drive downstream a ways, until I find his address.  I don’t want this to be the house because there are two flags flying.  One looks like a Hell’s Angels kind of flag and the other looks like a Viet NamVet flag.  But I notice where it is on the river, and it’s much more like the dream.  I get out and go around to the back of the house.  The deck is different but I climb the stairs and peek in the windows. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Thank God it’s not a kitchen.  I am surprised to see the expensive telescope and chair, the two lone pieces in this back sitting room.  There is a coat rack, along the wall.  Freshly laundered coats are each hanging on their hook.  This guy is tidy.  I suddenly feel like I’d invaded his privacy enough.  It was time to leave the dream behind and go home to W.

  
  

   

  
  

  Again I forgot about Wayne.  It was writing about the Siletz that brought up the memory of the dream.  And it was when I closed my eyes and remembered standing on the deck, while he was getting the net, that I saw the hillside, as it looked in the dream.  But I was looking left. 

  
  

   

  
  

  ALL THIS TIME I HAVE BEEN STANDING ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE RIVER.

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

   

  
  

   

  • 2:21 am
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