Wednesday, December 19, 2007

DayDream:One

Driving Maxine always makes me impatient. Perhaps it’s her—the six cylinders, the 275 horsepower, or the sound system whose clarity takes me away from the road. Or perhaps it’s me—a reckless young man, reinforcing the insurance company’s claims to atrocious rates. Either way, just as I’m approaching the bridge, I whip out from behind the tan corolla that has been doing the speed limit in front of me and triumphantly speed into the gradual incline of the open road of the bridge. Everyone is behind me. I turn up the music. The crosswinds are strong without the other cars to dampen them, but Maxine holds the road and I push her harder. When I reach the crest of the bridge, Maxine becomes airborne. Once we have severed our connection with the ground, the world becomes…strange. We’re not coming down. What happened to gravity? I frantically buckle my seatbelt. But then quickly calm down when I realize that I am dreaming. Though I know my life isn’t in danger, I still can’t reconcile the strangeness of these events with sense of mundanity. I sit upright and take in the view. The sun is setting to my right—the cerulean autumn sky is melting into oranges and reds, and a few clouds that are turning gray in silhouette stripe the horizon. In the air, however, the steering wheel no longer determines my direction. My head does, and Maxine is drifting off the bridge. Surprisingly, I know this. I straighten my head and Maxine resumes her trajectory above a lane. I keep peaking, however, at the slowly fading spectacle out of the corner of my eye, afraid to miss a moment. And due to my divided attention, Maxine finally does drift over the edge of the bridge. Before arriving at the other bank, I lose altitude and plunge into the river. In my rearview mirror I notice the rest of the traffic also raining into the river—a white Hummer, a long black limo, many SUVs, one red convertible with a woman’s equally red hair trailing toward the sky like a crashing meteor. Is it common to fall off this bridge? I swim out through the sunroof and guide Maxine slowly to the shore. She’s buoyant enough to lead with one hand, or am I’m just stronger in dreams. Should I be concerned about the engine? Everyone else does the same, so I dismiss my concerns. No one appears to be hurt. Once the wheels hit the sand, I drive Maxine onto the dry land. A tall, spindly, white woman with glasses that look too heavy for her nose greets us at the shore and directs us to a toll booth on the road. The mundanity of our situation is conveyed in the boredom of her tone. I follow the narrow dirt footpath to what looks like a lemonade-stand and present my soggy ticket. What ever happened to E-Z-pass?
“Five dollars!” demands a little boy with a surprisingly deep voice. This is a state employee? He couldn’t have been more than 12 years old.
“Huh!” I thought the toll was $4, I think to myself.
“Five dollars mister!” he repeats more insistently.
Before I can protest, a tall round-bellied man in a backwards Yankees cap returns behind the counter. He’s panting. Without missing a beat, “Four dollars sir!” he says in a voice almost identical to the boy’s.
I fix the little boy with a menacing look and fish four dollar bills, crumpled and wet, from my pocket.
“Oh!” the man begins puzzled. “You came outta the river?”
“Yes.”
“Five dollars sir!”
“Why!?!”
“River animal preservation, River pollution prevention, Car washing, River bank maintenance—take your pick. But it’s five dollars.” The little boy sticks his tongue out at me. One would think I chose to fly off the bridge.
I find another crumpled, wet bill in my pocket, leave it on the counter, and step out of line, which by now winds all the way down to the riverbank. A little girl standing a few feet from the line shuffles to my side. She looks Native American, with almond skin, a cherubic round face, and straight, jet-black hair. I guess that she’s 6 years old. She is twirling her foot in ground, following her footwork with her eyes. I take one step back from her, finding the proximity uncomfortable.
“Can I help you?”
She faces me but doesn’t answer.
“Where are your parents?”
She shrugs her shoulders.
“Where do you live, where are you going?”
She meets my eyes and points vaguely over my shoulder. For a second I think she’s pointing at me rather than somewhere. I dismiss the thought and turn around to follow her finger in the direction of the continuing road.
I pause for a moment. “Are you stuck here?” I finally ask.
She nods.
“You should talk to the police at the toll booth.”
She shakes her head vigorously and grabs my hand imploringly.
“Ok, Ok. I’ll take you home.” Do I mean to my home or hers? She seems satisfied, but it’s not clear to me what she thinks I mean. “What’s your name?”
She relaxes and resumes her footwork. Then she mumbles into her chest, “Amber.”
“Amber, that’s a pretty name. My name is Amir. My car is this way.”
Standing next to my car is an attractive, ebony-black woman, with short hair. I make no attempt to hide my undressing glance. It’s my dream after all right? She has two bright-eyed children in tow, a boy and a girl, one white and blonde, one east Indian respectively, both about Amber’s age.
“D’you need a ride somewhere?” I offer.
“No. Do you?” She retorts.
Only then do I realize the car we’re standing beside isn’t Maxine. In fact, she’s nowhere in sight. Has she been stolen? My face must say it all, for I am speechless.
“Hop in. Tell me the story while we drive.”
Amber jumps in the back seat and begins playing with the other kids happily. As I walk around to the passenger side, I realize that she doesn’t know my name. Nor do I know hers. She hasn’t even asked me where I’m going. Does she care? Nor has she asked about Amber. Does she think she’s my daughter? And these other two children are clearly not ‘hers.’ Is this even her car? Was this Maxine’s fate, to be casually appropriated by a stranger? But as I watch Amber play, and settle into the passenger seat, the anesthetizing breath of mundanity fills my lungs and I exhale my fears.
I tell her what has happened to me since becoming airborne on the bridge. She listens in silence, eyes focused on the winding road. It’s dark now. I have no idea where we’re going. The kids have fallen asleep in a pile on the back seat.
“Well, I need to go home first,” speaking for the first time since we started driving. “But afterwards, I’ll help you any way you need except bear your children.”
I turn to her in surprise.
She glances away from the road and winks. “Just kidding,” she adds.
But I’m not sure what she is recanting—the obviously flirtatious proposition implied in helping me in any way, or the qualifier that she would not bear my children? I smile and decide not to ask for clarification.

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