I have anxiety dreams every now and again, just like everyone. When I was in college and worked in a restaurant, my subconscious’ anxiety dream of choice was that the restaurant was packed, I was the only one working, and I couldn’t get to everyone. Not exactly horrifying, but definitely stressful and anxiety-inducing.
After I got out of school and moved west, my go-to anxiety dream was variations on school, namely college and specifically Hamilton-Smith Hall, home of the English Department at the University of New Hampshire and where I spent probably three-quarters of my college life in pursuit of my eventual degree. In those dreams, I was forever trying to find a class and it was inevitably because it was nearing the end of a semester and I hadn’t yet been to said class.
I had variations on that dream for most of my adult life. Then we started building a house and a new iteration of anxiety-TV introduced itself. I would be at the house, and the rooms didn’t make any sense, the house didn’t flow, parts weren’t finished and the entire property was surrounded by water, water that was seeping every closer. It doesn’t take a PhD to analyze that one: I was concerned about the house taking us, symbolically, under water. I continue to have variations on that dream as well, even after being in the house for a year and a half. I suspect I always will, especially in times of stress or uncertainty.
Last night, a new form of anxiety dream entered the echelon. In it, I was continually meeting my friend Nikola, a woman I actually haven’t even talked to in several months, if not nearly a year. We were at a restaurant but the venue kept changing. Both of us were exhausted; we kept falling asleep at the table. I ordered a Bombay Sapphire Martini which is odd because I don’t drink martinis anymore and I never drank gin martinis. I don’t know that my drink ever arrived. Instead, we decided to leave and went to the parking lot where she left in whatever she left in and I climbed into my big Ford or Jeep or something not Land Rover SUV. I lamented the fact that it was too big, that I didn’t like it, that I didn’t understand why Kevin had traded my Sport – my beloved Range Rover – for this. This dream kept replaying itself over and over and over, all night long. The restaurants were always different; the drinks, too. But the fact that my car was gone remained the same.
Bobbi often speaks of waking from an anxiety dream and being furious with the people who were in it. It’s a hard feeling to shake because anxiety dreams can seem so real and, because they last for quite some time during the night, it’s natural to be irritated with whoever was in the dream when you wake up. So I was mad at Kevin. And I couldn’t understand. Why? Why would he sell my car? He knows how I love that hulking piece of metal and fiberglass. He knows.
When I took Riley out to pee, I was relieved to see that it hadn’t actually been sold or traded or whatever. It was still sitting there in its place of honor, the number one stall. Shiny and red. Strangely, I felt relief. Which makes no sense because it was a dream.
Anxiety is stressful to be sure but I believe it’s a way of awakening you to something that may be lurking within, something that you’re worried about but don’t give voice to. I’m not really worried about the Sport, but the Porsche is for sale. Maybe that was the round about way my subconscious had of telling me that we have one too many cars in the garage and that it would be nice to lighten the load.
And put a good amount of cash in the bank for when the water gets closer.
Kevin's new truck broke down today. He was out running errands, Home Depot and weed killer kind of stops, and had pulled into a quick turn-around lane. As he started to make the turn, the radio surged, hiccupped and then the car died. Luckily he had enough momentum to propel the truck across the very busy four lanes of the east bound side of Broadway, and luckily there was an entrance to a parking lot for the Hilton. The truck coasted across then stopped. It had power but it wouldn't crank.
There I was in my office, minding my own business when my cell began to sing. The phone rarely rings on a Friday afternoon and while I have plenty of work to do, no one wants to talk about it. Caller ID identified the caller as "Kevin."
A quick detail of tools to bring followed and I jumped into the Sport. It took me about 15 minutes to get there. He waved sheepishly.
"You know I wanted to take the bike today and you said I'd be better off in the truck," he said as I climbed out.
My turn to be sheepish.
He set about checking the battery, making sure everything that should be connected was.
In these situations, there is really nothing I can do other than stand around and look helpless. I was doing that very well when a couple in a pickup pulled in, asked what they could do to help. Maybe help push it? Worth a shot. The two guys tried while I was in the driver's seat to steer. The truck began to roll backwards rather than forward. Another guy stopped to help. Maybe with three of them they'd have better luck. They didn't. The truck is simply too heavy.
The second guy who stopped also helped Kevin nose around the engine.
"Need a crescent wrench?" he asked. "I got one in the car."
Kevin thanked him, told him he had one, too. They poked around a bit more.
"Sure wish there was something I could to help you out, man," he said. "Good luck."
Soon another guy came by. An older gentleman in a Ford Edge.
"I got a tow rope,” he said as he leaned toward the passenger window to talk to us. "I can at least get you into a safer spot."
He gave Kevin the rope to hook to the Classic and then to his tow hitch and just like that, the Classic was up the slight incline and onto flatter ground.
"Good luck," the man said as he drove off with a wave.
A woman stopped and said that while she couldn’t do much, she’d be happy to make a phone call. At least one other car stopped to see if there was anything they could do. In the end, we called for a tow truck. The guy showed up in about a half hour, loaded the Classic and with Kevin and I in the Sport, we all drove south to Falconwerks, the independent British repair shop here in Tucson.
The sun was setting, lighting the storm clouds to the west. The sky turned dusty blue, darkening. Kevin was quiet. I was thinking about people, and how just when I'm convinced that we've devolved into a race that can't even manage to be decent to one another the truck breaks down and a number of strangers stop to offer what help they could. My faith was restored at least for today and I said as much to Kevin. He nodded.
"That I knew I should have taken the bike," he said with a grin.
Next time. Until then, I'm celebrating the goodness of people and not thinking about how much this is going to cost. Next week. Next week.
My husband is such a girl. I say that with a great deal of love. Also completely tongue-in-cheek. He bought a sewing machine today and he’s very excited. It’s an old Singer, made back in 1947. It was on Craig’s List for $75. Yesterday, he contacted the woman who listed it, an older woman named Mercy who has owned the machine since she was 11. She doesn’t sew anymore so rather than have it end up in landfill, she decided to sell it. She listed it two months ago. Today, she sold it.
But the seats are pretty rough. The original leather was called Sorell and it was quite beautiful. But too many years of use and probably neglect have left it ripped and worn. We put seat covers on both front seats as well as the bench in the back and that helps make everything neater, less old. But they’re cheap covers, not made specifically for the seat but rather for “most SUVs.” They work. But they are a band-aid.
About a week and a half ago, Kevin decided that maybe redoing the seats was something he’d do sooner rather than later. He called an auto upholstery place down on Speedway, and they gave him a rough estimate over the phone. Probably several hundred dollars for each. I thought that sounded reasonable, considering the shape the seats are in.
Kevin is frugal. Some might say cheap, but not me. He doesn’t like to spend unnecessary money, which I completely understand. But this, to me, didn’t fall under the unnecessary category. The other issue, to his credit, is that he’s very handy. Not only that, he’s very good at being handy. In many cases, he can make things as well if not better than what he could buy. It’s a bit like I am when it comes to cooking. I can see something in a magazine or online, taste something in a restaurant, and figure out how to make it.
So he decided to redo his seats himself. He started doing research, started reading, taking notes, deciding what he needed to do, what he needed to buy in terms of a machine. He ordered samples of faux leather from a place in Minnesota. They came yesterday. He started looking at Craig’s List. Today, he found his Singer.
“So you’re going to be a seamstress?” I asked, teasing.
“It’s called a trimmer,” he replied with a smile. His research has already taught him that.
So my husband, the handy man, is going to take up sewing in order to make his new old truck some new seat covers. He’ll measure and cut, and then he’ll sew. And I have absolutely no doubt that whatever he makes will be phenomenal. It’s what trimmers do.
It was still dark and lightning flashed behind the still heavy clouds shrouding the city. The lights in the distance seemed muted. There was no rumble of thunder, no tap of rain on the skylight. The air in the room was cool, swirled by the ceiling fan. A soft rush of still cooler air pushed from the vents up near the ceiling. I heard the whoosh of water from the shower and rolled over to look at the clock. 3:28.
I could hear the coffee pot beginning to gurgle and sputter. I wondered how it was that Kevin had managed to get up, walk into the kitchen and get it going, how he’d managed to get ready for his shower without me hearing him. Without me feeling the weight of him lift from the bed we share.
Oh, but it was early. And let me tell you why: Kevin was going to California. And let me tell you why: He finally bought a truck.
Last week, we journeyed up to Prescott with cash in hand, ready to purchase a 1987 Range Rover. We didn’t. While we were up in that area, we went to look at another 1987. We didn’t buy that one either. Both were beyond rough in terms of aesthetics. But those could be fixed. It was the mechanical issues that made the ultimate decisions. Too much trouble even for $2500. Not drivable.
But Kevin test drove both and he had the bug. He had made his decision. He wanted an old Range Rover Classic, something between 1987 and 1995, preferably before 1993 when Rover started putting air shocks into the cars. And while those shocks are nice, they are incredibly expensive to fix when they break and they always break. We had to fix them at least twice on our first red Rover.
We continued to look, mostly at Craig’s list. There was nothing in Arizona so we got the idea of branching out a bit, into Southern California. We found one in San Diego, more money than we wanted to spend but we thought we’d look. Take the dog, maybe spend the weekend at the beach.
That didn’t pan out. And it’s just as well.
Yesterday, I happened to expand the search into the Inland Empire, the vast stretch between Palm Springs and Los Angeles, and there was a 1992, listed only 9 hours earlier. It looked phenomenal. In great shape. Pretty. Pre-1993 so no air shocks. Kevin called the guy at lunch yesterday. It was our luck that he had already received several calls but was unable to show the car yesterday. They talked, and hit it off on the phone. Kevin said he’d fly in to see it, and probably buy it based on their conversation but he needed to know that the truck would be there when he arrived. The guy said he’d be happy to hold it, and would even pick him up at the airport.
Which brings me back to this morning at 3:28. We had to leave the house at 4:30 in order to get to the airport around 5:15 so that Kevin could make a 6 am flight. At 4:45, I felt a hand on my shoulder; I had fallen back to sleep. It was time for me to roll out of bed, slip into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and drive my husband to the airport so that he could go buy a car. A truck. Really this time.
Oh, but it was early Oh, but I was and remain tired. But as I write this, my husband is driving home in his new old truck. He says it’s great. It’s in good shape. He had the oil changed, the radiator flushed, the power steering fluid changed and whatever-else fluid changed at Jiffylube and then got on the road.
We will now have R3. Oh, did I mention it’s red?