Is enough for any man to suffer. You came to me in a dream last night. I had gone to bed early, way early, and there you were, a couple of hours later, with the slide of the screen door and the eventual tap on the glass. I acted in the way in which I had dreamed in this dream that I would, I cried big old man tears, looking like Natalie Portman when Timothy Hutton tells her he is leaving the frozen Canadian tundra to go to the city and marry my classmate. There you were in this dream of mine knocking on the panes of glass to the door that you once walked through fluidly, and sweaty from curving. And I saw you through the window of this dream and wondered for a while if you remembered what it felt like to wash your clothes in that place or to wash your ass in that one, or if your body ever longed out for me to rest beside it in dream, except this was my dream, and I do long for your warmth and little butt scooted up beside, and of course your eyes in morning. And tonight there you are, and it must be a dream, because nothing else could possibly explain, and you are across town now sleeping with guy with a bad haircut and tendencies toward rock and roll and cliché that this country boy cannot understand. I can see that it will not end well. That you will come back to someone a lot like me, that is not really me in the...
Okay, this may have nothing to do with medication or my depression or recovery, or with the breakup, or anything like that, but life does go on in other directions as well. Earlier this week a sportswriter at my paper, a man of about 55 years old, named Jack, came by my desk and asked me did I own a blue VW Passat station wagon. I had never met Jack even though we both work on the 8th floor. I thought he was about to tell me that my headlights were on in the parking lot, or that he had just seen a band of hooligans run off with my rims, even though they are not so fancy. The story is much more interesting than that, though. Jack said, “I know this is a little odd, but I have a friend whose birthday is on Thursday and she has always wanted a blue Passat wagon, and, ahem, you can say no to this and it will be fine with me, but, ahem, I was wondering if, since I am taking her to lunch for her birthday on Thursday, if I might drive your car to pick her up, as a lark of some sort. It would just be for a couple of hours and I will be careful and all of that, used to own a ’76 Superbeetle, am familiar with cars…” I have always wished that I would obey original instincts in these situations, i.e. to say “fuck no, dude, I don’t even know you” but of course I do not obey these instincts ( a fact which...
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