Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream…

No, I didn’t sail away to China in a little rowboat to find ya. But it was a strange one, nonetheless. The dream commenced in my childhood bedroom, and I was a boy. My father and mother were there. While opening the back window for a reason that now escapes me, it fell—swoosh—to the concrete grounds below. Remarkably, the glass didn’t shatter. During the Wonder Years, in fact, we had our share of window problems. Our newer replacement windows had decidedly shorter lifespans than their venerable predecessors.

After a while, many of our apartment windows just wouldn’t stay open without an assist from a piece of wood, several books, or glass bottle. My mother would hang out wash—it's what people did back then—and hold the window open with a metal rod that once upon a time belonged to the window proper. This was a dangerous undertaking as I recall. If the rod ever dislodged, the window would come crashing down like a guillotine. In addition, the cheesy windows were at risk of descending—as in my dream—to earth.

Anyway, back to my dream chronology: I raced to the backyard to retrieve the fallen window, only I found myself indoors and walking down a flight of stairs to the basement of the Spat House. The “Spats” were our neighbors across the way—an unfriendly crew with a fitting surname. Their three-family brick home—like mine—had a uniquely painted exterior that distinguished it. I, though, encountered no Spat family members in the dimly lit and dreary basement.

My intact window was there all right alongside a bunch of unsavory looking sorts. One of them offered to carry the thing home for me. He was on the scary side—as were all the basement loiterers—but I nevertheless agreed and walked with him. What choice did I have? Along the way the scoundrel said, “It’s going to cost you $18.” Why $18? I informed him that I didn’t have cash on my person but would get it at the house. Generous as always, I told the creep I’d give him a $20 bill. “Today’s your lucky day!” he replied to my offer. “Take your pick,” the foreboding fellow—Microsoft Word recommends “person” as gender-neutral and more inclusive—said, opening a bag containing what appeared to be various sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. There was an unwrapped donut on top of them, which I said I’d grab when I returned with the money.

I plowed through measurable snow to access my front door, which was odd. The snow wasn’t there earlier. And I was wearing a prosthetic knee while doing so, which I can honestly say would be a treacherous exercise outside of a dream. I was no longer a boy, too. How did that happen? When I returned with cash in hand, the mystery man had vanished. He didn’t get his $20 and I didn’t get my donut. What does it all mean? Freud said, “Every dream is a wish.” Well, at least that’s what Dr. Sidney Freedman of M*A*S*H said he said. Strange dream. Strange wish. Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)