So, my cell wakes me the first day of June, and I've got that moaning, staggering, bloated, dumb feeling, like I went to bed having imbibed on copious amounts of strong liquor, but I didn't.
I just watched a marathon of the Sopranos until the wee hours.
I can't quite see the number calling, neither do I know my name at the moment, but my cell is convulsing loudly for attention.
When it finally goes to voicemail, I remember the dream I was having: I'm in a big house; it belongs to someone else, an acquaintance, a friend of a friend, and I'm stuck with a group of people for the weekend. (Probably from Cliff's stories of his past weekend.) It's OK. I'm not miserable, just a bit bored for lack of personal connections. However, they're hosting (in one small corner) a show of my art work. So, I walk over to my corner and sit down by Cliff, then a woman stops in front of the wall. She says, "This shit sucks." So I look at my art work and sure enough it looks like something an untalented, dull child did. The only piece I see is one with macaroni and bread glued to it. It is so ugly that I'm a little embarrassed. So, I decide to leave her to her critique, and I walk away, but when I return, she has ripped all the art work off the wall. The floor is strewn with noodles, bread and torn paper. The other art is defaced with black spray paint. Some witnesses are perplexed b/c they couldn't stop her. I turn around and give her a two-handed slap-punch (imagine I'm teeing off, but instead of swinging down, I swing up, connecting to a face). She flies backward and lands on her tush. I walk over, and she's still berating me from the floor. So I grab her shirt in the front and drag her around the house. I keep "accidentally" banging her head on walls and door jambs. Someone tells me that she's a trouble maker and not worth the effort of this beating, but I'm really Tony Soprano, and I'm showing this "underling" who's the boss. I finally stop when I see she's bleeding from the temple. Then I say in an Italian accent, "You can talk shit all day about my art, bu'don'eva, I mean eva, touch my macaroni!" (Freudian analyst-friends, have a field day!)
That's when the cell phone rings and I can't get my bearings to say "hello." It ain't easy jumping from bad-ass Tony to groggy girl.
Then, I go to the cemetery to walk my dog and stop by Blackdog Coffee Shop for an Americano and a cranberry/walnut muffin. While I'm chatting with Jeff about NYC and potential house sitting opportunities, a lady screeches in pain and hits the sidewalk, tumbling over. I look up in time to see one somersault and the final splat. Others have run over to her. Thank God because my coffee is just the right temperature. So I stand and watch the rescue. From Blackdog, Jeff and Carla run down to assist her. She's a bit loopy, so they bring her up to the deck. She sits down beside me and explains that a flying duck pummeled her on the side of her head. That was no fall, that was a five pound air missile making a bullseye. Or one surprised blind duck! Carla hands her a wet towel and, before I know it, I'm carefully dowsing a woman's bleeding temple, and I haven't even fully awakened yet.
So, what's that about? Premonition dream? Could I have attracted a complete stranger in order to "play out" recompense for an unconscious dream-sin? But I wasn't the least bit remorseful!
By the time I left Blackdog, I wasn't asleep anymore. My own private headline might've read: Missile Duck Victim's Bleeding Temple Wakes June Zombie.
"Wha ya gonna do?"