This morning I dreamed I was buying a pack of Marlboros. Something like this has happened every so often since 11 AM on Thanksgiving day, 1992.
I also dreamed about my eighth grade social studies teacher, Mr. Collins (NHRN). I think he gave me a D or was it an F? Which I surely deserved.
My sister was buddies with his son, whom we called Billy C. A few years later the family moved to San Rafael, in Marin County, California (the third wealthiest county in the country) and Mr. Collins had a big promotion in San Francisco.
I was scheduled to report for active duty in the Navy on 13 February 1970, so in January I planned a little trip. Originally I was going to Denver, but I didn’t know anybody there. And by the way, Billy C’s brother had gone there and had gotten robbed.
Meanwhile, my sister had a friend who moved to Southern California so “Goldie” moved to Venice. And in January I went to visit her.
While I was there, Billy C contacted her and arranged to drive down for a visit. Then we all decided to go home with him. After some car repair adventures near Bakersfield, we arrived in Marin. We were going to camp out in the car but Mr. C said we couldn’t do that and so we stayed at their house for a few days.
One day Billy drove us to Samuel P. Taylor State Park. We parked the VW bug on the road, walked down to a creek and had a smoke. It was absolutely quiet and calm. Very nice. When we got back up to the road, the car was gone. My sister’s purse was lying on the edge of the road, so we know we had the right spot and hadn’t just imagined the whole thing.
We hiked down about a mile to the park entrance, called Billy’s mother, and she came and got us. She was pissed. The car showed up someplace after a few days.
Billy’s neighbor was an artist who had painted the fruit on the label of a big selling brand of wine. He did these beautiful little paintings of fruit – realism – just like a photograph. Sold them for $1,000-$1,500 each, ($6,100-$9,200 today. They certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves, frequently joking about going for a ride in “Stinsky‘s Jag.” He had an XKE. That I one home, and went to boot camp in San Diego. A lot nicer than Great Lakes in February.
Mr. C called up on his way home from work one day and said he wouldn’t be coming home anymore. He found his assistant more attractive than his wife. His wife slashed her wrists but survived.
Ob-la-di ob-la-da life goes on bra
La-la how the life goes on