Dreaming About the White Ford and the Gun Range
Last night’s dream: It started out with me selling a white Ford truck to Spike Hyssong. We were in the parking lot of Wasses, and strangely the slope of the parking lot was the other direction–it went downhill to the west. Anyway, we jump in “my” old truck, which I haven’t used in six months, and try to get it started. It cranks, but won’t catch. I put the pedal to the floor to get the carburated engine more fuel. It still won’t fire. So then I pull up the choke handle, and it still won’t catch. (Side note: Though I’ve owned a white Ford truck, it was fuel injected. I owned a carburated Ford truck, but it was blue. I’ve never owned any vehicle with a manual choke handle.) Thankfully, due to the slope of the parking lot, we start rolling away from Wasses. I pop the clutch just before we fall into a quarry (where’d that come from!), and we start driving.
Next thing I remember, we’re driving on Old County Road. It’s there I realize that this isn’t my truck at all, but it belongs to Harley Colwell. Spike asks me if there’s anything wrong with the truck, and I tell him “It needs a battery.”
Next up. I’m at a house owned by Barbara Koster Pratt Stewart. It’s a small Victorian style New England farmhouse, and James Thompson is trying to sell it for her. Barbara isn’t living there, so she’s let Jim and his family stay in the main house.
Outside the main house is a big old barn. Inside the barn is a shooting range. a bunch of people are in there shooting, but I don’t remember who other than Blaine Curtis and Spruce Head lobsterman Jim Tripp. I’m there with my M1 Garand, and I’m teaching Paula Sutton how to shoot. She claims she’s never shot before, but she loads the Garand, drops into the prone position, and fires of a string of shots all in the black with a great grouping except for one flyer. I’m impressed.
We’re sitting around talking when Jim Tripp walks up to me, points a loaded revolver at my head, and starts laughing. I push it away from me and say “That’s not an ok thing do.” He insists he would never shoot me. And while I believe him, I’m very shook up. I say something to “Look, this wasn’t some quick ‘I accidentally passed the muzzle in front of you while I was drawing from a shoulder holster” moment. You deliberately pointed that gun at me!” I walked off the range.
I went into the main house, which was small, but immaculate. I found the living room, and Jim Thompson had the complete Monty Python collection of DVDs. Every movie, every TV show, every sketch, on 40 DVDs. I decided I needed to find one particular bit, but I couldn’t remember the name of it. I was going to fast forward through 40 DVDs until I found it. Then I heard Susan in the other room.
I went up to her, and she was telling me about her bad day. I cut her off and said “Jim Tripp held a gun to my head and thought it was funny.” Then I started crying. I couldn’t stop. I wasn’t really afraid, but just emotionally spent. Susan, sensing that, didn’t say anything. She just held me and rubbed my head. Then I woke up.