Santa Clarita Car Wash

 

Nothing brilliant to expound upon today, just a headline with a short blurb: Water Shortage Threatens To Shut Down Santa Clarita Car Wash Fundraiser.

Last night as I slept, my throat was paying the price for me losing my temper at the cat food yesterday. While dumping out a bag of Purina into the plastic storage bin, a bunch of it spilled out on the floor. I could have just as easily cursed it silently, but being that I had foreknowledge of the event and was trying my best to avoid it, I instead chose to scream at the top of my lungs for a full five minutes. 

Yes, I have a low frustration tolerance. And anger issues.

Perhaps the sore throat that I woke up with played into my dream's dry and parched drought theme, I don't know. I was at a car wash in Santa Clarita, where water is scarce to begin with. I was reusing the water from the cars to wash a black bicycle frame, which was standing unattended, balanced precariously without a kickstand. So, naturally it fell over, as I knew it would. 

"That was bound to happen," Sal Mendez said disapprovingly.

I looked the frame over, examining the paint for chips or scratches. It appeared to be in good enough shape, but I still wasn't too pleased with myself for allowing it to fall over. How had it even happened? Did I knock it with the hose, or was there a slight breeze that pushed it ever so slightly? Regardless, it was my fault.

I was just getting the thing rinsed off when a voice came over the loudspeakers:

"Due to the baseball game which will be commencing shortly, the water will now be shut off. Please make alternate arrangements. Thank you."

Before that non-event, I was with some friends at a house in Whittier. They were about to see me off, as I was going to be leaving them on a long journey, from which it was doubtful that I would return. 

Chris Knoll was attempting to make me a sign out of poster board, using Magic Markers. It wasn't coming out very well, and he kept crossing out what he'd written and writing over it with darker letters. It said something to the effect of "Good Luck On Your Journey" or "Many Happy Returns." He wasn't very pleased with the final product, but I told him that it was fine, I'd gotten the message.

Now, I'm awake. It's not even 7 am on Saturday. My throat is full-on sore, so I gargled with some Listerine and then sucked on a zinc tablet for a few minutes. I'm still not feeling any relief, so I think I'll try to get back to sleep. Perhaps I will go on that journey and see where it takes me. 

Stupid cat food.

----

Well, that was productive. While I was attempting to sleep off my sore throat, I got transported to Pico Rivera, where I got into an argument with a guy in a food truck that was parked on Burke St. in front of the apartments where I used to live. I don't remember what we were arguing over, only that I was getting nowhere, and I grabbed a couple of his frying pans and threw them at him. 

He attempted to retaliate by smashing a glass globe over my head, but I blocked him, Kareem style, with my longer reach.

"Ho, ho! Rejected!" I taunted him. "How's that feel, Mr. Food Truck Man?"

Not too good, apparently, because next he reached down behind his serving counter and was about to produce a handgun. But I was way ahead of him, and I jumped into a random car that was parked nearby, which I somehow had the keys to. I wasn't sure if it was a manual or an automatic, but I guess I would find out when I turned on the key and stepped on the gas. I only had seconds to spare before the angry vendor reached me.

It turned out to be an automatic, and I peeled out as fast as the pathetically underpowered mid '80s sports coupe would propel me. I glanced back and saw the food truck guy feebly wielding one of the frying pans I'd thrown at him. I was well on my way, laughing that I'd pulled off this stunt with impunity.

Next, I was at a medical facility in Fullerton. I was there to do a follow-up on my abdominal issues. I waited for a while in the waiting room and was eventually seen by an apologetic nurse, who I kept wanting to call Emily because she reminded me of someone who used to attend DBSA meetings with me. I examined her face more closely, though, and determined that it wasn't her.

She was wearing loose fitting scrubs of a tank top variety, with no bra underneath. How did I know this? Her left nipple kept popping out. I felt as if she might have known this was happening, but was allowing it to happen anyway. "Hello, nice to see you, too," it seemed to be saying as I kept stealing peeks at it.

She asked me what I was in for, and I told her that I'd made the appointment months ago and that all of my symptoms had since resolved. I went into great detail about the muscular abnormalities they'd found in my MRI, and she listened intently. She was very apologetic about the lengthy wait and for the scheduling delays, and she planted a nice, lengthy kiss on my cheek. 

"No problem," I told her, slightly exhilarated by the attention. "All's well that ends well."

With that I was off, but not before she gave me one last look at her left nipple, this time deliberate, I'm sure, because she looked back at me over her shoulder to check if I'd been looking. 

I next found myself on a street corner, dragging the bottom half of a shopping cart behind me with a yellow nylon rope. I waited for the light and then crossed the street, pulling my little homemade wagon. After crossing the street, my cart fell into a storm drain and wound up in a creek under a bridge. 

I was still holding onto the rope, so I attempted to reel it in.  It kept getting stuck on some rocks, so I hopped over the railing and went down to investigate. Once I'd waked out onto the rocks, I had a better view, and I could also get better leverage on the cart. I got it unstuck and reeled it in easily. Looking down into the water, I was amazed to see several small mouth bass feeding in the relatively clear, shallow area from which I'd just retrieved the cart. I made a mental note to come back later with a fishing pole.

Before all of this occurred, I was with my mom in the kitchen of a house I didn't recognize, but I assume was either mine or my mom's. I was attempting to get some cereal out of the cupboard when -- you guessed it -- I spilled the entire contents of the box out on the floor, in a manner very similar to the way I'd spilled the cat food earlier. As I was ramping up to have a major hissy fit, my mom did her best to smooth things over.

"It's no big deal, really," she said soothingly. "We can always vacuum it up later. But I know you're hungry, so let's just scoop some of this off the counter so you can have breakfast." I was ok with the idea and proceeded to do just that. 

Now, what came next is unclear, but I'll try to include whatever details I can. My mom was doing some aerobics in front of the TV when she suddenly had to stop and lean against the wall. It may have been her back or her legs, I'm not sure, but she had to rest, half squatted with her back against the wall and her hands on her knees. 

Rob Peavey, an old high school friend, was there, and he took the opportunity to try to scam on my mom. He made some comments about my mom's backside while attempting to wedge his hand between her butt and the wall. I cried foul and a brief conflict ensued as to the appropriateness of his maneuver. 

"No one's going to be putting their hands on my mom's backside but me!" I sternly admonished, seemingly unaware of how completely inappropriate the words sounded as they were coming out of my mouth.

I got his hand out of there, and none too soon, apparently, as he was well on his way to getting her pants undone and pursuing some kind of sexual misdeeds with her behind. Oh, and my mom wasn't in her 70s in this dream, more of a young 40-something, so it wasn't so far fetched that my buddy would be trolling her for some action. Just not on my watch, buddy. 

That's about it. Sorry about the lack of continuity or any smooth segues; it really was just a hodge-podge of unrelated events. But I wanted to include any and all details that I could remember, as I try to faithfully report the random scenarios generated by my subconscious at night. It may not make a good story, but I'm sure it's fertile ground for psychoanalysis.