Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Muddled Grey Matter

Right now I'd like to record a little dream I had while I took a nap yesterday morning. Why? Because when life hands you tiny nuggets of joy like this, you tend to not want to forget them.

And yes, before you go any further and scold me for not warning you beforehand, it is Calabrese-themed.
...Not like that will surprise anyone.

I was in a bar. It was one that I had never been to, and must of made up. There was colorful but dim lighting, with lots of seating and tables to the right, and the cramped stage by the window to the left. Really, it seemed like an afterthought in it's design. In between that, was the bar itself, weirdly tiki-esque and not nearly big enough to service the building. A guy looking much like a very thin, young Bruce Campbell was wiping out a lager glass, complete with a blue Tommy Bahama shirt and pearly grin. There was also seating in front of all this, random, sporadic chairs and things to sit on thrown about haphazardly. I had my prime seat here, in a gloriously lived-in, brown laz-y-boy recliner.

Calabrese was playing. For how long, I don't know. To me, it seemed like they had been on for a while, even though I had just heard them now. Bobby's sweat made his hair stick to his face, Jimmy was turned from the audience, and Davey was tearing it up. For some reason though, Davey's drumming seemed overly exaggerated. Like one of his legs was glued to the floor pedal. It all sounded perfect though.

I took a sip of the mysterious cocktail I suddenly had in my hands, its bright blue hue indicating it must of been something tropical. Other than cold, I couldn't taste it. I never questioned where it came from, either.

The show ended just as quickly as it had started. I felt a stitch of sadness then, hoping maybe an encore would kick in if I had just wished for it hard enough. But, regardless of how I felt and wanted, no such luck.

People behind me started laughing, mingling. A blonde girl with overly puffed, curly hair sat on a table, soaking in the attention the guys around her were dishing out. Neon signs flickered back to life on the wall. Puffs of smoke wafted from stranger's cigarettes.

I turn back around, and see the three of them packing up their gear. Maybe I can go say something to them? Maybe I could buy them a drink? Maybe--

My thought gets taken away by a busboy in front of me, his small arms spilling over with stacks of cups, glasses and plates, piled higher than his greasy, shaggy hair. I reach out and help him before he falls over, taking the majority of what he had before it had a chance to tumble onto the floor. He lets out a huff of exasperated air, and smiles, face cocked at me. His teeth were spaced and gummy. Looking at him now, he only looked 14. Was that even legal?

"Here..." he says, handing me a darkly colored backpack, "...that's theirs."

He flipped his head backwards, motioning to the stage as he re-collected the mess. I didn't have to look to know who he was talking about.

"Wanna help them to the car?"

I wordlessly take the bag in both hands and nod. Whatever was in there was that much more important to me now. But, just what was in there, anyway? It couldn't of weighed more than five pounds. My hand grabbed the other side and felt something like wires poke at my palm.

Glancing up, I see Jimmy breeze out the door. Nothing was left on the stage. I nearly chase after him.

I catch up to him as he puts the last of whatever in the van, that strangely looked like it belonged to a soccer mom, complete with a light, steel blue paint job. From the window, I can see Davey perched in the back, sitting stiffly next to a pile of equipment. He looked tired, and ready to crash.

"Ah, and our favourite fan..." Jimmy says, taking the bag, and gingerly putting it with everything else.

Wait...what did he just--?

I'm cut off by a pair of arms hugging me. For a second, all thought leaves my mind. I cautiously put my arms around him too, that fairy tale warm, fuzzy feeling glowing from inside my chest like a dull bulb. The leather on his jacket creaks, and I forget to breathe. Am I...? Did he..?

I lower my head, near his shoulder. Some of his hair product gets on my head. I don't care.

About five seconds go by, and he pulls away. I feel my face slowly fill with color.

"Do you want a ride?" Jimmy asks, motioning to the front seat.

I nod and make some sort of affirmative noise. In reality, he could of asked for all of my vital organs, and I would of gladly given them over, right then and there.

I hop in, and turn around. I finally get to see why Davey looked awkward all night. His left leg was broken, covered in a cast from his toes to the top of his thigh, sporadic sharpie graffiti decorating select spots. My mouth hangs wide to say something, but nothing comes. He waves back at me, sleepy but grinning.

Bobby was in the middle row of seats. For whatever reason, he looked moody and a little upset. His gaze was firmly stuck outside the window. I decide not to bother him.

Jimmy pulls away as I shift back in my seat. It's late enough in the night that even in the city...whatever city I was in, just then...roads were lacking in cars. A window was cracked. The air was spring-cool, and refreshing.

We pull up outside a run-down corner store. Bobby leaps out of the van and closes the door before I could utter a word.

"Cigarettes." Jimmy says, matter-of-factly. He drives off without looking or waiting. Somehow, it felt normal for him to do that. For a moment, I consider if Bobby was actually mad at me for taking the front seat, and not over the lack of nicotine in his system.

I glance in the rear view mirror and see Davey fast asleep. He looked so cheery, even with his eyes closed and his mouth partially open.

"So. You like the show tonight?" Jimmy asks, grabbing my attention.

"Y-yeah." I stutter. I bite my lips to keep from looking too silly between the smirks and whatever graceless motions I was making with my hands. "You guys were great!"

"Oh, really..." he says, enjoying the praise.

Blushing stupidly, I try making small talk with him. I can still smell the quality material of his jacket, and the clean scent from his skin, even though we're nearly 2 feet from each other. I bring up the weather. I bring up their tour. I even bring up the costume I wore years ago, when I went as Roy from Siegfried and Roy, complete with fake tiger bite and stuffed tiger. He actually seems like he's enjoying my company. I feel like I'm making a friend.

During this whole time, I never stop to question where we were going. We pass streets and highways, some of it familiar, most of it not. Should I tell him where I live? Will he know where to go? Honestly though...does it really matter?

Those questions answer themselves as we crawl back into the parking lot of the bar we had left from earlier. Suddenly, I understand what he meant by 'ride'. I sigh. I don't want to say my goodbyes yet. I don't want them to leave. I--

Am then woken up by Joe. It was 11:30 or so.

I lay in bed for some time afterward. I let the memory of the dream float back up to the surface of my conscious mind. I still feel hazy with sleep, but I remember. I remembered it all. And most importantly, my chest still buzzed with afterglow. It was such a small thing, such a dumb thing, but it had made me so happy.

I often wonder why my brain is able to latch on to so many details when I sleep. Most people I know, don't dream at all. Or, if they do, they cant recall anything once the morning light hits their eyes. Am I considered one of the lucky ones? Or am I secretly giving in to escapism?

Maybe both. Maybe none.

Years from now, I might consider posting dreams I have about people I like embarrassing. I'm also fairly sure reading one of these from the other end might not be as nice either. Will I delete this? Will I be asked to delete this? In the unlikely event I become famous somehow, will any of this be fodder for the American media frenzy?

Honestly though...does it really matter?

Update 2/1/2013: I can't spell...-.-()

No comments:

Post a Comment