dream: car smuggling
Nov. 14th, 2008 11:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sisalikI'm driving along the coast, in a red convertible Ferrari - this thing looks more like a Cadillac really, but in the dream we all refer to it as a Ferrari so that is what it is. I've got two friends with me, and for whatever reason they've decided to go along on the ride. I think they don't want to pass up the chance of a day-trip in a Ferrari. (Although this isn't one. It's a honking big cherry-red Caddy with white insides.)
I have to move the car from point A to point B, ignoring or avoiding or otherwise easily passing through points C, D, and E along the way. I'm good at this; I've done it before, and that is why the owner of this car has asked me to transport it. She's bought it sight unseen and I don't know how. She's an older woman, this temporary employer of mine. She writes my checks in an age-decayed copperplate script, and it's not uncommon for me to leave her place toting a basket containing cookies or bread or jarred preserves, wrapped in cloth. We're friends in a professional sort of way; she's fond of me because I do a smooth run, and this apparently deserves pastries. I can't argue; the stuff is delicious.
I arrive at an ordinary car lot with my two friends: it's in the center of the city, already hot and smog-packed so early in the morning, whatever city we're in. It's none of it nearly as clandestine as one would expect. I come in, present my name and ID (I don't know if this is real or false ID) to a man at a desk in a big showroom with cars in it. The man leads me, with my entourage trailing, through hallways leading onto cramped offices, and then into a large back garage which smells of oil and gasoline. He opens a metal cabinet, pulls out a set of keys, and leads us outdoors to the car I'm to move. He holds the driver's door for me, and closes it after me, and slaps the thing on the bumper as I pull it away. I do not have to sign my name anywhere or wait for the potentially-false ID to be photocopied. I'm known, or at least expected. We leave this city by crossing a large wide bridge, thick with traffic. It disperses on the other side of the bridge, which is where civilization seems to stop.
City quickly fades to country, and the further we get the greener and foggier it becomes. It's hilly, almost, although the roads we travel are always flat. The ocean is nearby - close enough to smell, with the convertible top down, and the drive is an enjoyable one. We talk, we hunt for salsa music on the AM bands, we have lunch at some crazy little waterside diner where everything smells of fish and the decor is wall-mounted nets and flotsam. We switch off driving and at one point I nap in the back of the car - later on this is going to get difficult and I'll need my wits about me.
The fog thickens as the day goes on, and the scraps of civilization are smaller when we find them. We're far out now, on some cold collection of large islands, thickly clustered together. I keep asking my friends if they're sure they want to go the whole distance - I won't blame them if they don't - but they assure me they want to see how this ends.
I only get nervous when we reach the pontoon bridges. These aren't exactly pontoons, either; not the way they are in reality, but in the dream that's what we call them. They're like long wooden docks, or maybe like those long rope bridges that always give Indiana Jones trouble. There are no siderails and the bridge is only slightly wider than the car. The boards are perfectly flat. There's nothing raised to guide the car's tires. They sink, some, when the car's weight is on the boards, but something underneath must offer flotation, because it never sinks below the surface of the water. (The water is calm, like inlet water tends to be.)
It's late in the afternoon by now, although as the crow flies we haven't gone that far - most of the time is taken by avoiding checkpoints or thicker population centers where the car might get noticed. The fog is thicker, too, although headlights would just make it worse. There's still enough sun to drive by, so I leave the car's lights off.
I ease the car onto the bridge, feeling the grind of wood underneath as the thing shifts to accomodate the weight. I'm concentrating on my breathing and on keeping the wheels straight. We move slowly. The bridge is bowed under the car: ahead and behind it angles gently upwards to where it connects to the land. We cross a series of these, which connect with weirdly square blocks of land sticking out from the water. It's a difficult process, and it is tiring. One friend notices my nerves, and offers to take over. I say no, I have to do this part. Keep your eyes closed, it'll help.
The sun has set and it's starting to get dark when we arrive at the woman's house. It is a large house, white and wood-paneled, with a wrap-around porch and a pointy sort of roof which may be tin. One friend hops a bus or a cab or something, to meet their brother at a Waffle House - he's in the area for a day's fishing, and from there they will make it back home. It's a three-hour drive, going direct routes. We're invited to go back with them, but I decide to stay where I am, since the woman will put me up from the night and I'm exhausted from navigating the pontoon bridges. The other friend elects to stay with me, and after trading the keys for a check the woman takes us in. I'm not worried about how I'll get home the next day - I'm only thinking about the pajamas stashed in my backpack.
Inside the house is dark and still. She asks us to please be quiet, since "the kids" (grandkids?) are watching television or playing video games, and it'd only be trouble if anyone else in the house knew that we were there. We're led through the kitchen and upstairs, down long dark hallways that are railed on one side to open areas below. There are open windows, and blowsy white sheer curtains, and the honey-colored floorboards under our feet are wide and polished. It's cold indoors, but not unpleasantly so, and all the open windows let in ocean-smell and rain-smell, as though the rain came in with the dark.
The old woman opens a door to a bedroom where everything is white and pale blue and pale green and brass, and I gratefully flop face-first across the bed. The woman reminds us to leave through the back when the sun comes up, and I remember that there is a rickety flight of wooden stairs which lead up to this guest-room. I tell her we will, and thank her for the crash-space, all without moving from my faceplanted flop. She closes the door, and inside the room it is still dark.
I feel - because my eyes are closed, still, and my face is in the duvet - my friend sitting down next to me and admitting that the pontoons were frightening, but I did well getting us across them. I tilt my head enough to the side to speak: "Yeah, but I'm used to it. That's why they always want me to do this."
I have to move the car from point A to point B, ignoring or avoiding or otherwise easily passing through points C, D, and E along the way. I'm good at this; I've done it before, and that is why the owner of this car has asked me to transport it. She's bought it sight unseen and I don't know how. She's an older woman, this temporary employer of mine. She writes my checks in an age-decayed copperplate script, and it's not uncommon for me to leave her place toting a basket containing cookies or bread or jarred preserves, wrapped in cloth. We're friends in a professional sort of way; she's fond of me because I do a smooth run, and this apparently deserves pastries. I can't argue; the stuff is delicious.
I arrive at an ordinary car lot with my two friends: it's in the center of the city, already hot and smog-packed so early in the morning, whatever city we're in. It's none of it nearly as clandestine as one would expect. I come in, present my name and ID (I don't know if this is real or false ID) to a man at a desk in a big showroom with cars in it. The man leads me, with my entourage trailing, through hallways leading onto cramped offices, and then into a large back garage which smells of oil and gasoline. He opens a metal cabinet, pulls out a set of keys, and leads us outdoors to the car I'm to move. He holds the driver's door for me, and closes it after me, and slaps the thing on the bumper as I pull it away. I do not have to sign my name anywhere or wait for the potentially-false ID to be photocopied. I'm known, or at least expected. We leave this city by crossing a large wide bridge, thick with traffic. It disperses on the other side of the bridge, which is where civilization seems to stop.
City quickly fades to country, and the further we get the greener and foggier it becomes. It's hilly, almost, although the roads we travel are always flat. The ocean is nearby - close enough to smell, with the convertible top down, and the drive is an enjoyable one. We talk, we hunt for salsa music on the AM bands, we have lunch at some crazy little waterside diner where everything smells of fish and the decor is wall-mounted nets and flotsam. We switch off driving and at one point I nap in the back of the car - later on this is going to get difficult and I'll need my wits about me.
The fog thickens as the day goes on, and the scraps of civilization are smaller when we find them. We're far out now, on some cold collection of large islands, thickly clustered together. I keep asking my friends if they're sure they want to go the whole distance - I won't blame them if they don't - but they assure me they want to see how this ends.
I only get nervous when we reach the pontoon bridges. These aren't exactly pontoons, either; not the way they are in reality, but in the dream that's what we call them. They're like long wooden docks, or maybe like those long rope bridges that always give Indiana Jones trouble. There are no siderails and the bridge is only slightly wider than the car. The boards are perfectly flat. There's nothing raised to guide the car's tires. They sink, some, when the car's weight is on the boards, but something underneath must offer flotation, because it never sinks below the surface of the water. (The water is calm, like inlet water tends to be.)
It's late in the afternoon by now, although as the crow flies we haven't gone that far - most of the time is taken by avoiding checkpoints or thicker population centers where the car might get noticed. The fog is thicker, too, although headlights would just make it worse. There's still enough sun to drive by, so I leave the car's lights off.
I ease the car onto the bridge, feeling the grind of wood underneath as the thing shifts to accomodate the weight. I'm concentrating on my breathing and on keeping the wheels straight. We move slowly. The bridge is bowed under the car: ahead and behind it angles gently upwards to where it connects to the land. We cross a series of these, which connect with weirdly square blocks of land sticking out from the water. It's a difficult process, and it is tiring. One friend notices my nerves, and offers to take over. I say no, I have to do this part. Keep your eyes closed, it'll help.
The sun has set and it's starting to get dark when we arrive at the woman's house. It is a large house, white and wood-paneled, with a wrap-around porch and a pointy sort of roof which may be tin. One friend hops a bus or a cab or something, to meet their brother at a Waffle House - he's in the area for a day's fishing, and from there they will make it back home. It's a three-hour drive, going direct routes. We're invited to go back with them, but I decide to stay where I am, since the woman will put me up from the night and I'm exhausted from navigating the pontoon bridges. The other friend elects to stay with me, and after trading the keys for a check the woman takes us in. I'm not worried about how I'll get home the next day - I'm only thinking about the pajamas stashed in my backpack.
Inside the house is dark and still. She asks us to please be quiet, since "the kids" (grandkids?) are watching television or playing video games, and it'd only be trouble if anyone else in the house knew that we were there. We're led through the kitchen and upstairs, down long dark hallways that are railed on one side to open areas below. There are open windows, and blowsy white sheer curtains, and the honey-colored floorboards under our feet are wide and polished. It's cold indoors, but not unpleasantly so, and all the open windows let in ocean-smell and rain-smell, as though the rain came in with the dark.
The old woman opens a door to a bedroom where everything is white and pale blue and pale green and brass, and I gratefully flop face-first across the bed. The woman reminds us to leave through the back when the sun comes up, and I remember that there is a rickety flight of wooden stairs which lead up to this guest-room. I tell her we will, and thank her for the crash-space, all without moving from my faceplanted flop. She closes the door, and inside the room it is still dark.
I feel - because my eyes are closed, still, and my face is in the duvet - my friend sitting down next to me and admitting that the pontoons were frightening, but I did well getting us across them. I tilt my head enough to the side to speak: "Yeah, but I'm used to it. That's why they always want me to do this."
