INTERSECTION

When vision is blurred distinctions between reality and fantasy are quite narrow. This morning I experienced such. Alas, I went to bed sober. Unfortunately that is my usual state these days.

At 1:39 I was awakened by the ringing of my telephone. It is 2011; one doesn’t just answer the phone. Thus, I scrambled for the light in order to view the caller id to make sure it wasn’t some maniac chick seeking thrills I probably couldn’t deliver. Alas, it was a familiar number but not one that I immediately recognized. I let it go to the machine. After giving them time to leave a message I picked up the phone and accessed the message: “Ted, this is Rene (Randy Brown’s girl) – Randy needs a ride home to Lancaster (from Enola it is about a 90 mile round trip at 2 am!) because he is a jerk.” That was easy, I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Soon, I found myself in my old room at the 340 Club. It was cleaner than I remember with more exposed brick than had been the case. It was definitely on the 3rd floor though. Strange, it felt like my mom and sister – rather than Randy or Phil – were living on the first two floors. Someone was coming. Someone had entered the house and was climbing the stairs. I may have been alerted to that by one of the other inhabitants or I may have simply heard what I thought were footsteps that seemed not to stop on the second floor. Suddenly, in my midst was the Gilt. Kenny Giltner, bigger than life, was standing in my room urging me to “get up Ted. C’mon – get up”

It took me a moment to figure it out. This wasn’t my room at the 340 but a dreamlike replica. This wasn’t Kenny, who has been dead of his own hands for years, but a facsimile in my fantasy. Nonetheless, we greeted each other warmly. It had been a while. I got dressed and we went downstairs. I assumed we would go down the street to Johnny’s or the Forester’s Club and have a few beers.

Kenny didn’t seem to want to go out. I suggested we sit on the stoop a bit. The 340 Club stoop; a marvelous place. Who knows who would come by even at this hour? We sat and talked and eventually Kenny got around to asking me for $20. Some things never change. I gave him the twenty and he was off – like a dirty shirt.

I lay in my bed for a bit and checked the time. It was 3:39 a.m. My dream had ended at 3:38. I looked back at the clock and in big red electric digits it read 340!

I will play the juke box tonight, loudly; after all – it is McMorial Day.