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...