The Sebring

It’s been a long time since I’ve written a “dream sequence” blog post.  I haven’t remembered any of my dreams lately and maybe that’s better.  Or maybe it’s because the dream sequences are so silly and self-absorbed.  But then I read the blog of a famous writer and it’s sillier and more self-absorbed than my dream sequences.  Make something out of that.

Eff it, you’re getting a dream sequence today.

It might have been the fact that I met a new friend who happened to be the old friend of a former friend.  Or it might have been that I backed into one of those stationary yellow “pilon” thingeys and banged up the rear of the Jeep.  Or it might have been the steak au poivre and the “POOF” of the flaming cognac.

Whatever it was, as the sandman descended upon my world-weary worried widow’s peak…

Widows PeakIn the dreamscape, I had just bought a house on a long and winding road, like the roads that slither up through the hills around ski resorts.  The road wound to the left and to the right and all the houses on the road were built in either the Brady Bunch split-level style or the faux Swiss chalet style.

My house was full of stuff from the previous owners plus my own piles of stuff.




It was a big old mess of a house; apparently, I had no Jeeves to keep things neat and tidy.  I was unpacking a box in the front of the house and somewhere in the rear, I heard a “POOF” that sounded just like the cast iron skillet when Handy lit the steak au poivre on Sunday night.  In my dream mind, I said to myself “that sounds like a light bulb exploding.  There might be an electrical fire somewhere in the house.”

I got up and went into the house’s kitchen.  Sure enough, there was an electrical fire in one of the recessed lights, only evidenced by bubbling paint on the kitchen ceiling.


I wasn’t sure if I should call 9-1-1 because my neighbors were having a yard sale and I worried that all the commotion of fire trucks and police cruisers might ruin their retail possibilities.  Since the fire wasn’t yet out of control, I walked down the road and asked them if they’d object to my calling the fire department.  They weren’t at all concerned and gladly gave me permission to engage the authorities.

In a span of time which can only exist in a dream, a late-model pimped-out  blue Dodge Charger roared up the road and stopped in my driveway.  The officer driving looked kind of like Erik Estrada from the late 70’s Tee Vee Show CHiPS.  But it wasn’t Estrada; it was a former friend.  He asked my permission to enter my house, looked around the kitchen, told me not to worry, and then said “hey, want to go for a ride in the police cruiser?  It can go really fast.”

Maybe I wanted my house to burn down in this dream.  A joy ride in the police cruiser sounded great, so away we went, passing screaming fire engines heading toward the house as we sped away.

You know how it goes in a dream.

After a few miles, we were driving along an urban four-lane highway with very little traffic.  A car that might have been a convertible Mustang GT passed us on the right, crossed the lane in front of us, spun out of control, flipped over, bounced back upright, and then ping-ponged across the road in the opposite direction.  The car’s roof, if it had one, was gone.  The car stopped in a dreamscape discount liquor store parking lot and the driver was sitting upright, clutching the wheel.

Except the driver was decapitated.

(One of the most frightening words in the English language is “decapitated.”)

We circled around the Mustang at a safe distance and I asked my friend if we should call an ambulance.  He just shook his head, sped up and drove off, saying “na, the driver is already dead.”

That’s all I remember about the dream.  I woke up and remembered I had to bring my Jeep to Fern’s Auto Body down the street to get the back bumper panel restored.  I got a loaner, too, a neat little 2002 Chrysler Sebring.

The SebringIt was a zippy ride, kind of like a ping-pong ball on the road.  And it sipped the petrol, unlike the thirsty Jeep.  But it was so low to the ground and it frightened me, especially when I’d be trailing a logging truck.  All I could think was “decapitation!”

And Handy?  He barely fit in it.

But all’s well that ends well and the Jeep has been restored to its former glory.  It’s sleeping peacefully in the garage right now.

Me, on the other hand….

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