A few nights ago, after an extremely long day at the office (crucial deadlines looming) and a late dinner followed immediately by trying to get some sleep, I had what I term, in my loose use of the terminology, a weird dream.
I sometimes wonder about what other people dream about, or what their dreams are like. I don’t usually don’t remember my own dreams, and when I do it’s not in much detail. It doesn’t resemble dream sequences from shows that I see television, and in no way whatsoever resembles any part of the movie ‘Inception’. My assumption is that other people don’t talk about their dreams because their dreams are also, like mine, remembered poorly (if at all) and generally not interesting to a wide audience. On the other hand, my assumptions must be tempered with the unequivocal fact that I have a long and colorful history of equivocal and wildly incorrect assumptions.
In my dream, I am riding in the front seat of a Nice Car. Sitting next to me is a Woman who is not my wife. She is sort of leaning up against me, in the manner that one stereotypically sees in the front seat of pickup trucks with bench seats; boyfriend driving, girlfriend with her head on his shoulder.
To make matters interesting, I’m in the passenger seat, and the woman is supposed to be driving, but she’s not. She’s practically sitting on my lap. I look over to the driver’s seat; nobody is driving. The car is moving, in traffic. I see other cars passing in the opposite direction. We are on a highway. The car begins to drift into the oncoming lane, and then drift back toward the shoulder. I wonder whether I can snake my foot over to press the brake, or maybe get my hand on the wheel, but they seem too far away. I believe that this is a matter of increasing urgency, and I am about to bring this to the attention of my traveling companion, when the dream shifts to a new location.
My dreams don’t have a lot of continuity. They tend to jump from place to place. You might have inferred that aspect of my personality from reading my blog.
I am walking into the lobby of a Fine Hotel, carrying a guitar case in each arm. The revolving door presents a momentary challenge, but I know what to do. I am slightly baffled by the situation, since I do not play guitar–although I once put in a great deal of earnest effort practicing, the simple truth is that I have no knack for guitar whatsoever. But I let the dream run its course.
In the lobby, I run into an Old Friend. He is also carrying two guitar cases. This is not completely surprising, because he actually owns several guitars, and plays guitar well, and is serious about it.
We ascend an escalator.
“Are you here for Bring Your Own Axe Night?” he asks.
I shake my head. I don’t really have any idea yet why I’m here, but that certainly isn’t it. I was unaware of this event until he mentioned it.
When we reach the top of the escalator, I notice many musicians wandering around with their instruments, warming up. Chairs have been arranged around a podium for the players, but not many are seated yet. More are arriving by the moment.
“It’s a lot of fun,” my Old Friend remarks. “You should come.”
“I don’t really know how to play guitar,” I respond, hoping that my friend will not ask why I am carrying them. “I’m only really good at saxophone. I have an alto I could bring.”
“Well, let’s ask the Maestro whether we need another alto,” he answers.
The Maestro appears. He clucks his tongue. “No, we have plenty of altos,” he says in a disappointed voice, waving his hand in the direction of a row of saxophonists who are arranging themselves in one of the rows.
I am tempted to point out that telling someone that they can’t participate for such a reason is contrary to fundamental premise of Bring Your Own Axe night, but I do not. I am on unfamiliar ground here. Perhaps my Old Friend was just joking when he said that it was a Bring Your Own Axe event. Maybe this is a Serious Group With Actual Standards.
“That’s too bad,” I say. “However, I also play tenor.”
This is technically true. I do play tenor, and baritone, although I possess neither and usually deny that I can play baritone for the simple reason that I believe that the expression “having a millstone around my neck” is a thinly veiled euphemism for playing bari in a marching band. Tenor, however, is a pleasant instrument; it sounds good, and the parts most arrangers assign to tenors are usually very easy.
“No; I’m sorry,” answers the Maestro. “We already have a tenor,” he says, gesturing toward a man who is assembling his instrument nearby.
I sigh in resignation and turn away. It is clear that I am not welcome here, for some unspoken reason. To turn away a notable alto player from Bring Your Own Axe night on the flimsy pretext that there are already too many altos was a strong hint, but this is even stronger. The idea that a group could possibly have too many tenors is bizarre and borders on the offensive, but I’m prepared to let that slide on the basis that many Maestros are bizarre and border on the offensive anyway, so that’s not what makes me turn away. What makes me turn away is that the man is assembling a baritone clarinet.
When I awake, I tell my wife my dream and that I wonder what it might signify.
“It’s obvious,” she says. “You want to leave me, and then go and have make-out sessions in a car with another woman, and join a band and travel the world collecting groupies with Old Friend. It’s the usual midlife crisis bullshit.”
If she is correct, then I must confess that I am very disappointed in myself. Certainly I can imagine a better, more fulfilling fantasy than running away with a woman who is such a poor driver, or joining a band whose leader cannot tell the difference between a baritone clarinet and a tenor saxophone.
“By the way,” my wife continues, “You never did tell me what you want for your birthday or Christmas. If you don’t give me a list, you’ll just get socks or something like that.”
“A tenor saxophone would be nice,” I answer.
