The Kingston Trio Thriftstore, Whiskey and the Waters of March movie theater

 

I dreamed I was at  a thrift store where the background music was a continuous loop of Kingston Trio songs. I was buying a list of things in hopes to cure my real life ailment. It was some kind of a witchcraft shopping list with items like "eye of newt," etc. But this list included things like 2 bowling balls, a crappy bicycle and various bottles of spices, some opened and half used. 

The clerk who was responsible for ringing me up was a bit of a carnival huckster type, a portly man with glasses, and he had made many of the recommendations for my list. As he named the prices for the bowling balls, $100 each, I was getting a bit dismayed. They didn't even come with bowling bags. 

I wasn't exactly thrilled when he tried to find a towel to fold into a makeshift sling in which to carry them. The bicycle was some kind of less than ergonomic old school ten-speed with fenders and granny handlebars, the kind that would sport a bell nicely or perhaps a clown horn. Again, I was underimpressed.

I pulled out my credit card. "Fine," I said. If these items didn't cure me, I'd be dead soon enough, so who cares how much they cost anyhow?

Next, I found myself in Philadelphia. Why? How? I'm not sure. But I had my phone with me, so I was gonna take a lot of pictures of local landmarks to prove that I had traveled somewhere. 

"What would Martin do?" I thought as I snapped pictures of some older looking buildings. A tour bus stopped in front of one in particular, and the announcer began his little speech, so I knew I was on the right track. 

I somehow meandered up to a bit of a hilltop community which didn't seem quite like Philly anymore. There was a mountain trail that looked like it was going to be a difficult way to get back down to the city, but I followed a dog who looked a lot like Whiskey and found that I was actually a lot closer than I thought. He found a trail that was adjacent to some apartments, and soon we were back in the city.

He seemed to vanish as I got back on track with whatever I'd come to Philly for. I went into various shops and restaurants. 

What was I looking for? A job? Some pizza? Some kind of connection to jumpstart the next phase of my life? 

I met several people who seemed to each have one hint or another which led me forward in a treasure hunt of clues that was very patchy and sketchy at best. I met with Martin, and we discussed the whole process. He seemed to have a better handle on the game, so we strategized for a while.

I wound up walking on a busy street and there was Whiskey again, happy and fully alive and healthy. It occurred to me in the dream that he was actually supposed to be dead, so I examined him to make sure he wasn't an imposter. He rolled over, and I petted his belly and looked him over. 

I glanced down the street and there was another dog who also looked like Whiskey. I looked back and decided that this was my Whiskey, despite his rejuvenated appearance. 

He sprang up and looked like he was going to run out into traffic. Remembering how he died in real life, I grabbed him by the neck to restrain him.  He wiggled and struggled a bit, but I averted the crisis momentarily. I was pretty sure that this wouldn't be the last time, though. He had a knuckleheaded look on his face that seemed to fixate on following his dog senses somewhere else, indifferent to the traffic.

Sometime later, I was in a mountain community that was vaguely reminiscent of Lake Isabella, but without any landmarks to give me a clue. I was friends with a younger guy, a teenager perhaps, that was going to help me figure out what I needed to do. We had to make some kind of a plan for the day.

"What do you want to do?" I asked him. Or he asked me, I forget.

But he answered with, "Let's go for a walk." He wanted to take a long walk to some creek or place which was quite a ways away.

"We're going to need a map," I said and began rummaging around for a map. I found a laminated old style map which was pre-folded and in perfect condition.

"You can bring that if you want," the younger guy told me, "but I'm going to follow the trail of dog piss." He pointed to a substantial puddle at the base of a telephone pole. And so we were off.

Next, I was lining up at a movie theater, back in the town, presumably Philly still. As I waited to be let in, the ticket taker was reading from a list of things that I was to bring to the theater if I wanted to get in.

"A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road, it's the rest of the stump, it's a little alone..." he intoned from the Waters of March, a Basia song that seemed to go on forever.

I was never gonna get in there at this rate. I finally woke up out of sheer impatience, and sure enough, Basia was still rattling off her list of "Waters of March" images one at a time and confusing me as I tried to remember the earlier parts of the dream.