We had tickets, or a ticket, to an important game, possibly in the playoffs, although it seemed like a World Series game, yet we had no way to get there, there being the Astrodome (or it could have been Colt Stadium, who knows), apparently because we were both the ingenuous, open-hearted 12 year old we once were, as well as the sorry old bastard we’ve become, and thus probably could not drive, but we remembered there was a number we could call and the Astros organization would arrange a ride to the stadium by sending a player or coach around to pick us up before game time, and we vaguely recalled (either from a past dream, or possibly as a recovered memory in this particular dream) having once satisfactorily availed ourselves of this service and being taxied to the Dome by Terry Puhl, who (we recalled) was a very nice guy who drove a spiffily refurbished El Camino and played us some homemade cassettes that betrayed an unexpected (to us) taste in music, so we called and a team functionary on the other end informed us that “Mel Tillis” would be phoning us back shortly to get our address, leaving us thinking that she meant … Bob Lillis? … and not the stuttering country singer who sired the comely Pam and made the taquito the hot breakfast food of the third week of November, 1986, but when the call came it was neither Mel Tillis nor Bob Lillis, the caller identifying himself as “Bill Rigney” (!?) but sounding like our professor for Introduction to Philosophy, a Dr. So-and-So Frankfurter, a self-described Holocaust survivor who stood in the front of the class and chain-burned cigs in the fruity European style and took pains to disagree with the premise of almost anything a student said, supposedly in the service of teaching you to think but most likely because it beat actually teaching, and we said to Mel/Bob/Dr. Frankfurter, “They say you’re going to come pick me up,” and he replied: “They? Who’s this ‘they’? …” and so it went for several more exchanges, until we finally realized the SOB on the other end was not coming for us, and we huffed, “Well screw you dad, we’re takin’ Metro!” and he said, “You do that …” and the conversation ended, but then we started to worry that we couldn’t bring our dog on the bus …… And we woke up.
We share this because we know it means something, because we’ve heard and read so much about some supernatural force guiding the Astros---God, destiny (which won’t be denied), Roger Clemens’ mother looking down from above, etc.---that we believe that somewhere in this illogical sleep-glop is a sign from above, one that will reveal the key to the team’s 2005 World Series triumph.
We recounted the dream in an email to our psychoanalyst, Dr. Jasper Lamar Crabb, who quickly wrote back: “What this means is that you won’t be going to any post-season games this year. Most likely ’cause you been a bad boy.”
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