Dreams That Make Stories

Her dreams, especially those induced by the codeine-infused cough syrup, can be most strange. The most recent featured three naked women entering an upscale clothing store on all fours. Body paint rendered them as a Dalmatian, a poodle and a Weimaraner. What need had they for clothes remained unclear. Beyond the obvious, the other noteworthy event came when the Dalmatian started to stand up. The poodle whispered loudly enough to be heard by the dreamer, “Don’t break character!” The Dalmatian dropped back down, shaking her head as a dog adjusting a collar round its neck.

It seems much like a dream today and hardly believable, yet it happened decades ago on a lonely stretch of the interstate still under construction. Well, not the part in question; just four lanes of an interstate that began in the middle of midwest farmland. Turning off a two-lane rural highway, the on-ramp put me on the newly constructed interstate, as yet unconnected to a separate section miles away. A good place to practice stunts free from the watching eyes of state police. One of the motorcycles had apehangers, those high-rise handlebars that could make the use of antiperspirants superfluous. The rider on that bike stood up on the seat, bent forward and lifted one leg to the back of the bike, putting his torso parallel to the machine. The rider on the other bike had a partner. She climbed on his shoulders, riding astride him as one sees people at concerts offering a friend a better view. They went on down the road, the two bikes, with the operators trying different stunts that elude memory. Were they stunt riders from the movies or the thrill show parts of a midway? I will never know. But it wasn’t a dream. I saw it, wide awake.

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