Sleeping with an excision and the eternal motorcycle commute

 

On the first subject, sleeping with an excision on my back, I only have a couple of comments: "Ow" and "Fuckin' Ow." Not a good night's rest. Made me temporarily forget about my stiff, arthritic neck for a minute, though. 

The dream I had was your typical hell loop dream. I had one simple task, but I could never complete it, after probably fifteen or so failed attempts. I awoke never having made it to my first day on the job at a crappy telemarketing firm in Anaheim, CA.

I used to actually have a couple of these jobs as a teenager, so I knew just how low I'd sunk to have to be going back to this line of work: below fast food and somewhere above homeless beggar. 

On my first couple of trips, I was responsible to also take my cousin Tim along. Giving rides to work and commuting was one thing, but doing it on a motorcycle in the cold-ass morning air ups the fuckedness level substantially. And the fact that I hadn't ridden a motorcycle in years, or ridden double in decades made it a very dicey proposition. Then there was traffic. And the terrain.

It would go like this: I'd wake up early enough, but all the details of getting ready for work, the little time wasters like making coffee, doing the dishes, dressing up in the leather apparel--all added up to an hour's wasted time. Inevitably, after getting halfway down the road, I'd have forgotten something and have to turn back. A couple of times it was Cousin Tim that I'd left waiting on the curb, and I'd have to go back and get him.

I was in southern Orange County, somewhere in the Anaheim hills, though it wasn't the ritzy area that I remember in real life. I lived in a crappy apartment with my new girlfriend and my mom. My girlfriend was someone other than my current lady friend. It may have been her sister, which is an awkward thing to have to write about. 

She was a tall, auburn-haired Russian speaking immigrant type. We'd only been together a couple of days, as was apparent when I left for work and came back on one of my many "just one more thing" return trips, and her ex-boyfriend showed up, wearing just his underwear. I was similarly attired when he walked in to the bedroom, and the moment was pretty classically uncomfortable for everyone.

"Well, this certainly is awkward," I said.

I felt I had the advantage, since I'd arrived a few moments before him and was already in the bed. I'd been expecting my Natasha, but I got Boris instead. Wah-wah-wwahhhhh. <embarrassing fail trombone sound> Maybe that was the reason the back door to the apartment was always off its hinges. For me, it was just another time waster to navigate, since I kept having to rehang the door every time I used it.

Boris took the cue and skedaddled, leaving the back door off its hinges again. Natasha would have some 'splainin' to do, but I was late for work, so I suited up and left drama for later. I had a long ride ahead of me, and I was determined to make it to work one of these times.

It never happened, although I did get close. I made it down the dusty, gravelly turnpike, with its steep no-shoulder drop-offs into infinite ravines of death, past the hordes of stop and go zombie-driven cars lurching down the 57 freeway, almost to the exit where my new job's office building awaited my arrival, but alas, it wasn't to be. I kept getting reeled back in like a set of keys on a retractable keychain.

Back at the apartment, I had to make sure that the dishes were done. I made some coffee and was supposed to leave enough for our guest, Carter from DBSA, but wouldn't you know, I happened to drink the last of it, and I was already an hour late. 

"I'm sorry I drank the last of the coffee," I apologized. "Can you go ahead and make some for yourself?" 

Good-natured as always, Carter said that he could. Between rehanging the door to the back stairs and the dishes in the sink, it didn't appear I'd ever get to work on time.

"Mom, do you think you could leave the dishes for me until after I get home from work?" I asked.

"Sure," she said. "Or either I or Aunt Carol can do them." I didn't like the sound of that, but I agreed. 

I left the back door lying on its side on the staircase and got on my bike one last time, flying down the road at breakneck speed. The engine whined like a dentist drill. I hadn't even properly put on my leather jacket and was trying to put my arms through the sleeves while rocketing down the highway. At some point, I got sensible and pulled over long enough to do the job correctly, but then it was back to the supersonic, out of control driving, down the dusty turnpike, through the traffic and on and on...

Before I'd gotten stuck in this hell loop, I had a brief dream that was the direct result of my falling asleep to Pulp Fiction. My mom was telling me about the pilot she starred in. It was called "Fox Force Five," and she was playing the part of Uma Thurman, who played the knife specialist. She was about to tell me the joke that her grandfather, an old vaudvillian, had taught her, the one about the tomato family with the sluggish baby. 

I woke up before that happened, though, and I got to hear Uma tell it for the 100th time. "Squish. Ketchup."