As I write this, Mike, one of my oldest friends, and I have been watching the progression of Hurricane Zeta. I've got a New Orleans station and the live feed from the Biloxi lighthouse streaming in the background.
In sections of our texts over the past few days, I asked him about his car restoration projects. I told him I'd had a weird dream where he restored a car and I wanted to make sure I hadn't developed some later life mutant cognitive powers.
In the dream, I found myself in a venue for a small gathering. It felt like a college library or a vintage book store. Old volumes filled rows of bookshelves, some waist high and some were floor to ceiling. In an open area were couches and love seats arranged to face a central point. Lights were dimmed and I became aware of multiple conversations.
I blinked and all the seating was now occupied with couples. From all the smiles and laughs, I assumed most know each other. My eyes started to focus in that dreamlike way, and I realized I knew some of these people. They were high school classmates, but we weren't kids anymore.
A class reunion!
I was slowly piecing the scenarios together, trying to get my bearings when a lady stepped into the center of the group and welcomed everyone. She started going through a list of accomplishments our classmates had achieved. It all sounded like "adult-speak" on Peanuts cartoons.
She suddenly became crystal clear and caught my attention, "...and lastly, we want to congratulate Mike Thurman for his most recent automotive restoration being featured in Hot Rod magazine!"
Holy crap! That's fantastic! Apparently, Mike landed on the cover of several car rags for his work in restoring classic automobiles. I was scanning the crowd for Mike, but the room went dark and a film started playing before I found him. It was a highlight reel of interviews he'd given about his latest project - a...umm..pistachio green...uh...Volkswagen.
I was more than a little shocked. You have to understand that back in high school, Mike prowled the streets in a '65 Malibu Supersport. He and his Dad dropped in a 350 Chevy small block along with a donor 3-speed tranny from a Corvette. The body was a faded yellow and primer gray, and it just had the most intense rat-rod vibe. He was a die-hard Chevy Bow-Tie Boy and so a Volkswagon seemed a little outside his wheelhouse. "Okay," I thought, "people's tastes change. But I'm definitely gonna give him crap about this."
Suddenly, a random dude's voice shouted over the audio, "That car sucks!" A murmur started within the crowd. That's just great. One of our female classmates brought their lightweight hubby who couldn't hold his liquor. The punk continued, "Man, that car is a piece of crap!"
I finally got a bead on Mike and his eyes were shooting daggers at loser Dude.
First rule for car guys: Do not insult someone's ride. Now, I could bust Mike's balls all the livelong day for cruising the mean streets of Ocean Springs in a fully restored pistachio green VW bug, but I sure as hell wasn't letting this interloper get away with it.
I'm trying to stride over to loser Dude, but my legs wouldn't move. In real life, I was probably thrashing up a storm in bed. I caught loser Dude's eye and he just sneered and gave me the one-finger salute.
Did he just-? No. He DID! Now I'm freaking ballistic. I'm cracking my knuckles and trying to get to him. WHY. CAN'T. I. MOVE?!?
And then I woke up. In an instant, I was situationally aware. Blankets were strewn all over and pillows were on the floor. My reaction was visceral. No! WAIT!
Ever try to go back to sleep to try and finish a dream? It never works for me, and I truly wanted to thump loser Dude. I was pissed for the rest of the day.
Mike's favorite Bob Seger song is "Fire Lake". So here's a long-distance dedication to one of my oldest friends as we watch the tail end of Hurricane Zeta cruise through Landmassia. I've got your back, brother, whether it's in real life or one of my whacked out dreams.
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