My geriadolescent fantasy continues, and I get a phone call from Hog Beast

I don't dream much at night it seems. I guess my mind occupies itself enough with such things during the day, so at night it just wants to sleep. Occasionally, however, there will be little snippets that emerge which tell me that more must be going on behind the scenes.

I did dream last night, and although I would love to have a coherent story with lots of descriptive details, I really only remember this:

I was lying in my bed. Next to me, on my right, was my friend E____, stretched out like a cat, her back slightly arched and her arms above her head, squirming and shifting to glean the maximum amount of comfort and enjoyment from the warm bed. We were lying pretty close together, maybe a few inches from one another--close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from her lithe frame--but not actually touching.

On my other side, sitting in an upright position facing the television was Linda. I think she was there as a chaperone, but she wasn't doing a very good job of keeping us the mandatory six inches apart. Her attention was focused on the TV screen, although I don't believe it was actually on. Occasionally, she would issue cautionary instructions, but they were completely out of sync with anything (or the nothing) that was going on between the two of us beside her.

"Alright you guys," she said, finally abandoning her self-appointed life coach role. "You know what to do--and what not to do. I trust you." 

She said it as though she were going to leave us, but she remained there next to us. It was as if she just switched off, and she became silent and motionless, like a robot going into sleep mode.

E____ looked over at me, her eyes brimming with warmth and playfulness. She was inviting me to come closer if I dared. I did dare. We nuzzled nose to nose as the distance between our bodies shrank to millimeters and then, like a magnet reaching critical proximity to iron, we were suddenly drawn into a full-body Saran Wrap hug.

It was glorious. I was enraptured, but also just a little tentative. I didn't want to spoil the moment or overstep. I could have died in that instant and been happy forever, but E_____ beckoned me further. 

"Go big!" she whispered excitedly in my ear.

We became as intertwined as was physically possible for two fully clothed people with a robot chaperone friend sitting next to them. I caressed the top of her head and slowly ran my hands down to her mid back. I didn't know what else to do. To me, this was  big. It was everything.

We remained like that for a while, and eventually Robot Linda began making sputtering noises. I guess the dream ended at that point, or perhaps Robot Linda switched the channel, because the scene shifted, and I found myself in another situation entirely.

I was waiting in line at the Pizza Roundup when my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, so I answered with the slightly suspicious, accusatory tone reserved for telemarketers and randos.

"Who is this?" I demanded.

"Hey, motherfucker! It's Hog Beast! I'm back! How come you never call me?" he said, not angrily, but in the wannabe white rapper, ex-con, faux tough guy voice for which he was known.

I didn't want to explain to him that I never called because, frankly, I was scared of him. This was Cory Allred, the guy who had gone off the rails on a meth bender in 2005 and taken his parents hostage at gunpoint. He'd spent at least seven years of the fourteen to which he had been sentenced behind bars, learning all kinds of criminal skills, no doubt, and becoming a fully muscled thug.

"I'm sorry," I said, feigning an East Indian accent, "you have the wrong number. No Andrew here."

I'd forgotten that he hadn't actually used my name, so I was doubly fucked. I'd accidentally incriminated myself in the process of lying to my ex-coworker/friend. 

"How did you get this number?" I continued my ethnic accent but with less enthusiasm, since I knew the jig was up. "Prank caller! Prank caller! I'm hanging up now!" And I did.

I looked across the street at the dirt lot where a house had once stood prior to the Cascade Fire. Some construction was going on, and it seemed that the workers were taking a break and throwing a little shindig. I walked across the road and approached the group. 

Because it was a dream, I naturally assumed that someone in this crowd must know how my ex-con friend had gotten my phone number, so I began hurling the accusations randomly.

"Hey! Which one of you assholes gave Cory my number?" I yelled.

I spied Junior from Yuba City Honda behind the BBQ grill, sweating and drinking a beer nervously. He ran over to me just as I was about to call him out. He must have known I was onto him. He was the culprit, I just knew it.

"Why, Junior? Why?"  I pleaded with mock hysteria. At least I called him Junior and not Chunky, as everyone, including his bosses called him.

He just looked at me with the big, dumb look that always got him out of trouble at work. It was hard to be mad at him for the clever, manipulative things he did, because there was a childish innocence at the core of his misbehavior. He was just a big baby, really, and as a person who was spoiled as child myself, I understood. Besides, he seemed genuinely glad to see me, my current mood notwithstanding.

"So," I said resignedly, "How ya been?"

----

That's all folks. I have a shitload of real-world thoughts, events, plans and ideas in my head these days, unfortunately (or fortunately) they don't seem to be making their way into these posts. I guess I don't want to fuck up my winning streak by talking about it. 

Perhaps, when I have already played out my story, and the ending turns dark, I'll be more likely to write down all the details. And I will have pictures to remind me of the highlights, in case I somehow forget.