The Road Onward to the Sea

Last night I dreamed.  Last night I dreamed of you.

 

In my late-night reverie, I was travelling, driving across a long semi-arid plain. The radio was playing but I was not really listening.  Instead I was simply enjoying the isolation of the ride, the hum of the road and the glimmers on the surfaces you see at great distance on such stretches.  While it was the darkest night as I dreamed this, the scene was late afternoon maybe an hour before sunset. A glance down revealed I had about 70 miles of fuel left.  I had no GPS, just a map and I was heading for the west coast.  I sensed that I wanted to deep my feet in the water of the rocky Washington shoreline.

 

Time passed, and I was almost out of gas. About a mile out I saw an old-style cinder block service station with a sign that said, “Jet Gas and Food.” Not wanting to be out in the dark searching for another gas bar with another hour to drive before I hit the Pacific, I pulled in.  By this time the light was faded. Above the sky was amazingly clear.  I filled up my tank topping it off. Then I walked inside to grab some chips and a pop.  Among the assortment of 10-W-30 quarts, Frito Lay Grab-it bags and hanging wiper blades I heard your voice. Clearly and distinctly it was coming through the open door back separating the office from the service bays.  I smelled gas, oil and grease. I heard pneumatic tools and metal ringing on the concrete floor like a hub cab had dropped. I grabbed a bag of salty snacks threw a buck fifty on the counter and poked my head in.

 

You were there in jeans, a blue oxford shirt and a red silk scarf.  Your hands were on your hips and you were standing by a mechanic looking up at an old Alpha Romero Spyder.  Your Ray Bans were on top of your head. He was jotting things down on a service order.  You looked stern and the grease monkey looked disheveled and noncommittal.  God, the man was wearing gray coveralls and had a greasy name patch above a top left pocket.  I could see his Marlboro soft pack. Looking up and out I could see through the service bay door that it was growing darker. You shook your head a couple of times as you talked to the mechanic and in what appeared to be frustration you scanned the room.  Then, you saw me and smiled.

 

I woke up. Don’t know what it meant.  But it was nice to see your smile.