I had a dismaying yet hilarious dream the other night. For whatever reason, I have some of the most vivid dreams that I can recall on cue than most folks. It’s as though I have lived countless lives in one lifetime. My mother is a reincarnation nut. She consumes books on the subject, thus she enjoys interpreting all of me dreams.
Before I started counting sheep that night, I had been on the phone discussing subjects that shall not be disclosed on the blog. Sheep started hopping over the bed, so I drew closed my weary palpebras and travelled to that mythical place we call dreamland.
I awoke to a fiery woman screaming for me to get out of bed, for she had important news. So, she sat me down and told me that I was going to be a pops.
We went to the doctor to verify such a suggestion. She was indeed with child, so we started making preparations for the baby. I was a happy man, and so was my family. I had finally done something right, so to speak.
Eight months flew by with the snap of a finger and I found myself in the delivery room. The fiery woman in question had transformed from that of a slim recherché figure to that of a bus with long pinkish-red marks along the side to boot.
She grabbed me by the hand and squeezed harder and harder with every contraction. The doctor told me look because the baby was crowning. While still under the clutches of her grip, I glanced down discovering the utter destruction that is child birth and cringed, almost passing out.
In that brief second, I noticed something weird besides the budging and ripping of skin and flesh. There were two green antennae pushing through to the outside world.
Seconds passed as she made the final push. I heard a great cry from beyond the belly, and the doctor said, “Look Dad”.
He proudly held up the radiantly green baby, pointing at the ten fingers and toes and wiggling antennae.
“Beep…Beep” Said the baby, as the two short antennae atop his head darted from side to side and an ominous grin overtook his wee green countenance.
With my mouth agape, I screamed, “That’s not my baby”.
The fiery woman squeezed my hand immensely harder, and exclaimed, “He’s yours”.
“There ain’t no way that martian is any of my genes”, I yelled whilst trying to get away from her death grip.
I ran out of the hospital with an enraged woman and crawling baby Martian following close behind.
Beep…Beep
So, it’s your turn to analyse one of my whacky dreams. God help you.
All of us have faults and baggage. It’s part of being human. Faults and baggage really come to light when one enters into a relationship. Both parties learn of one another’s mannerisms and history. It is quite intriguing, really. Of course, the human experience fascinates me. For so many years, I missed out on wild rollercoaster that is relationships.
Like most folks, I have a ton of baggage. I tend to be a wee bit overbearing, a father figure of sorts. I’m always older than the women I date. (insert joke here) This has afforded me great arguments that I always lose, because all men are wrong, evidently.
Another thing that I and others have notice about moi, is that I tend to go into things at full steam. This time ‘round, I’m taking my time. The faster I rush into things, the harder I crash.
Yet another is something that unhinges a lot of people, especially her. I tell tales of Ireland when an opportunity arises. I don’t do it to be cocky or to seem overly worldly. Most people in this part of the southern US my age and older have never been anywhere. They think a trip is an overnight travel to the next city. I do it for the craic. I have a lot of good memories from Ireland. It comes off to some people like I’m trying be a preppy show off, when that is certainly not the case. I try to explain that Ireland is not an evil place just because it is near Iran in the dictionary!
After this evening, I’m forbidden to bring up Eire on our next outing. It will be hard, as I’m trying to learn Irish and am subsequently muttering Irish words at every chance.
Finally, I care too much. Really. I worry ‘bout her and several other people too much. There are local robberies and shootings on the news every evening. This does not help. I am working on it though. Let the chips fall where they may, I guess.
I realise that this is a sorry excuse for a post. It’s more of critique of myself. A bit of self exploration, as it were.
So, now that I have totally bored you all to bits, what are your faults?
Sunday afternoon I was at my grandmothers enjoying pintos and cornbread. It’s a fathers day tradition for my family. After two bowls and too much cornbread, I reclined with my Uncle to listen to the coven of rumourmongers. I was so bored by the gossip that I started counting me own freckles.
I discovered something disturbing on my left arm. I found what looked to be a cross between a freckle and a mole. It was black in colour but perfectly symmetrical. The entire clan started inspecting it and stating that I should have it checked out. By the time I went home, I was a bit freaked out. ( I know, too much information, but I’m getting to the point.)
There is a history of melanoma in my family that goes back three generations. My Aunt died of it, and my Uncle found a similar spot that was spotted in time. Grandmother lives in the shadows. Her house is like a crypt. We used to pick at her for covering every patch of skin in the heat of Summer, but now we understand why she covered herself up so well.
Monday morning, I made an appointment with a dermatologist. I couldn’t see him until Tuesday, so I was a wee bit unhinged yesterday. The glass is half full, I cogitated whilst entering the doctors office. The thought of cancer is about the only thing really scares me. I’ve conquered everything else! I watched it slowly ravage my Aunt.
The doctor and myself went over my records, meds, and family history. He had a good look at it and smiled. He said that I should keep an eye on it, but at this time he didn’t feel that it was anything to worry about. He went on to tell me what to look for and to contact him if anything changed.
I left a very relieved man. I dodged the proverbial bullet, so to speak. So, I went to work a very happy man.
Tuesday evening, Red and I were driving towards my house. We encountered seven boyos standing in the middle of a dark road with their shirts off. Evidently, I interrupted a redneck beatdown. It is tradition here to rip one’s shirt and accessories off before taunting the opponent. I do my best to avoid fighting with anyone. It’s not worth it. On the occasions that I have fought, there were no taunts coming from me, just fist full of rage. I’m a doer, not a talker.
Kids today think they are tough. Please! I’ve rode horseback and lived in a tent for days on end! I’ve spent weeks in Love Valley, NC with a leaky tent and a disturbed stud that enjoyed knocking me off and scratching his back on riverbanks every chance he got. His name was Skipper. Every time I got knocked off, my dad made me get back in the saddle.
Anyway, I continued with course and speed. They stood in the middle of the street, puffing their chests out and motioning for me to bring it on. Stupid teenage redneck wannabes. We busted into laughter.
The fact that we were laughing enraged them further. I rolled down the window. She laughed even harder, while punching me in the arm and motioning for me to roll up the window.
Yo man, we’re tryin’ tah settle ah score out ‘ere, what be u’r prablem? One of them asked whilst glaring at the passenger.
If you and your pals don’t get out of the street right now, I’m going to run your arses over, I hollered whilst glowering at him.
His dilated eyes darted back and forth, as he smirked.
I gave him the infamous Carolina don’t f**k with me look, and he motioned for them to get out of the street.
Wednesday afternoon I was in city centre doing a quick walkabout to stretch my legs. As I sauntered past the white collar littered promenade at lunchtime, a crowd of suits sped past me. One of them pushed me and my camera gear up against a brick building facade.
Normally, I would have brushed him off as an eejit and went on my way. But, I had something eating at my gut, so this little incident sent me slightly over the edge. I have nothing against people in suits. I have a lot of suits. I enjoy looking professional, but being that I’m a country boy, I am much more comfortable in denims and a t-shirt.
“What is your problem?”
He turned around, looked at me, whispered something to a cohort, laughed, and continued on his way.
Just the mere mannerisms and holier than though attitude infuriated me further, so I bit my bottom lip and lectured, “Between me and my family, we pay over a ****** ******* dollars to this state alone every year, so as long as I’m following the laws and mores of our wee society, I’ll walk where, when, and how I want…I’d be more careful of who I knock over, if I were you”.
“Oh Yeah?” He enquired whilst cockily crossing his arms and snickering with his twenty something pals.
“Yeah”, I boldly stated.
“Who’s your father then, tough guy?”
““*** Davis.”
“The *** Davis?”
“The one and only”, I answered whilst sighing.
“You’re kidding me, right?” He jokingly asked whilst destroying a piece of gum.
“No.”
“*** Davis has no son…he has three girls. I know him. My firm, *********, does work for him”, he laughingly hollered as a crowd gathered.
“He has six children, whether you know it or not”, I muttered while turning to walk away.
“If I were you, I’d be more careful about lying to make yourself feel big", the chump yelled whilst pushing his comrades forward.
The English lady from the coffee house that I was standing in front of patted me on the back and told me not to mind him. I had a café noir fuelled walk and went home.
Later that night, I was sitting here at my desk fuming about what the bloke said. As hard as it was to swallow, it was almost the truth. I had not talked to him in months. We had a wee bit of a falling out over a wee money issue. I had called his phone on numerous occasions and left messages trying to rectify the situation, but to no avail.
I went to the kitchen cupboards to fetch some Earl Grey and there peering out of the dark recess was a brand new bottle of a precious beverage from Ireland. I grabbed one of my grandfathers favourite glasses and the green bottle. Humour flowed from a TV show I rarely miss loosely based on the FDNY as well as the bottle.
A crack of thunder rattled the windows, as I searched the darkness for the incoming light show. The rain had lightly been pelting against the office window all night. While trying to grab a ciggy and a light, I stumbled a bit not realising how much I had consumed.
I stood at the back door and gazed out into the blackness of the garden. While smoking that one ciggy, a thought popped into my bevvied head. So, I grabbed my keys and phone and headed out the door.
I ran from one wet street to another until I approached the main thoroughfare. Soaked from head to toe, I stopped and gawped at the quarter moon peering through a gap in the heavy mist. I gazed at the moon, while standing on that sidewalk, enquiring as to why things are the way they are. Then, a suburban whizzed by covering me in road muck.
So, I decided to run to the 24hr bistro, encountering heavy raindrop laden puddles, like broken mirrors illuminated by lightning strikes along my path. When I got to the bistro, one of the waitresses that I know offered me a towel to dry off and brought me a cup of coffee. She asked if I was alright, and of course, I said I was fine. She knew better because I never show up in the middle of the night. She told me to call Red, an off and on again petite amie.
12:30AM Ring…ring…ring…ring
“Hello”, she whispered.
“Hey”, I hollered in a half inebriated manner.
“What time is it?” She pleaded as the ruffling of covers and feathers could be heard over the phone.
“It’s 12:30. I’m at the bistro. I need you to pick me up so we can talk.”
“Are you kiddin’ me?” She enquired with a bit of disdain in her tone.
“No.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Only slightly”, I uttered whilst trying not to laugh.
Click
I reasoned that she was mad at me for waking her up, so I finished my coffee. The kind waitress offered to call me a cab, but I benignantly refused. I took my time walking home. The thunderous storm had passed and a murkiness thick enough to cut through with one’s body had settled in its place.
It was around 1:30 in the morning, when I turned onto my street. I sneakingly walked past the other houses, hoping not to wake my ever alert grandmother that lives two houses down.
By the time I approached my front yard, the audaciousness and silliness had wavered. I discovered a glint of something on my front stoop. Scared, I drew closer. A figure came into view through the vapours. I got closer and realised it was…
It was her. She walked up to me shivering, her countenance filled with rage and worry.
Slap
“Don’t you ever scare me like that again”, she whispered in my ear.
I had never been prouder than at that moment. It was not my intention to worry her or anyone else, but it was nice to know that she cares.
For Her:
Freckles is a savage word.
How about dapples of lust,
Honey sisters,
Blunders of the Sun,
Love in lace,
Damsel’s shivers,
Silent baubles,
Caramel kisses,
Blotch of arcs,
Or a serene flock?
To Pops: Happy Fathers Day, dude! You’ll always be my pops, and I hope to make you proud one day. A little bit of time is all I’m asking for.
P.S.: Drinking and smoking are not things that I condone or would suggest that anyone start. I don’t have an addictive personality, so I can get away with the occasional drink or gasper.
P.P.S.: Most of us have father issues in one form or another. Our fathers are our fathers no matter what. Tis best to love them, because we never know when we or them may not wake up one morning.
