Sharon dumps me

 

Last night, I dreamed that Sharon and I were in the maze of the health care system and getting the runaround. I was being told conflicting things about her condition by nurses and doctors, and she was being roughly handled and thrown about like a giant bag of dog food. I was angry and kept trying to advocate for her but was getting nowhere. Things reached the breaking point, and Sharon turned on me.

"I don't know who this guy is. I don't want him around me anymore," she told one of the male staff. 

I tried to protest that she was not thinking clearly, that the MS had made her unreasonable, but the 30-something black orderly was firm with me:

"We will have to respect her wishes, sir," he said. "You'll have to step away, and let us do our job."

I was aghast. I felt betrayed and confused, but I stayed with her, trailing at a distance. I kept hoping she'd come around and relent. I tried to persuade her, reminding her of our marriage and my commitment to her, but she remained angry and unmoved.

"This is the best thing I've ever done, getting rid of his sorry ass," she said to the staff, not even addressing me directly.

This dream comes at a time when things are at a watershed in my personal life, involving a rapidly developing relationship. The LED, on very brightly for the last week or so, is now off again. Today is the first day of a different kind of life for me, and I am further on this uncharted adventure than I ever expected to be. 

I understand if Sharon might feel betrayed, but I also think she'd be OK with me moving forward. Perhaps she is like the cats, who are a little upset right now because there is a small dog in their house. I want so much for all my loves to get along, but sometimes that isn't always possible. I will remain true to myself in all this, whoever or whatever I am.

The '86

 In the early 2000s, I owned a 1986 Honda Accord. It had over 300,000 miles on it when I bought it. It was a decent enough car, having been owned and maintained by a master Honda tech named George Medina. George worked at Wittmeier Honda in Chico, first as a tech, then as a service writer. His career path finally led him to the ultimate gravy pastures of Butte College, where he retired as head of the Automotive Department. 

I sold the car, still running, in 2001 because Sharon needed a truck with 4 wheel drive to get around in Paradise in the winter. The '86, for all of its reliability, just didn't do well in the snow. It was also starting to overheat just a little, due to a crack in the radiator.

Last night, I dreamed I still owned the car and was doing some work to the cooling system. The car was sitting in the parking lot of the dealership, and Reiner was questioning me about some part or another that I'd just replaced on it. Since I'd changed just about every single component at one time or another, I couldn't remember which one I'd done last. Not being able to remember was really bugging me.

"Pop the hood," I told Reiner, "I'll tell you which part it is." I figured I'd just look for the part that didn't have the patina of road dust. "Lower radiator hose, there," I said, though I still wasn't sure that was it.

Why it mattered to Reiner, I don't know. He's just always present in my automotive dreams as an antagonist, the guy who gives me shit. I woke up, still feeling like I owed him a more accurate service history on the vehicle. In the bathroom, on this side of the dream curtain, it finally came to me: It was the heater control valve.

So there! And so what. It was a minor dream, without much significance. I slept through 2 movies last night with zero leakage from the audio input. Pulp Fiction and On the Beach are sure to lull me off to sleep because, by now, I have become so accustomed to the dialogue that I am immune to its intrusion. It is like white noise. It is like Amanda Plummer's line in Pulp Fiction's opening scene in the diner: 

Honey Bunny: "Do you know, when you go on like this, what you sound like?"

Pumkin: "I sound like a sensible fucking man, that's what."

Honey Bunny: "You sound like a duck. Quack, quack, quack, quack..."

 

Back to the real world...

 

 

 

Masked, vaxxed and miffed

 

My mom, Greg and I were traveling in a little group and dealing with the inconvenience of Covid. We'd all been vaxxed, but were encountering conflicting rules and regulations regarding mask wearing in different public and semi-public locales. 

"But Mom," I said, "Why do we have to give a fuck about the people who refuse to get vaccinated?" 

I'd had enough of the musical mask peekaboo game. Simon says, "Put on your mask." "Mother, may I take off my mask?" So, arbitrary and inconsistent. I was just tired of it all.

"It's not as simple as all that," said my mom, who was not wearing her mask at the moment.

"Like right now. We're in and enclosed space, and you aren't wearing your mask," I noted. I wasn't wearing mine either. We were in a car.

"That's different, we're--," she began.

"In the same bubble," I interrupted. "I know, I know. But we could be infecting one another as asymptomatic carriers, and leaving a trail of virus on whatever surfaces we touch. Who's going to address all those surfaces? They can't disinfect the entire world. Look around. Surface, surface, surface. They're everywhere." I was just being bratty at this point.

My mom swerved off the road and into a freshly plowed field, making an unconventional right-hand U-turn. I gave her shit about her inconsistency at rule following:

"What was that?" I teased. "Trespassing and violation of the vehicle code, destruction of private property--and for what? So you could make a whimsical U-turn?" I was mostly still miffed about the masks.

"Perhaps I did it to show you what happens when people just do what they want, without consideration for rules, or for the people the rules protect," she said. Maybe I just thought she said it, but her erratic turn did illustrate a point of some kind or another, I just wasn't sure what.

We arrived a restaurant, and my mom wheeled me around in a wheelchair to the back entrance. We passed a pretty blonde employee who I recognized from the Pizza Roundup. She was bent over, sweeping some debris into a dustpan, and her normally skin tight jeans were sagged, rapper style, exposing some striped panties. My mom whirled me around in the wheelchair so that I missed most of the show.

"MO--OM!!" I whined, in a perfect Cartman pout. She'd done that intentionally, getting back at me for my U-turn comment, I just knew it.

Earlier on, I'd been lying on a beach. There were some kids playing in the sand close to the surf. They stopped to look at me, and, thinking I might be dead, started talking excitedly about what to do with my dead body.

"Look! He's not moving! The tide is going to get him!" They were thrilled about that, apparently.

I decided to let it play out and stayed put, even though the tide was indeed lapping at my feet. One or two more waves, and I'd be completely submerged, face down in the wet sand. A particularly large surge came up and soaked me thoroughly. I rose up, arms outstretched like mummy, to the children's squeals of delight.

Unmummy-like, I reached into my coat pocket and retrieved a waterproof cellphone. I began to dial it. It had a keypad that resembled a scientific calculator and a tiny display. It was, for the most part, a calculator, but it functioned as a phone as well. I managed to get the phone to ring some number, though I have no idea whose number it was. I just wanted to make sure it still worked after the soaking.

I staggered up the beach and back to the restaurant, where I was to meet my mom and Greg. They were engaged in a conversation about the whole subject of masks, vaxxing and the general state of all things Covid. Masks were being worn by some, though not with any rhyme or reason as to who, when or where. Some people were wearing them haphazardly around their necks, others not at all.

This is where I came in, dream sequence-wise. My dream recall is very disjointed these days, with things frequently ending where they began and all jumbled up in the middle, like some Tarantino short film, though less inspired.

Funrerals and feuding

 

It's been a while since I've had any dreams that I can remember. They have been less frequent and short on details and plot, so I've been reluctant to write them down. But I'll give it a whirl, since last night's dream left me with a bit of a strange feeling.

The last thing I remember, I was sitting on a pew in an outdoor church setting. It was a funeral for a young Vietnamese girl who had died tragically. There was an ongoing feud between several families, and she'd gotten caught in the crossfire. David Chanh and Houa Vang were there, as I recall, sitting atop the seatback portion of the pew with feet dangled down. I joined them, perching myself in the same unlikely fashion.

I was going to be asked to speak, since it was traditional for guests to say a few words. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I tried to keep a low profile, though it was kind of difficult since, as the only white person there, I stood out like a stork in a lineup of sparrows. I'd been on the run and had only stopped in at the funeral to ask a question of Manny Salazar, who I'd heard would be in attendance. 

Before the funeral, I'd been evading some workplace strife related to warranty procedures and unfair job distribution. I was in an unpopular camp and was going to be targeted for some form of retribution by my co-workers. I took my leave of the workplace through a secret exit in the back of a Victorian clothing closet, which somehow didn't seem out of place at all in a modern Honda dealership.

After emerging from the magical portal, I found myself at a coat and tails cocktail hour in the stuffy atmosphere of a ritzy social club. It was the kind of polished brass and mahogany atmosphere suited best for English chaps in their late 60s with monocles and top hats. I wasn't dressed for the occasion, and I felt like a time traveler who was certain to be discovered by any observant partygoer in attendance.

The phone rang, and it was for me. A butler arrived with a tray containing an ancient telephone and handed me the handpiece. I answered it and was shocked at the voice on the other end. It was a guy named Pete, who I knew to be a gangster and also a friend of Manny Salazar. 

"Do you still need that pistola?" he asked me.

"I--uh, let me see..." I was stalling. I made like I was rummaging through some papers in order to buy some time. I didn't have an answer for him, so I told him I'd have to ask Manny, and perhaps I could call him back. "I just need five minutes. I'll get right back to you."

I left the social club and stepped out into the outdoor funeral, already in progress. Manny wasn't there after all, and I didn't relish calling Pete back, but I felt like I might be needing that gun after all. I woke up soon thereafter with an unresolved feeling of unease.

LED came on briefly after a long absence.

Just making note of the time. It's back off already.

----

No, it's back on. Mostly full-time, but with a few blinks here and there. It began the night I got my 3rd DMCA letter from my ISP this year. That's 4 "final warnings" that I've gotten from them. The LED came on almost simultaneously with getting this latest one, faintly at first, like a person with a weak pulse, but now strong, brighter than all the other lights. 

I don't need to rehash the mixed emotions I get when it appears: joy, anxiety, skepticism, then just pure wonder. What is this phenomenon? What can it mean? Is my life suddenly that much more interesting, that she would put a beacon here to let me know that she is looking in? 

It just may be, for reasons that I will leave in the "mysteries to be left to the imagination" file.

Breakfast with Emery

 

On Wednesday evening, I received a text from my friend, Emery. We've been friends for several months, as co-facilitators and members of the DBSA support group. I feel a kinship with her as a fellow old soul, albeit a soul currently residing in a considerably younger body. Tomorrow was going to be her 27th birthday. 

Wise beyond her years, she still struggles with the things that people in her age group find difficult, and it was because of the weight of some of these struggles that I got a text from her. She was feeling down, doubting herself and in general, experiencing the blahs. 

How I entered into her mind as a person to remedy this, I don't know. I'm not generally the most positive, uplifting person. I'm more funereal, really. Perhaps due to my inability to feign a saccharine sweetness, she's come to regard my words as, at the least, honest and relatable, if not altogether encouraging. Anyway, with my status of being the world's preeminent perennially depressed person, she didn't have worry about bringing me down.

For whatever reason, she picked me to tell her troubles to on this occasion, and I relished the opportunity to hack away at any self-doubt that might be obfuscating her ability to see a true picture of herself. I wanted to make her see herself as I and virtually anyone with a modicum of sanity would perceive her: as a truly majestic human being, beautiful in every respect. So young and full of limitless potential, with brains up to here, still she has a blind spot that is common to a lot of brilliant artistic souls: the inability or unwillingness to believe fully and irrevocably in oneself.

She asked me if I'd like to have breakfast with her on Thursday. Would I? Meet one of my favorite people for the first time and have breakfast? Hell-to-the-yeah! 

I saw her in front of the restaurant, and I recognized her at once, though she was even taller in person than I'd imagined. There she was, wearing a pretty blue dress, a baby blue bow in her hair tied in a smart butterfly knot in the back, and sporting brown leather/suede lace-up ankle boots. She was wearing contacts rather than her trademark professorial glasses, but it was her, without a doubt, in the flesh and larger than life.

I know I'm an old fart, and I don't get out much, but being seen in public with such a smart young beauty ups my stock's value considerably, dontcha think? Like being in the company of royalty, or at the very least an A-list celebrity. But that is just my superficial male ego kicking in; I find her intensity and depth of character to be outstanding, among her many other most appealing attributes. Fascinatingly complex, and yet, surprisingly accessible. 

Inside the relatively busy diner, we had a nice breakfast and discussed the things that weighed on her. I was struck by the incongruity of this marvelous person with her laser-focused awareness, a picture of beauty and intelligence, yet so vulnerable and doubt-ridden and just in need of someone to spill her guts to. I felt almost guilty to be so privileged.

She talked, and I listened. I didn't contradict her or attempt to invalidate her feelings. I just was a friendly face, a sympathetic ear. I, too, knew those feelings. I've had my own squad of anti-cheerleaders shouting in my head, deafeningly at times, so I could relate.

I don't think I solved any of her problems or offered her anything tangible in the way of advice, but as time went by, she became less anxious. The temerity in her voice turned into a natural, easy singsong. I probably glazed over, slightly mesmerized by her dynamic personality. Even a damaged, depressed Emery is still an awesome thing to behold.

After breakfast she said she was going to hit up several bookstores in the area and asked if I wanted to tag along. Of course, I would. This day was just getting better and better. 

We took her car and drove to the first bookstore, though it was only a block or so away from the restaurant. We probably could have gotten there quicker walking, as her GPS seemed determined to sabotage the trip, robotically suggesting that she make illegal turns down one-way streets and showing an inverted, mirror image of the route.

Walking from the parking lot, I struggled to keep up with her long strides. Stepping off the curb, she was at once statuesque and confident, awkward and ever so slightly inept at walking. Her determined steps occasionally stumbled just a bit, from which she would recover, graceful as a heron who'd stepped in a less than auspicious piece of swampland. I felt a little like Digory walking the streets of London with the towering, otherworldly Queen Jadis of Charn leading the way.

Bookstores are like candy shops for her. She glided around the aisles like a ghost haunting a favorite venue. I hadn't been in a bookstore for years, so I was just taking it all in, still in a state of glazed-over fascination with how the day was unfolding. It had a very dreamlike quality.

She purchased several books, and on our way we went. We passed a storefront bearing a sign that said "The Witch is In" and stopped inside just long enough to satisfy our curiosity, then we were off to another bookstore, this time in Nevada City. 

I had to follow her in my car, and we had what seemed to be a bit of a slow motion car chase as she made erratic turns, doubling back and ducking down alleyways, looking for the ever elusive Elysian fields of the public parking lot. We finally found it, smack in the middle of the tiny hillside town, after navigating a labyrinth of concentric circles.

We hit up another bookstore, where she bought more books, then stopped for an ice cream cone. This was her day to treat herself to whatever made her happy, and ice cream has a pretty good track record for accomplishing that sort of thing. 

We stayed in the air-conditioning for a bit and then went outside and sat at a little table out in front of the ice cream parlor. I stared up at a blue sky peppered with little white clouds while she finished her ice cream cone. There really isn't anything more to be done in those moments, scant as they are, than to just sit back and admire them for their extrinsic as well as their intrinsic awesomeness.

On our way back to the parking lot, we stopped in one last store, a tin shack that sold rocks and crystals. She bought a decorative rock to memorialize the occasion. Finally, it was time to go. We hugged goodbye in the parking lot, thanked each other for a lovely morning and went our separate ways.

Driving home, I realized that something was missing from my consciousness. That feeling of depression and my incessant negative background soundtrack were conspicuously absent. Was this what normal people did? Go out to breakfast with friends, hang out and go shopping, eat ice cream and talk? I felt like I was wearing someone else's clothes, and I liked them better than my own. 

This re-emergence from depression thing didn't happen all at once, nor was this breakfast event the only social event on my calendar of late. I've been texting, talking and visiting with a wonderfully warm and extra sweet lady to whom Emery, as it happens, introduced me. 

I won't name or blog about her just yet, though. I am still living in the moment, and prefer not to taint it with analysis or description. I don't want to jinx it, but things have been going so nicely with her and I, that I am in uncharted territory. My familiar script has been swapped out, and now I'm in my own coming of age film, "The Dawning of the Age of Andrew." 

I'll leave off here, since I've most likely alerted the Karma gods to my undeserved good fortune, and they'll most likely show up soon to even the score.

No bicycle accessories for Greg, thank you

 

I was awakened abruptly, so I was unable to properly pack up my dream. All I can recall from it was that Greg had a bicycle which my mom and I had borrowed and on which we had both installed accessories, much to his annoyance.

"Thanks, but no thanks," he told my mom when he saw the devices. 

"But I -- we-- thought you'd be pleased," my mom said, hurt by his callous rebuff.

My mom's accessory was more of a decorative enhancement than practical upgrade, something like changing out the original handlebar grips for fancier ones. It wasn't anything as frivolous as tassels or sparkle-infused urethane, but whatever it was rubbed Greg the wrong way.

I was glad that the accessory that I had installed was more practical. It was a sturdy, light-weight bike rack that doubled as a rear seat. It was specifically designed for his model of bike and the color matched and everything. I was proud of the upgrade and could think of no downside. 

"That goes for you, too, Andrew," he said in a irate tone. "I want that thing off of there."

I tried to point out the many advantages of having a well-designed luggage rack that was sturdy enough to accommodate a passenger and only minimally affected the bike's performance as a full-suspension mountain bike, but Greg was having none of it.

"I just don't want stuff on my bike, OK?" he said, grumpily, "I want all that stuff off of there, and that is that. Now, both of you, get to it."

While I was showing him what a chore it would be to remove the rack, he noticed a few pits and scratches in the paint of his otherwise pristine bike. 

"How did these wind up here, I wonder?" he said, implying that my installation had caused the defects.

"I'm pretty sure these are due to a problem in the manufacturing process," I told him, and I began to expound on my vast knowledge of bicycle frame fabrication and painting:

"You see these pits are caused by oil or moisture left on the frame before it was painted. This weakened the paint and caused it not to adhere properly to the metal. When the bike was taken out in the sun, the little bubbles in the paint expanded and burst, leaving these pits. See?" Sounded legit. I was buying, at least.

I pointed out a similar defect on my own bike, which was a model much like his. I pushed the lever on my telescoping seat post, and it popped up like an overzealous jack-in-the-box, almost striking him in the face.

"Well, never mind, that. Just get my bike back to the way it was before you borrowed it," he said, waving me away, unamused at my bike's untoward seat post erection.

I went over to a filling station where my mom was already in the process of removing her accessories. I needed to find the right tools, so it took me a while to get to the removal of the bike rack. In the meantime, my mom took a hose with pressurized water and began to inflate my bike's air suspension with it. I stopped her when I saw what she was doing.

"Why are you filling my air shocks with water?" I demanded. 

"Well, I...I...," she stammered. "The hoses look the same. I guess I got confused."

I began to drain out the water, but mostly air was coming out. I guessed that she'd not managed to get much in there before I stopped her. But now my pressure was off, and I'd have to get the right amount of air back in there, or the bike would ride funny. I couldn't find the proper air hose with a gauge on it, so I tabled the idea.

I went off in search of some allen wrenches. I had to sneak into a garage where some skateboarders where laying around smoking weed. I managed to get past them and retrieve a tool bag, but on my way out, I had to crawl under a mostly closed garage door which was being held up with a skateboard. I scooted it away and managed to get out just as the stoners were becoming aware of my presence. 

The dream ended at this point, and I was awakened by my computer's jangly email notification. But sometime before this happened, I have a vague recollection that I was burning a compost pile in the back of my house in Paradise. I'd placed the debris far too close to the house, and my mom was insisting that I move it to a better location, so I wouldn't burn the place down.

"Right over there," she pointed out the spot where previous burns had taken place. 

It was over on the east side of the house, in a spot where some ivy had been trampled and an oleander bush had been removed earlier. My basset hound, Huckleberry, used to poop there. I had to agree it was a better spot and reluctantly began to move the debris. 

That is the last trace that I remember of a disjointed and rather insignificant dream sequence. I'm sure there was more to it than that, but I've probably fabricated enough as it is, just trying to squeeze out this much. A segment with my mom and me buying beer at Ray's Liquor in Paradise got left on the cutting room floor.

Meat Thievery At Cosmo's

 

Kramer, Costanza, Seinfeld and I were sitting at the table in Kramer's house. Kramer had cooked a bunch of tri-tip for his little dog, and it was sitting in a bowl on the table cooling off before he was to serve it to him. I was sneaking pieces and eating them, trying to conceal my chewing while Kramer engaged me in a conversation. I was sure I was going to get caught in the act, but Kramer seemed to be aware of just about everything but my meat-thieving antics. 

The other two just looked on, shaking their heads, while the little dog yipped and snapped at my hand as I palmed a piece of meat. I feigned a cough and brought the meat to my mouth, biting off a large chunk, the dog intently tracking the remaining piece in my hand like a street gambler engaged in a game of Three Card Monte.

"He's really into you," Kramer said, still not noticing the diminishing meat supply in the bowl, nor my poorly concealed chewing.

"Yeah," I gurgled between chews, "he sure is." I managed to wheeze out the words, narrowly avoiding a huge coughing fit, as the meat was about to go down the wrong way.

"Well, that about tears it," Kramer said indignantly. "I cook all this meat for him, and he likes you better than me. It's like you were feeding him or something."

The dog continued to yap, as if to say, "He's not giving it to me, you imbecile. He's hogging it all for himself." But Kramer couldn't speak the little dog's language, so he misinterpreted the barky yips as the dog wanting to go outside.

"Is that what you want, little guy? Time to go for a walk?" 

The dog reluctantly shifted his focus to the door, and we all got up from the table. That's when Kramer noticed that half of his tri-tip had vanished. I still had a bit of beef hanging out of my mouth when Kramer launched at me, a butcher knife in one hand and the half empty bowl of meat in the other. I dodged him, weaving in between Jerry and George and ran out the door with Kramer and the little dog in pursuit. 

"I'll get you for this!" he yelled after me. "Don't think I won't! You...you...meat thief!"

Alien Surfboard To Heaven

 

"Ever wonder what happens when you die? And what about aliens? Do they exist? And, if so, what part do they play in humankind's evolution as a species, both physically and as spiritual beings seeking collective enlightenment? Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and ride the Alien Surfboard To Heaven. All your questions will be answered experientially, to your complete intellectual and visceral satisfaction. All for the low, low price of..." 

I dreamed I was living in Arizona. Far from being the surfing capital of the world, it was odd that the aliens would have chosen it as a launchpad for their "Surfboard To Heaven" campaign. But perhaps it was because of its remoteness from all things ocean, which made the promise of eternal life in the endless summer of a Beach Boys song so appealing to the demographic.

At first just a few random surfboards were left laying around the town. People would find them at bus stops or out on their lawns in the morning. It didn't appear to be part of a giant marketing strategy; it just looked like someone had abandoned their surf gear for a moment. Surely, someone would be along to claim them. But no one ever claimed any of these surfboards, and as the accumulation of abandoned boards grew, their presence in the city became a both a nuisance and a cause for wild speculation.

Along with the surfboards, karaoke machines started to crop up in random places. First a microphone would be left, say on a park bench or a picnic table. Someone would inevitably pic up the mic, find that it was live, and begin singing into it, invariably to some surf related song. Soon little tiki themed refreshment bars, reminiscent of  children's lemonade stands or fireworks kiosks, began to appear, always in proximity to a stack of surfboards. 

What was happening was that these people who would pick up the mic would somehow become connected to an extraterrestrial soul-harvesting enterprise and become unwitting hawkers for the alien agenda. The surfboards were markers for people whose souls had been plucked.

My stepdad Greg found one of these microphones on a bus stop and offered it to me. As I contemplated the possible consequences of singing into it, I suddenly recoiled. I looked up into the sky and saw a swirling vortex of black surfboards, spiraling up into the heavens, like a funnel cloud made of DNA strands. These were the souls of humans on their way to the afterlife. 

"You'd better drop that mic," I told him. "You don't want to wind up like them." I pointed to the darkening sky.

"How do you know that, Andrew?" he countered. "Maybe that's just where I want to wind up. Did you ever think of that? Maybe it's all surfing and suntans, bikinis and beach parties up there. Do you know for a fact that that's not the case?"

I was silenced. Perhaps the ominous looking shuttle service did land one in a tropical paradise; I had no way of knowing. But I wasn't ready to jump just yet. I still had a few more years of natural life to live out, and I was going to stick to the walking path rather than taking the bullet train. 

 

I just got off the phone with my psychiatrist. He is now offering me a thyroid medication called T3, as an alternative treatment for my depression, mainly because I am so low energy, and also because he isn't a fan of conventional anti-depressants. We are looking for a magic bullet, one that can go straight to the problem, without taking out major organs in the process.

It occurs to me that the dream I had was a subtle metaphor warning me against the idea of a quick easy fix. Magic always comes with a price. The devil will always exact his payment at some point. And, as they say, there is no free lunch.

The Russian Mob

 

Driving around with a dead body in the trunk, my friends Martin, Saul Goodman and me were like a three ring circus of criminal faux pas. Our ineptitude was the real crime, and our only saving grace that we were dealing with enemies whose levels of imbecility rivaled our own: the Russian mob.

In the early gray of dawn, we parked our car on the beach, hoping to make a quick dump of the corpse in the trunk. However, the spot was near a busy overpass which had a splendid view of us and our clandestine activities. Bad enough to be burying bodies in the daytime, but this spot was a bust from the get-go. 

Random motorists were honking their horns and undoubtedly cracking jokes to their passengers about the morons who had driven out onto the beach and, oh, look, what's that they're doing with that body and those shovels?

To make matters worse, it was nearing high tide. All the work Martin was doing, digging in the wet sand with a shovel to make a nice man-sized hole, was getting undone as the tide came up, refilling the hole as fast as he could dig it. 

I got out of the car and started helping Martin with his doomed battle against the tide. We'd have to get the body into the hole quick, before the tide left us and our car stranded in quicksand. I was in the hole with water up to my knees, flailing with the shovel and making zero progress with our seaside gravedigging enterprise.

Saul Goodman pointed out that just on the other side of the overpass was a construction site with a giant excavation pit which would have made a much more suitable venue for our body disposal job. It was pre-dug, after all, and it didn't possess the inherent danger of getting us all washed out to sea.

While Martin and I tried to remain incognito, pretending we were just blokes having a fun day at the beach with Bernie, Saul went poking about the construction site. He found a few barrels and went about testing their contents by dropping his gun into them and retrieving it, sniffing for traces of chemicals in the residue.

"This one is just water," he said, wiping his gun off and moving on to another barrel.

He wasn't so lucky with the next barrel. He dropped his gun in and then fell headfirst into the barrel himself while trying to retrieve it. Like a carnival diver who'd just taken a high dive into a Dixie cup, he popped up to the surface and whisked his hair out triumphantly. 

"This one's got...Oh, shit..." he trailed off. It was a vat full of acid he'd landed in. 

Bits of his face started to melt off as he tried to wipe the corrosive liquid from his eyes. In a matter of a minute, Saul was dead. His body became an unrecognizable lump in the gooey stew. His spirit, however, persisted a moment or two in the form of an iridescent blue hologram the color of an old black and white TV image, complete with  low-res static and video glitches.

"At least there's smoking in the afterlife," he said, lighting a phantom cigarette with the tip of his finger. 

I was glad to see Saul was able to crack jokes, considering he was dead and all, but we still had a body to get rid of, and we couldn't stick around to chit-chat with our friend's apparition. Martin and I drove off the beach and found a nearby warehouse where we hastily decided to just abandon the car, body and all. 

"Maybe we should set it on fire," I suggested. It was something I'd seen done in the movies, and it seemed like the appropriate thing to do.

"No time," said Martin. "The Russian mob is onto us. We've gotta make tracks, or we're gonna be getting disposed of along with our dead friend here."

We split up, and I caught a cab, while Martin disappeared into the city on foot. Within about a minute of driving, the cab picked up another passenger. It was a member of the Russian mob. The cab driver was also Russian, and it was beginning to dawn on me that I was, in fact, fucked. They turned the car around and headed back to the warehouse.

I knew I'd have to get out of the car before we got there, as their plans included dumping me and the body in the car into the pit at the construction site. Why they'd be making these plans known to me in plain English when they could just as easily have been speaking Russian, I couldn't figure. 

"You'll have to let me out here for a minute," I told the driver. "I left a stick of butter out there on the asphalt, and it is going to melt if I don't retrieve it."

Why this ridiculous excuse worked, I have no clue, but it did, and they let me out of the cab. Maybe there's a universally understood respect for the sanctity of butter which supersedes international criminal affiliations, I don't know.

"Baht ohv course," said the driver, thickly. "I'll keep zee meetah runnink."

Why I then got back into the cab after fetching the partially melted stick of butter, instead of running for my life, I'll really never know. The dream ended with me still in the cab, presumably about to be murdered by a couple of intern Russian mobsters.