bring the noyz

Last night I had a dream. I was young, brash, full of the arrogance of an arrested adolescence -- a rebel without a conscience, a martyr without a cause. It was two decades past, I was in the Sprawl, at a celebration of the sort that was common in those days.

Jon, Simon, Matt, Spew, Mike and Mikey, Dave the Artist, Dave the Drummer, and Dave aka Sid. The whole gang was there. The cases of Red and Blue Beast were flowing in smoky rooms and the conversation was boisterous, exuberant, loud.

We were dressed for all the world like the cast of "Les Miz" in that cafe scene. I vividly recall seeing the glow of a cigarette in the tattered fingerless gloved hand of Dave the Artist as he held it to his scruffy face and thoughtfully took a draw. And yes, there were empty chairs at empty tables: Chris and Curtis were conpsicuously absent.

It was one last hurrah before we set out on our next adventure. This time we were going to war. I do not remember which war, whose war, or why. Our rifles leaned upon tables, chairs, and walls. They were as locked and loaded as we were becoming. In the morning we were heading out, going to join the Fight for the Great Cause.

The scene shifts, it is the next morning. I am in the back seat of a small white car. Is it my car? It is cramped and crowded. So crowded I can't see who is driving. Somehow most of us squeezed our drunken asses into this car. I look down and our rifles lay in a stacked pile across the floorboards beneath our feet. They are rusted. We are making our rounds, saying our last goodbyes to those we shall leave behind in a few hours.

The car pulls into the parking lot of a typical Sprawl apartment complex. We amble out part like clowns at the circus and part like Spicoli on the first day of school. Somebody says, "Hey, don't forget your rifle." Guess you wouldn't want to leave a gun in the car in this part of town. I half accidentally half intentionally, meaning I make myself forget, walk away from the car without mine.

We enter a generic white-walled beige-carpeted apartment. A time-shift of dream. The Wife is there, as are a small handful of other women whom I consider the most trusted of confidants and the closest of friends. These are the women I love. Be it the reason I'm not in Mexican jail, my other wife, or a dear friend who I confess to not speaking with as often as I should -- she frequently loaned me her vacuum cleaner because I had not one of my own at the time. They were there, with a few more. There is beer, banter and balling. Of the tearful sort. Get your mind out of the gutter, this wasn't that type of dream.

I remember looking around at my friends, hugging the women and one another. We put on our bravest face, clinging for one last moment to the precious little we still held precious. We gest and toss barbs, boasting and toasting imagined future exploits. We are ready to go forth to Fight the Great Cause.

I have a eureka moment, "We are fools! We have not a clue what we are about to do. This is not our fight. We have been deceived."

It is time to depart. As the fellas head out to the car I make an excuse to linger for a moment, "No it's okay, go ahead without me, just give me a minute or two. I'll catch up."

The guys leave the apartment. The door closes behind them. I am fearful. I am not going. I am not going.

And I know that I will not see them again. The shock of that thought wakes me up.
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