IX: In Which I Recount A Strange Dream I Recently Had

I am not a vivid dreamer, and what dreams I have usually evaporate from my memory within seconds of my awakening.

But there is something about dramatic life change that sharpens the memory. I know this because I recall events that occurred when I was two or three years old. Now, no one remembers things that happened at that age, right? Except I know I remember them because I know they happened in Thailand, where my father was stationed with the Army until I was three years old. And I know I'm not making these memories up because my mother has confirmed them, just as she has confirmed my description of the house and street where we lived and the maids we employed. Moving from Bangkok to Fort Knox, KY could fairly be described as dramatic--as well as a huge comedown (not my last, as it turns out)--and I'm sure that that's what burned those memories of Thailand into my brain.

So seeing that I've recently undergone a dramatic life change, it's probably no surprise that I am suddenly remembering dreams. My memory, like my emotional life, has received an unexpected squeeze to the nads, and it has been quickened.

When the dream begins, I am a contestant on a game show. The game is called Tom Waits or Cookie Monster? Contestants listen to songs, then try to guess whether the singer is Tom Waits or Cookie Monster. Intuitively, I understand that certain fundamental principles apply:

•song includes profanity = Tom Waits
•song includes improperly used pronouns = Cookie Monster
•song mentions death = Tom Waits
•song mentions cookies = Cookie Monster
•song sounds like Kurt Weill = probably Tom Waits
•song sounds like a children's song = probably Cookie Monster

Despite these insights, I lose. I am tripped up by a recording of Cookie Monster performing in The Threepenny Opera. For reasons I cannot divine, I fail to recognize the following context clues in Cookie Monster's performance of "Mack the Knife":

Oh the shark bite
With him teeth, dear
And him keep them
Pearly white
Me like cookie
Me like cookie
Me like cookie
Mack the Knife!!!

Suddenly the landscape changes, and I am standing on a street corner. A woman in a Hummer drives straight into the back of a delivery truck; she is talking on her cell phone and cannot be bothered to pay attention to her driving. She immediately backs up, turns hard left, and drives around the truck, speeding away from the accident. The truck driver takes off after her and a long high-speed chase ensues. Even though I am stationary and the vehicles drive a great distance, I somehow see the entire chain of events transpire. The trucker eventually passes and cuts off the woman in the Hummer, then gets out of his truck to berate her. The woman is indignant; she contends that she is not at fault, as though by adamantly insisting she is in the right she can somehow validate her preposterous argument. She reminds me of the current inhabitants of the White House.

The scene changes abruptly again, and I am standing in the sort of outdoor mall one sees in front of a great public construction; the place reminds me of the entryway to the Baltimore Aquarium. My future ex-wife appears. She is wearing heels so high that she stands over six feet tall, and she towers over me. "Why the heels?" I ask, and she responds, "If I make myself look good, the suitors will come." I am depressed to realize that she is already looking for a new mate. Immediately I am surrounded by old friends from high school and college, and I am torn. Part of me wants their sympathy, but an equal part is ashamed that my marriage has failed and that they now know of the failure. I turn to talk to my future ex-wife but she excuses herself. She says she is late for the estate sale of Beowulf's uncle, whose name is Lutefisk, and I realize that she would rather hang out with D&D nerds than with me. This too makes me feel bad.

I turn to greet my old friends but I suddenly awaken. My mouth is dry, my throat is sore, and I realize that I am awake in that anxious way that precludes falling back asleep any time soon. I am too tired to concentrate on a book, though, so I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, listening to my dogs snore and envying them. I hear their feet skittering and I realize they are dreaming of chasing small critters, and catching and eating them. One of them blows a tremendous fart of self-satisfaction; she has caught a rabbit, no doubt. I am slightly nauseated, but also a little hungry.

What does it all mean? That I should avoid rich foods and tall glasses of Calvados before bed, most likely.

So there you go.