I sometimes dream about trying to find my car. Distances seem daunting and directions confound me.
A few nights ago, after asking to be let out of a friend’s car in one such dream, not wanting to spend any more time running errands that didn’t concern me, I stepped into an ice cream parlor to borrow a phone and a phonebook.
The whole place had been cleared out. A few scattered chairs. No tables. Bare brick walls. No counter. The proprietor was standing in the midst of all this nothingness looking off to one side. He seemed defeated.
“I need a phone and a phone book,” I said. He looked up at the wall and I got the impression that he might have been able to answer me if whatever had been hanging there hadn’t been removed. A television? A clock? I didn’t know and he didn’t say.
That’s when I woke up.
I was the proprietor of the failed ice cream parlor, I think. I also was me, asking myself for help.
Spent Thanksgiving week in Hilton Head and Thanksgiving afternoon watching the Saints beat the Cowboys … highly uncharacteristic activities all.