Dream 11June2017
"School Days"

"Sir, can I ask you one more question?" The man in the wheelchair wouldn't leave. "How about the increase in Ms. Barton's salary. Did that happen?" Our department head paused uncertainly, looking sideways at Sandra. "Yes, actually, it did." Sandra seemed angry and embarrassed, unwilling to engage.

The man nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Solidarity, that's the only way to achieve our goals." He shifted one wheel slightly to address the class.

"Actually, many of the students may not know--this is the result of more than a year of continuous behind-the-scenes pressure on the administration. Right on, sister!" Now Sandra was really upset, gesturing emphatically at the door. "Thanks. Thanks for everything. Now would you mind? I have a class to teach."

"Oh, certainly, certainly. No, thank YOU, professor. It's OUR pleasure…" He cranked the wheelchair painfully to the exit, his crooked foot held aloft.

"The way I always prep for midterms is to go through the book and pick out a bunch of tiny details," Jimmy told me. "That way, even if you don't know the answer it gives you something to write about. Jefferson's mustache, for example. Did you know he never had one?"

I was dubious. "That might work in the humanities, sure," I said. "But in the real world…" Jimmy looked at me like I was insane. Do you want to pass the exam, or not?

10June2017
"The Call"

"Someone's calling you!" I woke up, sort of, listening. Not the mobile in my pants, not the landline in the other room. So it wasn't mom, unless by a psychic connection. Pay attention to that--when dreamland calls, it's time to listen.

"Mind moving my truck in?" the sheriff asked, handing me his keys, separating one out. It was a big white F-350. "I got a conference call."

Funny. I recognized the key right away, a Ticonderoga, P-38. Once upon a time I had been in charge of that security, all the masters locked up in a gray metal box, the box kept locked in the mailroom. So of course if you could get in there you could find the desk drawer key beneath the calendar pad, you could get the stamped flat box key inside the drawer, and so on and so on. Just don't force anything. That's how you get caught.

"DO NOT DUPLICATE," the stamp on the brass item read. But I knew a guy. Grabbing a pen I traced the jagged outline. That wasn't technically duplication was it. "This is not a key," as Magritte might have said, «Ce n'est pas une clé»

By accident I inserted the key in the door of the wrong white truck, stopping in confusion as the door opened and I realized my mistake. After I got the right one backed in I went down the line of parked vehicles, bumping each one with my hip to check for alarms or anyone sleeping inside. The master key turned smoothly in each one. Power. But did I really want to steal any of my friends' trucks.

I went back inside looking for the mailroom. I bet they already had some extra P-38s made up.

They had moved the postage meter and the other equipment into another room since the old days. John Corbin sat inside with his feet up next door, reading the Chronicle. It looked like he'd finally gotten that promotion. "Mind if I mail something?" "Sure, go ahead."

Something else was nagging at me, my conscience or my conscious or something. I leaned in, waved at the new guy. "Used to work here," I said.

The sheriff was in the corner office down the hall. He was on the phone, listening intently.

"Here's your key," I mouthed, setting it down in front of him.

"Thanks," he said.

Dream 03June2017
"Under Milkwood"

I never felt that comfortable calling her "Madame Secretary" – to me she was always the "Former First Lady." After all the excitement I was crazy hungry. I filled up a big bowl of soup and took it back into the main cabin where the Chief Executive was holding forth, settling into the first vacant seat I could find.

I don't think of myself as political – I was almost embarrassed to look up and see that I had chosen the center seat right in front of Mrs. Clinton. Maybe I should move and let someone more qualified sit down. The soup was cooling quickly as I typed out my dispatches on the approved laptop.

"No, no, that's fine. Everyone has a seat at this table." The new President seemed relaxed and happy now that the bruising election was behind her.

A blue plastic labelmaker label had been gripped out and stuck on one of the overhead bins of Air Force One. "WALL OF VOMIT" it read. Did that mean ‘throw up up here," or did it contain a suction apparatus to deal with the unpleasant eventuality? "The latter, of course," Hillary said, braying her famous laugh. My cheeks burned, even though I guessed I had made sort of a joke.

"Changing the subject," I said, eliciting further snickers, "'Under Milkwood.'" One of my favorite plays. It was written in the same year that I was born. (Research, fellas). In fact Dylan Thomas died on my birthday. I think I last saw it in 1972. Great, great play.

Dream 31May2017
"The TransCon"

The thing about the Transcon is, it's really more of an idea than it is a road. It was a pretty good road, really, but was it the right one. "Watch this." I found myself steering through a series of tight curves, my foot heavy on the gas pedal to be sure I didn't lose momentum. A thick layer of fallen brown oak leaves covered the way. The bare branches from which they had fallen whipped against the windshield. We ducked reflexively. Obviously no one had come through here recently--we would have seen the tracks.

Was it going to be like this the whole way? The answer came quickly enough as I swerved sideways to a stop. We were either in the wrong place or the wrong time.

Getting down on my knees and slithering into the sandstone opening, I scouted ahead, suppressing my claustrophobia as well as I could. The passage was almost wide enough for our vehicle but only a few feet high. I crawled toward the light.

It seemed possible that with some digging we could expose the subterranean roadway and continue on. Another tight curve led back away from the lake--that seemed right too. But that would be a lot of work and would clearly violate the principal of leaving no trace, even though it was just rocks and dirt. Maybe we should just leave the car behind. In the end we did, even though we knew we'd need to come back anyway.

There was a small lakeside village on the shore beneath us. Maybe there was another road after all. We went down. Some musicians I knew were sitting outside on a plank deck. "Got any money in that wallet?" Jerry asked pointedly.

"Three Tens and a Debit card," I answered. Freedom, more or less...

Dream 01June2017
"Group Living"

Mark had been in prison for six months. It wasn't like he had done anything, he was just, you know, angry. He was even angrier when he got out and came back. When he walked in Chris was standing there like that and that fat nurse was standing behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist, you know, comforting her. Chris had been so upset after they had taken Mark away.

Someone came and got me. "Pool's losing water, better get in while you can!" I followed along as soon as I could, but without much enthusiasm. Frankly I didn't care that much about swimming. The pool was really just there for the kids. Besides, I hadn't quite finished making up the beds.

Another staff member put out his arm, blocking my way. "Sorry, Closed." I turned and walked back through the common area. Stepping aside as Mark strode by. They had let him grow a small moustache. His eyes were dark and sharp.

I wasn't clear about which of the beds was going to be ours--the answer was to make them all. It had to be done anyway, I thought. Worn red muslin sheets, the fitted corners torn. Which was which, was there any right answer? All of the mattresses seemed to be different sizes. I had to start over a couple of times.

Crazy morning. I had woken early in this strange environment and passed through the swinging door into a frenzy of activity, Kit and Charlie already dressed, bumping a large plastic pet carrier towards the door. "It's Otis," Kit said grimly. "I had those two joints (from college) hidden. I think he ate them. We're going to the vet!" I peered through the wire cage door. A massive longhair lay on his back on a towel inside, purring loudly. He looked OK.

On the other side of the dormitory Mark had confronted the nurse, pudgy and soft in his turquoise scrubs. Too far away to make out what they were saying, I guessed I could guess what the subject was, though. Not really my problem.

Dream 30May2017
"That Poor Horse"

It's tough dodging a horde of men on horseback who are trying to stick you with lances. "Conversely," I thought, "It can't be all that easy to pierce a terrified human while galloping at full speed." Maybe that's my problem--I've always been too willing to put myself in the other guy's shoes, or on his horse. Whatever.

Given that, you might think that it would be fairly easy to simply step to the side and slash them with your sword as they thundered by, at least that was the plan. But the practicalities of momentum and armament seemed to make evading a horse at full charge difficult. I guess that was why they did it that way. Even though it might be hard for the rider to aim the spear, it was also a bit hard to predict exactly where the point of it was going to be--NOW. I turned my blade and let it drew it across the heaving chest of the advancing steed. That poor horse.

I thought I might have better luck with the dinosaurs. They were pygmy brontosauruses, yellow with orange-brown blotches, needle-like protuberances extending from their tiny heads. Uh-oh, here we go again. Fortunately evolution had not yet articulated the lumpy knees of the attacking reptile. It stumbled clumsily on the uneven ground. In a trice I had evaded the deadly point and hacked downward across its extended neck.

Trade-offs, though. My heavy blade scarcely dented the cartoon character's rubbery skin. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow," it complained.

Dream 07Apr2017
"Putin"

It was pretty easy to see how it would come down. Putin had even been able to cajole his comrades into carrying the swag for him. "We're going to be so rich! Rich!" he chortled, coming up behind them with a giant raw diamond, "Just look at this one!" Even if this beauty was somehow broken up into pieces each piece would still be worth as much as any blood diamond that had ever been found.

It must be lonely at the top. Maybe you couldn't sympathize with the dictator, but you could still somewhat understand. What good is immense wealth if you're unable to share its immensity with anyone else. Even when the fate of his so-called partners had been sealed long before.

It was a lump of irregular crystal as big as a human head. I pointed without speaking at a translucent green blemish near its outer edge. "Don't worry, don't worry," Putin told me, as if delivering the punchline of a joke, "They'll simply strike off that part." He gestured with the edge of his stiffened hand before laying the rock down among the other specimens that we had gathered, including a naturally faceted crimson gem as long as your palm, and an entire spectrum of brilliant blues and warm chromium yellows.

"On second thought, no," Putin said. "Lenny. Maybe you would do the honors…" He slid the edges of a black nylon knapsack around the stationary stone, zipped it shut. It must have weighed four or five kilos. Lenny simpered with pride at his selection as beast of burden. I think it was at that moment that I made up my mind to "go independent". A couple or three billion would be plenty enough for me. While everyone was looking the other way I slipped the large ruby prism into my pocket. Act casual.

Dream 02Apr2017
"Lucky Fuel Store"

What a great concert! Everyone was in a good mood now that it was over--no more fighting your way through lines to the toilets and concessions. For those remaining fans the band was even giving out souvenir jackets. We'd remember this one for a long time.

I'm still not used to these inside venues, I guess the years have passed me by--I remember how you used to just sit on the grass wherever you wanted and there was enough space. This assigned seating, what a bureaucratic hassle. Well, it didn't matter, we had found ours, it was all over now, we were on our way home.

Only, crap, how had this happened, whose fault was this? Out of gas, almost anyway. That little orange gas pump indicator had stopped blinking and was now on solid. I had just filled up too. Oh, it had to be that side-trip we'd taken to Missoula--what a fool I'd been for allowing that to happen.

The truck started to lurch and lag. Sometimes those warning lights have a fudge factor built into them but this one seemed to be alarmingly honest.

But we were almost to the top of the pass. I had a plan now--if I could just make it to the crest we could coast down from there. With a final cough the engine died, leaving me with only my momentum--just barely enough for me to aim for the exit ramp. It was all downhill steering from here.

Ok, I hadn't thought about it being the middle of the night either or the fact that we were way out in the industrial sector east of town. Plus they don't have gas stations on every corner like they used to. "Few and Far Between," as they say in the dream world of the Hurley-Burley.

The dark streets were potholed and ribbed with old railroad tracks, no streetlamps or warning signs whatsoever. Fortunately we still had our headlights. The only other illumination came from the spooky blue spark of welders attaching this to that. Who knew what they were still manufacturing out here anymore.

I have to count myself among the fortunate--there it was, the "Lucky Fuel Store." A half block of bustling outdoor activity where a warehouse had once stood, fenced in with chain link and razor ribbon. "Pay First," a large sign read, "Thank You!" said another. I reached for my wallet. Whew, it was still there. Hopefully they'd be able to process my debit card.

The place had been full as we approached, deafening with the babble of men talking mexican at each other as they lined up to buy lottery tickets. Now most of them seemed to have given up their hope of quick riches, slipping away into the darkness. What did they think, I was ICE? Just a guy trying to get home.

There were four aisles, each headed by a clerk who held up hand lettered signs for the differently colored games. "El Opalo," "El Amatista," "El Zafiro," "El Topazio." I guess that was part of it--you had to decide which one was your lucky gemstone. Maybe later.

The self-serve kiosks to buy gas were disturbingly confusing too. "Enter Truck Model:" "Gross Vehicular Weight:" Who knew this stuff. Finally I had to ask for help from an employee who seemed to understand english. He put down a duster and came around to the front, inserting my card and deftly punching a series of brightly lit buttons.

"No necessito," he said as I gratefully tried to hand him a five for his assistance. A carboy of fuel was rolled to the curbside. We were on the road again!

Dream 01Apr2017
"CallerID"

"Don't answer it." I say, but she does anyway. "Hello?...Hello?" At the other end of the line I know it is the same but different, someone, a man with dark hair and a red complexion, is screaming back "Hello!...Hello!" at an instrument that won't respond. "Why do you keep calling me?! Stop calling me!" It's the Russians again, no doubt.

It's the CallerID thing. The connection is made, the call goes through, it begins normally. A woman's voice, she's just gotten dressed. "Who are you? What do you want?" But there is never an answer, no reply.

"Someone has your number, they're using your number," I explain reasonably. But it's as if I haven't spoken at all…

Dream 01April2017
"Rain of Frogs"

To our surprise the kids' tunnel had come through first, quite a bit earlier, if you want to know the truth, and that was some hard rock. Who was that girl? Not my daughter, I thought with a twinge of regret.

Brian was too young to feel the complex emotions that us grownups did. Or maybe those were what had slowed us down. "Watch this!" my son demanded.

It wasn't really a tunnel at all, that was kind of unsettling too. You had to hand it to these kids, they had a way of thinking out-of-the-box. "Watch this!" Brian repeated, waiting until all eyes were on him before tipping the wheelbarrow. A load of moist dirt went over the edge and down onto the next plateau.

Ha! I could see what he was up to now. If Brian had been just a little more careful, his load would have filled the gap completely, forming the first part of a natural ramp that would descend to the cave floor below. Instead, I could see a big clump that had rolled towards us.

"No Helping!" the other adults complained as I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around the clump, gathering myself for the upward heave. Suddenly the crusty clod exploded into dust in my arms. I did my best to push what little remained uphill where it belonged.

Brian peered down at his dirty dad. "That's why," the look in his sad eyes said.

Dream 24Mar2017
"Operation"

This was going to hurt a lot after the anesthetic wore off, I thought, but I kept on going, my tentative baby steps giving way to more elaborate explorations of my new range-of-motion.

Regardless of how I was going to feel later, the amazing thing was the sudden lack of pain--the constant companion that had walked alongside me wherever I went for years now. I ascended another step of the hospital stairwell, flexing my new knee joint experimentally.

I hadn't really planned on getting a knee operation so early in life, but whatever Kaiser says. Anyway, it was over now, it hadn't hurt a bit. What was a little terror in the greater scheme of things.

The black porcelain carrier had been designed to avoid incidental damage to the patient--there were no protuberances to grip, no sharp angles to fall on or smack up against. I lay back passively (an act of will, I'm telling you) as the conveyor moved my naked body closer to the laser station. It didn't matter in the end whether you squirmed or not, the sensors would automatically detect the movement and adjust. There was nothing but a brief moment of panic as my legs passed through the curtain of flaps, a few flashes and a slight sizzle of burning cartilage.

Dream 24Mar2017
"By Dawn"

Whitefish? No, Whitehall. At any rate I was still a heck of a long ways from home. In the men's room at the gas station I considered my options. The road sign to White-whatever said it was just a mile further. If I turned left there I'd be going home via Butte. I felt good, felt strong, but honestly couldn't remember the last time I'd run a mile, let alone a hundred. It would probably take me all night. The way I remembered the map it was just a little longer that way, but I had a feeling it involved a mountain pass. I hate running hills.

When I came out of the restroom a few drops of rain were coming down. In contrast, I love running in the rain. Over Pipestone pass though I knew it would turn to snow. Don't make things more difficult for yourself, I decided. I had only the light jacket, my legs were bare.

"You guys are going back to Belgrade again, aren't you?" I asked Tom. "Would you mind dropping me off there instead?"

Heck no, I wasn't jealous. That had all happened so long ago. Terry and Tom made a sweet couple, always holding hands and touching and stuff. Or maybe a little twinge. I really had loved her.

These days Terry wore her sandy hair cut short. She was wearing a rust-red corduroy dress that buttoned down the front, her white legs crossed, the last button fastened at her knees. She sure was beautiful. Yah, I guess a little.

Besides, even if Tom were to unexpectedly die there would still be Curtis, who was right there with us. And then I had heard all about Dave. Yeah, a lot of water over the bridge since those days.

On the way back into town the radio came on and they were talking about stinking Trump again. Apparently the new president had gone out of his way to say something nasty about Hillary's daughter. Called her a whore or something. "Takes one to know one," I joked from the club cab seat. From the front of the big diesel pickup Terry shot back a look. Uh-oh. I guess maybe Tom was a Republican.

"You can let me out right up here," I said. I'd be home by dawn, for sure.

Dream 22Mar2017
"Pucked"

Those Russians again. Anyone, I mean anyone, could have beat us at hockey, yet there they were, cheating again. At first I didn't understand how it was happening, but then I actually caught Bulomir in the act of shooting. By smacking the puck underneath the frozen food and then skating up the other aisle, the wing forward was able to rack up both the score and the assist. "Just following orders," he said. "They tell me cheat, I cheat."

A guy couldn't be in both places at the same time. It goes both ways. After I realized how Bulomir was doing it, I slid into position in front of the dairy case. He had to keep the velocity down to keep it in contact with the ice, even for me it was easy to intercept the approaching puck and deflect it down the other corridor.

Dream 23Mar2017
"Flatland"

"I bet he knows the location of every tennis ball in this yard," I joked to Mei. "He does!" she replied with a bright smile, almost as if I had said something clever. A dark blue Volvo pulled into the yard with a German Shepherd in the back seat. The people were getting ready to go to work.

Rather than get all slobbery again, I went back inside. "Dogs everywhere!" I exclaimed. Sitting on a wooden chair in the center of the living room, Jack nursed a last cup of coffee. "Yep. It's what we do, doggy day-care."

All night long I kept dreaming about the ability to bend lines with my mind. When actually I could only do it less than fifty percent of the time. You just, you just…nothing. Frustrating, and lacking statistical significance, I felt. Since the line really just existed in my thoughts, you would think it would be easy. That's dreams for you. And I wasn't even asking it to bend much--just enough to prove the existence of a second dimension. Ok, I guess that's a big deal.

"There he is!" I said, slapping Mike heartily on the back, "How's it going? You look terrible! Like you just got married too!" Mike laughed uncertainly, swiveling his head to look for his new bride. Fortunately Kaycee had not yet entered the room. Mike leaned toward me confidentially: "We got SO MUCH underwear."

I guess everyone had fallen for the same department store display that I had--a cute little nightie matched with thin boxers and a V-neck, all done in a sexy checked pattern, pink for him and light blue for her. Talk about bending lines. "We're going to have to extend the honeymoon," Mike said back.

Dream 16Mar2017
"Rally"

"This year's rally we're doing things just a little different," the Prez said. "I'm going to pick out a few members and have them tell us about their chapters and how come they're attending." Shit, I thought. Busted. I didn't have a motorcycle, I didn't even ride, myself.

Beside me a giant bearded man leaped to his feet enthusiastically. "I'm wearing the jackets of all four of the guys in our MC! I came almost two thousand miles to be here today." Everyone laughed and applauded. It was a great idea. "Right Arm, Right Arm," the ocean of bikers muttered in unison. A few of them rolled their eyes, though, the prez was one of them.

"I didn't call on you yet though, Leo. With all due respect, we always know we can count on you guys to come up with something weird." It was hard to understand how Leo could even move in four layers of motorcycle leathers, let alone ride a couple thousand miles.

"You, there, besides Leo. What's your story?"

"Pure Heart!" I said, bowing in Leo's direction, grateful for the cue. "I'm also representing some guys that couldn't make it in person--Erik and (shit, what was his name, Don, Dan, something like that) Don. Out of Granite City." That last part was maybe just a little too specific--hopefully none of the other members were from Nebraska.

Actually Dad and I had come up from the south on a big old red BSA 500. I wondered where he'd come up with that hog. Hadn't seen Dad in years, since Paraguay actually. It was kind of a kick to see him all dressed up like this, I never knew he was into it. I looked around, but he seemed to have gone away again. Guess I could have said something about him instead of just slinging my lies.

"The road goes where the river goes," Dad had said wisely. In a way it was true, even though they never went together.

Dream 17Mar2017
"Open Carry"

Bart was going to prison in the morning, he was really upset about it, spending long hours brooding out in the orchard. At least he wasn't dead yet, unlike his brother Jordan, who strutted in lockstep down the boulevard on the arms of angels, wearing a blue pinstripe suit with a yellow handkerchief in the pocket, a smug look on his decomposing face. "Yes, it's true," his attitude screamed, "I made it to the end, and I wasn't even sixty. What have you done lately?"

"There was so much I was going to accomplish," Bart lamented. His wife, Yin Shih, sat patiently with him on the wooden bench beneath an apple tree, the pink and white blossoms floating to earth beside them. "All those unfilled rows, all those unexercised macros…"

"Who's going to take care of my cat?" he thought suddenly. I bit back a sarcastic response. You could see Yin Shih's shoulders tighten as she accepted the burden. Nasty beast.

While I was in the Salvation Army Gift Shoppe the others had moved the car down the block to a better parking spot, it confused me at first, but made the return trip a little shorter, a little bit like parole, if you want to stretch for an analogy. The trip around the block to the thrift store had taken more time than I expected.

"I know the perfect joke gift you can give him," I told Bart's other brother. I had been in the store earlier and seen it laying there, a douchebag, good as new, only a dollar.

In the end I couldn't resist making the joke myself. "Don't say I never gave you nothing," I crowed, dangling the flaccid rubber item toward Bart, then handing it off to Karl. I guess it wasn't quite as funny as I thought it would be--somehow I seemed to have managed to piss them both off at the same time.

While I'd been sissifying out on the left coast Montana had become an open carry state. "He may not know how close he is," Karl remarked, sotto voce to someone off-screen. He swiveled in the entrance to the family diner where the farewell luncheon was being held, displaying an enormous revolver. It was stuck backwards in a leather holster in the small of his back.

"Yeah, right." This wasn't the old west anymore, bud. As he turned back away I lifted the firearm out of his gunbelt and fitted it into my own empty holster, first backwards in imitation, then reversed and ready in the normal position. Who's sorry now?

Dream 13Mar2017
"4JZ"

My legs were going to be so sore tomorrow, I thought. It was about the eightieth time I'd gone up those stairs tonight. Moderation. It was great to get into exercise, but did you really have to spend all your time doing it.

If you need to work out, there were plenty of worse places! This staircase was like a tropical garden. Broad leafed plants lined the flagstone steps. Water trickled and tumbled alongside.

I had this idea that if I placed planks at a slant between the steps I would be able to spring off of them as I went up. It felt good, but what I really needed was metrics--could I actually get to the top faster with the boards in place. I wasn't too sure how it would work going down.

You know how attempting to measure stuff inevitably affects your results. It isn't as easy to sprint up stairs when you're holding a laptop. Eighty-one seconds, that was a little disappointing, certainly not a personal best. I felt fine, but maybe I had to accept the existence of a fatigue factor.

Back at the bottom the entrance to the stairwell opened next to the elevator. I chewed pensively on my lip, frustrated. People were getting back from lunch, a lot of them were taking the stairs. It would be rude to just elbow them aside. Plus it would cut down on my time. I worried that they might injure themselves or mess up my arrangement.

Dream 11Mar2017
"In the Snow"

Soldiering in the snow. Bah. As if you can even call it that. Setting land mines, they're illegal now, but this was back then. It's not that I don't want to kill the enemy, they all deserve it. Blow their legs off--I hope it hurts.

You get pretty good with those insertion kits after a while, though they keep improving them, you're constantly having to learn new stuff. It all comes down to the same thing anyway. I unscrewed the plastic cover and set it carefully to the side where what's-his-face hopefully wouldn't trip over it. "Watch this," I told him, pulling the arming rod up through the snow that silly half inch and rotating it counter-clockwise a quarter turn. "It won't move at all in the other direction, don't even try." Rod, that was the klutz's name, no wonder I couldn't remember it.

It isn't just that it's cold. You leave tracks. At least when you're dealing with mud and leaves you have a fighting chance of remaining undetected. Try staying invisible in four inches of white stuff. Can't be done.

Dream 09Mar2017
"Murder"

We were standing around at our friends' new house, chit-chatting. Of course the place wasn't finished, but when it was, it would be great. Later in the summer, after the rains had stopped. Right now it was sort of a pit, I mean, literally. We were standing at the top of the excavation, talking and smoking, our fingers threaded through the chain-link fence to keep us from falling in, just the guys, you know, telling wicked stories.

Down below where they were doing most of the talking, Jeff and him were standing on an uneven surface of plywood sheets laid over the muddy floor of what was going to become the garage. Behind them weathered wooden studs outlined a magificent dining room with spaces for windows that would take in the sweeping view.

"Around these parts you really don't trust your neighbors all that much, you know what I mean?" Jeff said. There were a lot of meth cookers and criminals up the canyon. Sure was pretty country, though.

"A lot of times folks will wake up in the morning and find themselves dead," Jeff winked. "Not saying that's going to happen, just saying." We all laughed uneasily. No one wanted that to happen to Ronnie and Amber.

"A lot of times they'll like scout out the minimum wage employers to find patsies to pin their crimes on," Jeff continued. "Dishwashers, short-order cooks, etc…"

"Damn," I quipped. "I knew I should have stayed at Bob's Big Boy--I could've worked my way up to murderer by now."

I said something about how I'd take that smoke now and John shook out a pack for me, Marlboro Light Longs.

"Thanks," I said, extracting a cig. Only there was a hairline tear in the paper, I knew I was going to have to rip off the filter. It kind of takes a little bit of the fun out of it--I hate it when those little shreds of tobacco get stuck to your lips. I kept plucking them off and dropping them on the muddy ground, a small but growing pile. Typical tension dream. I had quit smoking a dozen years before.

Dream 10Mar2017
"Round Trip"

By the time I made up my mind the hitchhiker was far behind me. Nevertheless, he saw me pull over and began to jog along the road, a distant figure in the rear-view mirror. Objects are closer than they appear. It gave me plenty of time to regret my decision. Maybe he would give up. After a while he stopped running, but continued to walk my way. Maybe someone else would pick him up first.

He turned out to be a combination of Frank L. and Steve O., I guess it depended which side of the brain I looked back from. "Ha ha!" he said, "I love this old beater of yours! It makes so much noise! Could we roll down the windows so we can hear it better?" I wasn't sure whether to be pleased or offended, it was that kind of bi-polar night. "It's actually the quietest of my three cars," I said.

"How much do you think a round-trip ticket to Ukraine would cost?" It was Steve talking now. I gathered that he was considering another sabbatical. I had no idea, really. "$2000?" I asked. It seemed like a safe estimate.

"Humpf! For one person or for two? Never mind."

When the going gets tough, the tough get going, but it doesn't help when your car turns into a bike and you find yourself trying to make it up a steep hill. Standing on the pedals I was finally able to crest the ridge, only to see that the roadway on the downslope had been completely covered by the rising waters. How was I going to get to the gallery now. It was an honor to be selected judge of the county art fair, for sure, but if I didn't show up, whose opinion would they follow?

Dream 06Mar2017
"Natalia"

"So you're saying that you want me to be responsible for the rent and you and Evelyn will just pay me your share?" My new roommate Natalia nodded shyly, a big change from the brash personality she'd displayed when we'd rented the place a few days before. "Fine," I said. "You might have to remind me, though."

Having gotten what she wanted, Natalia smiled brightly. I could see now this was going to go down. Every month I was going to have to go after them, every month there was going to be some kind of prolonged negotiation, probably involving tears or sex. "Can you at least take care of Evelyn for me?" I asked.

Another thing I hate is cleaning floors on my hands and knees. Of course I was honored to be cleaning up the President's blood, but every time I'd scrubbed up one dried red spot off the white tile bathroom floor I'd see another one a few inches further away. Fortunately it was just a bloody nose. He had smiled in embarrassment but pointedly neglected to explain how he'd sustained the injury. I guess it was really none of my business, even if it was my bathroom and he was a public figure.

Sometimes it seems like you never get caught up.

Dream 05Mar2017
"In Brazil"

The indoor mercado was bustling. On a table I opened an illustrated book, "The Knee." Mine had been hurting me lately, it looked like there were a lot of good exercises. ¿Quantos?, I wondered. A small sticker inside the front cover read $1.50. Even for the second world that seemed too cheap.

Where was that proprietress? She had just been standing there a moment before, an attractive lady in a black and white patterned dress. The others would be wondering where I was.

"Do you take U.S. money?" I asked when she returned. Not receiving a reply, I repeated my question. "No, no, of course I do--I was just calculating the exchange." Since the collapse of the trade deal things had gotten so complicated, I had to admit. I should have looked up the latest rates when we arrived at the aeroporto.

"It will be $10.50 American," the lady finally said. So a little less than 10 to 1, I thought, reaching for my wallet. Happily there were two Trumps inside. Now what about the four bits. I emptied a handful of junk from my pocket. A quarter, two dimes and a nickel. I didn't know if she would appreciate the foreign coins, it was a trade-off between making change, but she accepted them without comment, slippling my book into a flimsy plastic bag.

In the distance I could hear Alan's voice, loud above the babble of the crowd, telling one of his amusing anecdotes. "Just to put that in perspective…" he was saying. Oh, yeah, there was Vickie's face too, down the aisle.

I pulled the book out of the bag and crumpled it into a wad, tossing it at my friend. "In case you care," I said, "I could hear your voice five favelas away." Stung by the rebuke he turned and walked away. Why should it matter to me how loud he talked. No one else seemed to care.

"Where do all these people live?" Vickie asked in wonder. I cringed again. Didn't my companions have any sense of decorum. Lighten up, Steve. I realized I was going to have to get used to it.

A man standing at one of the other booths laughed. "You'd be surprised. I, for example, live all the way out in a small village, "Estaguier", it's called. It takes 45 minutes each way to bring my goods to this market. I wish I could live closer, but sadly, I cannot. Too expensive, too restrictive. If you get so much as a traffic citation you are no longer allowed into the city." He was a tall, skinny man, about our age, with an orange brown complexion and thinning matted hair.

Favoring my trick knee I trudged slowly uphill while my companions went ahead, Alan flagging a cab.

Dream 02Feb2017
"Fitness"

The boys ascended a steel spiral stairway that had been built into the massive concrete structure of the swimming venue. Though technically this was diving. They did it in two stages, first gathering on a common landing, then actually climbing down a few steps in pairs to a separate chamber. There they waited a few seconds, composing themselves mentally, before receiving the call and kicking out into the thirty meter drop to the pool. Actually, they were totally well-mannered and polite. "Are you in line, sir?" they asked me several times in their reedy adolescent voices. No. Maybe I was just a coward.

This year's inauguration, titled "Triumph of the Will," was being held in a semi-aquatic environment, by which I mean it was raining. The actual swearing in was held in an enormous circular auditorium, deep underground.

Did those boys ever make it to the aqua pool below? I can only say that I never saw the same face twice.

The President-elect spotted me though, and tried to intervene. "There he is, folks, one of my biggest fans!" It was a pretty good joke, my protest sign was in the form of a large Japanese fan, which I periodically snapped open, only when no one was looking. Now I lowered it and slipped back into the sparse crowd, unwilling to allow myself to be co-opted. Or maybe I was just a coward.

Not that I thought it would do any good, but in the end it worked out pretty well. All of the previous speakers had stepped down as I climbed to the platform and unfurled my sign. "Big, big fan," Trump kept saying. But even though it had become ragged, with slices missing from between the vanes, the message was still there for everyone to read.

"When I first came here," I began, suddenly intimidated by my amplified voice…

Dream 26Jan2017
"The Quarry"

While I waited for Mom and our east coast relatives to arrive I spent most of my time studying the menu, trying to be inconspicuous and speaking as little as possible.

Frankly in this place my lack of a New Jersey wiseguy accent was not the virtue I normally would have considered it. I usually try to stay away from the criminal element.

There was a lot of bad stuff going down here and it wasn't just crappy Italian food. The only thing that looked good at all was the house specialty "margharita." There was a picture of it, soggy squares of pasta served in a shallow bowl of orange sauce. If I was forced to order, that was what I would get.

Because you had to be so careful about appearances in "Sal's." Everybody was looking at everyone else all the time, waiting for the slightest guilty misstep. Like everyone else, I wore a thin white V-neck T-shirt--good for the hot Atlantic City summer weather, but bad for tomato sauce. Not only did you have to be careful what you ordered, you had to be careful how you ate it too.

Like the guy in the wheelchair, a double amputee, a veteran, I guess, pissing through a tube. You might have thought that would be enough of an excuse for privacy. But no, someone "just happened" to catch him in the men's room before he could get his disguise back on. He'd been whispering over the wire with his inside contact, the fat teen-aged waitress. No one really liked her either.

At some point I slipped away and pushed through the branches outside to get a little air, startled to find myself high above a water-filled quarry. Looking down you could see everything on the bottom, the water so clear it seemed like you could drink it. Better not. On the other side, a bird landed on the branch of a dead tree, then flew away. A crust of black lichen coated the steep cliffs.

Back inside, a gory ritual, the victim had been literally slaughtered, the fake wheelchair turned on its side, blood everywhere. One of the guys that had done it was filling up cups with hydrochlorodine crystals and passing them around. Once you got the bitter salts down you would be immune from forensic testing. They'd never be able to match your blood with the scene of the crime, even if you were never there in the first place. As long as everyone swallowed their doses and stuck together.

Mom and the cousins came up the stairs and I walked over to meet them. "Hey, maybe we could eat somewhere else," I suggested.

Dream 19Jan2017
"Meteor"

"Unless you were going somewhere else for lunch? I can walk, actually, it's only about 4 blocks." It was really more like 8 or 10, but still better than a ride with someone who didn't want you. "No, no. Get in," Mike said ungraciously.

It was the same car he'd been driving all those years before, an American sedan, a Chevy of some kind. Green, with no back seat. I opened the rear door anyway, it seemed like the only choice. The carpeting had been removed, the floor was ribbed metal filled with ancient grime and littered with CDs and CD covers. Huh. Celine Dion.

"I got rid of that old blue beater of mine after just a few years," I said. I was referring to the Mercury Meteor I had owned back in the day. I knew Mike wouldn't remember but kept babbling. "Yep, took her down to Yellowstone. She's got a new owner now."

The Meteor was famous for being able to make only right turns. It turns out that topologically you can still get anywhere you want to go, it just takes a little longer.

"You know, of course, that it's illegal to sell cars on Federal property," Mike said. I'd forgotten that he was a lawyer too. Yeah, I never should have done that, I guess. Easier than junking it, though. Better for the landscape.

We decided to eat at the all-you-can-eat buffet instead. It was pretty crowded, we were jostled inevitably down to the end of the table. "Dr. Phil's Section" they called it for some reason. Man, I hate eating stuff while it's still alive. Taking a squeezing board I bore down on the most appetizing item I could see, a group of lemons nestled on a bed of lettuce. The fat fruits rolled and squirmed in agony. Attempting to escape, one threw itself off the end of the buffet, juices oozing from open cracks in its rind, still seeking safety even while fatally damaged. I couldn't quite reach it.

"Would you mind picking that up for me?" I asked Mike.

Dream 05Jan2017
"Homebrew"

I gathered that the man in the motorized wheelchair was called "Deke" --he never actually told me his name, though I made a point of introducing myself. It was only a few minutes into the proceedings that I understood how profoundly paranoid and process-bound Deke was, probably always had been. Deke was the coordinator of a massive Open Engineering project to put together a software version of a particle accelerator--apparently during the days of Big Science he'd been part of the real thing, maybe that 15 mile diameter ring that they were planning to build down in Texas.

You couldn't really fault Deke for being smug, though you might have wished that he'd take a bath once in a while. It's hard when you live alone, weigh 300 lbs, and don't have the use of your legs. But then so is building a super-collider from scratch.

Deke wheeled in slow circles around the unused lectern in the small auditorium that had been allocated for the club's meetings, punctuating his remarks with the buzz of his electric motor and the squeaking of brakes as he suddenly stopped for emphasis. Most of the contributors were attending remotely--from time to time one of the small speakers arranged on the seats of the front row popped and sputtered in response as Deke called for status on various obscure bug reports, the numbers and names of which he had obviously memorized.

But the issues seemed minor, contained. "Long as we don't hit no one with a radiation beam, I reckon we'll be ok," Deke drawled with satisfaction. It had been a long three years, but the project was just about ready to go into pre-Beta.

That was what got my attention. True, I had never tested a sub-atomic particle accelerator before, but I was sure that I was up to it. Key is that even when you're developing at a micro level, the verifications are almost always macro--the proof is in the pudding, so to speak. In fact I had a couple of small demos that I'd brought along with me to show, but it's always better to get them talking, ask some questions before you launch into a testing effort.

"I therefore declare this Plenary Session of the Software Supercollider Symposium adjourned," Deke declared with satisfaction, motoring to the lectern and slamming down a ceremonial gavel. I caught up with him outside.

"Third-party libs?" I asked. Deke sneered. "Don't believe in them. Everything we do is built from sources we maintain. It's the only way." I tried to explain that it wasn't--I've been on lots of projects that include re-usable library modules. But Deke wouldn't have any of it. "I've been down that road before," he said dismissively. "The Russians."

We rolled along across the campus, past the terrazzo sundial, talking intently. "Let's exchange keys," Deke said finally. "I'll send you an email. Oh, there's the bus now. Nice meeting you, Steve." I know a brush-off when I see one.

It was the 22 bus. I called my wife, told her I'd be late, fumbled in my pockets for $1.85 in change, spilling a handful of coins on the soiled carpet. My last dime. As the driver cranked the bus out into the El Camino and stopped, I staggered down the aisle to the rear.

The commuters had groaned collectively as they realized that I didn't have an EZ-Pass and was trying to feed my coins into the turnstile slot. But they warmed up a bit after I finally sat down. It's nice to have a little conversation on a bus ride that takes forever, though some people don't seem to think so. Eventually we came to a transfer point and a lot of them got off--finally we could breathe again.

I made my way back to the front, if that makes any sense. "Are you sure we're going in the right direction?" I inquired. It's never the right question. "Sit down, please, sir." the driver answered curtly.

See, I'm pretty sure that the El Camino does NOT go through the foothills and over Atascadero Creek. At least it was pretty country, classic northern California, dry yellow hillsides dotted with live oak. Now the driver had come on the intercom, providing a running commentary:

"…orld-famous Stanford Biological Research Facility. On your right, if you're lucky and they're spawning, you may be able to catch sight of the famous Cardinal Salmon. No genetic modification has been employed to produce these magnificent fish--that orange flesh is 100% natural."

"On your left," the driver continued, one hand clenched firmly on the wheel as the bus lurched uphill, "those may look like ordinary gray squirrels--but looks can be deceiving. It took technicians more than three generations to isolate a genotype capable of reproducing in your pants."

Listen, I just make this stuff up in dreams, I'm not responsible. At least we were still in Palo Alto. Back down Page Mill Road, nearly full circle, I was able to land a job in the open-air Food Court, kitchen help, cleaning and so on. Good job, really, they were paying full minimum, the hours were good.

After I finished scrubbing and polishing the big gas range I went the extra mile and shifted it away to scrub behind it. Sheesh--that hadn't happened in a while, I guess the previous workers hadn't been as diligent as me. There, wedged in a corner full of grease and hair was the entire body of a baby panda, blanched and boiled. Quickly I slipped it into a cardboard box and loaded in onto the cart. The guys were going to love this one.

Dream 03Jan2017
"Farewell Obama"

Wow, I wish I could remember more of the details, it was quite a night. The President and First Lady were on the final leg of their farewell tour.

I don't think that Barack even likes me all that well--by nature the chief executive is an extrovert, a party animal, while I'm sort of a dud. But somehow, every time I turned around, there he was.

Like at that first cocktail party where the prez was telling one of his jokes: "That reminds me of the one about the man with the, what do you call it," he snapped his fingers impatiently as he tried to remember the word, miming the action of raising something to his mouth and speaking, "…a bullhorn, right," he exclaimed. "NOW HEAR THIS!" He began to play the thing now, as though it was a trumpet or french horn. After all, it was a Party. Maybe that was the point. Everybody laughed.

You know, I had better things to do, even though I liked Obama fine and had voted for him twice, I really don't do that well at parties. There were already plenty of people there. While the President and Michelle mingled, I slipped out the back past the Secret Service. There was a WalMart across on the other side of the freeway. Something I needed to buy. No, not a gun, this wasn't that kind of dream.

I don't think I ever got across that busy parkway, there was just too much traffic. I was just relieved to be outside. Sure, I knew that this might be my last chance to rub elbows with celebrity, frankly I didn't care all that much. I guess you could say I was a little depressed. Almost the reverse of Obama, who was nearly maniac, elated to be leaving office after eight long years.

Here's where it started to get weird. There were a bunch of people who had become trapped in little silos in the ground, their arms pinned to their sides in the tight augured holes. Even though we could see them clearly from above, it wasn't going well. The rescuers were trying to lower ropes to save them, but no one had a free hand to grab hold. There were two possibilities--either the victims could be instructed to seize the rope with their teeth while it was tugged gently from above--or, more drastically, a loop could be formed in the end and lowered over their heads. That didn't seem like a very good idea either. But what were you going to do? I don't think I ever found out. I shudder just to think about it. I'm a little claustrophobic, if you want to know the truth.

Barack is a lot more fun one-on-one. In most of the other dreams I've had with him we're just sitting around having a few beers and watching basketball on TV. I met him downstairs in the kitchen the next morning. "Tell me, Steve, what kind of music do you like?" he asked. Then, before I could answer, "Dig this…" He launched into this jive dance, just like something out of the old Soul Train show, complete with a set of glides and spins. It was great! I hadn't noticed until now that he'd let his hair grow out. It was processed straight up into a brush cut--I'd never noticed the resemblance to Will Smith before. Please don't call me a racist.

"Cup of coffee?" I offered, "Looks like you practiced that one a long time."

OK, another embarrassment, I've never been very good with these Mr. Coffee machines, I think maybe that was what I'd been heading to WalMart for, some better coffee filters than the ones that were included. Now the goddammed thing was leaking all over the counter. I handed the President the last of the roll of paper towels and rushed downstairs, looking for something better to clean up the mess.

"You know what I think the problem is," I told Obama seriously after we'd finally mopped up, "When I was a kid there were just over a hundred million Americans. Now, I'm not even sure--must be over three hundred, right?"

"That's right Steve," he said somberly. "Here's the deal, though. You can't just make folks go away. You have to take charge of the situation."

Dream 31Dec2016
"Modernization"

Oh, that explained it. The new facility across the street had just opened and free market forces had impelled the existing lots to retool. A sign on the brick-fronted building blinked proudly: "Center Street Parking--Compare our Prices!"

Take ticket before entering. I liked the way they had combined the Library expansion and the Garage. A long ramp had been constructed for handicapped access and I wobbled my 15 speed bike up the gentle slope, momentarily flustered as I reached the top to find people sitting quietly at tables, reading books. Something wrong with this picture.

Looking left I was relieved to see two other bearded men straddling their bicycles while they checked their mail. Apparently the modernized facility had also subsumed the USPS. Meanwhile, I still hadn't figured out where to get my ticket stamped. Outside, the CR-V idled, its emergency amber flashers pulsing.