Store up for yourselves treasures in Heaven
where moth and rust cannot destroy and thieves cannot break in and steal

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Blinky, Toad and Beak

I have this recurring dream. Maybe a dozen times so far in the last 10 years. This is not the only rerun that I have but . . .
I'm in a hospital or some type of large residential institution. I'm looking for a shower room. Specifically I'm looking for an empty shower stall in a large shower room that holds dozens of shower stalls. Row upon row of shower stalls. I search and search to no avail. The only stall that has no one in it has the shower head directly over a bed. But not just any bed. Certainly not a hospital bed. This is a round bed in an oversized cubicle with dark wood panelling, red carpet, and a black and white top blanket. I don't have any of my own shampoo, toothbrush or toothpaste or soap or washcloth. Not to worry because someone has left their toiletries on a shelf over the bed. In this recurring dream I always wind up showering in this stall by standing on the bed, using the other person's stuff. I sneak out of the shower room and head back to my own bed to lie in the warmth of the sun that's coming through the window.
A memory – Not a dream:
Blinky whistles for me to come on up. He, Toad and Beak are all in a Combine hopper smoking their brains out. We're all in grade three. I've been smoking since grade one; enough that my thumb and forefinger have a brown nicotine stain on them. I climb up to join this group of budding gangsters. Blinky has kept us in a steady supply of smokes for years. He steals them from his dad's grocery store. Usually Export A unfiltered, but sometimes Craven A. Beak has eyes that bug out like a cartoon character who's being throttled.
I stay long enough to listen to yet another hilarious description of Kathy W. from grade five. Her liberal use of Kleenex makes her boobies point in unpredictable directions. We giggle till our sides hurt. I gotta go as my dad is just about done unloading his truck-load of grain at the elevator. Beak flicks the butt in the air and out of the hopper. A quick scan of the surrounding area and he gives us the all clear. We hustle like Navy SEALS to the ground. I run across the train tracks to the grain elevator. The other three scatter in separate directions.
We hear the next day that some stupid shit must have thrown his cigarette butt in the the dry fall grass by the machinery lined up in the ditch along the train tracks. Apparently the high wind caused the fire to burn all along the train track for 3/4's of a mile before the volunteer fire department could put it out. Three combines (all pull-type) and several other farm machines suffered minor damage.
Ain't life a hoot? 

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