Brazil Trip
A dream.
So I was in a car with editor Sean and editor Staniel, and we were all driving South. It was an older car; the heater reminded me of my Bug's and the knobs and handles were a grime-antiqued cream. It was a lot like my Bug, actually, except it was larger and I didn't get the feeling of impending mechanical failure that I get on car trips in a vehicle belonging to my family.
We were going South because we all had the week off of work and we wanted to do something fun. Even at the time I couldn't remember quite where we were headed, but it was somewhere like the Wisconsin Dells or the House on the Rock. We were just about in the middle of California, heading towards Nevada.
I had been driving for a very long time when Staniel offered to take over. I pulled over and let him take the wheel. I told him that we needed gas soon and that I needed an ATM to purchase said gas, but Staniel said he'd pay for gas; a town big enough to have ATMs might have someone who'd spot us. He'd been shooting at rabbits and street signs with a pistol for most of the trip so far and was worried that someone had complained. I acknowledged that this was a good idea and I climbed into the back seat. It was a good thing that this car had two back seats - like a van - one behind the other, because Sean was asleep in the first one. He had a flattened cardboard box over him, which looked warm.
I made myself comfortable with scratchy car blankets and a sweater and fell asleep. Time passed, and I woke up.
Sean was driving and we weren't on the road anymore. We were just driving across rolling, grassy hills, picking our way through the trees. The sun was bright but tree-filtered.
I asked where we were, but nobody knew. I was worried that we'd driven past our turn and gone into Texas. I was also worried that we would run out of gas and be stranded. Then we came over another hill and were in the middle of a playground full of children dressed in white and yellow. I thought of it as an amusement park at the time, but it was more of a non-motorized playground, with swings and merry-go-rounds. Staniel was still taking potshots at animals and trees from the passenger's seat, so I asked him not to shoot any of the children. He raised his eyebrow and said nothing, but concentrated on reloading.
Sean parked the car next to a swing set and we all got out. The children had flowers in their hair and hands, and paid us no mind. My clothes were wedged into all the wrong places, my feet felt loose in my shoes and I wished I could take a shower. As soon as we'd gotten out, the car started to steam violently from both under the hood and in the back, where the engine would be if it were a Volkswagen van. Sean poked at it with a shirt-wrapped hand while Staniel sat on the roof with a carpet bag. He carefully swaddled his pistol in an oily rag, then took out several bottles and started doing intricate things with contact lens solution.
I realized that the children were speaking Spanish, and got upset. How the hell did we drive not only into Texas, but through it and into Mexico? Sean looked sheepish and Staniel was about to say something when I realized that they were speaking Portuguese and we were in Brazil. Goddamnit! I started yelling and yelling, wondering how we could go over the Panama Canal without either of them noticing; wasn't there somewhere to turn around? Mostly I was annoyed because we still had to get back home before our vacations were over, but I was also angry at myself for letting someone else drive.
That's when I realized that this was all a flashback, and I was telling someone else about this while I worked on my garden. I had a brilliant idea that I could make a kind of trellis out of bamboo, then run water through it so it would water as well as support the plants. I had it mostly assembled and was carefully making holes in the bamboo with a finishing nail. It was the only one I had, so I had to be careful. I think I was still in Brazil, or at least somewhere with a lower level of technology. Also, I seemed to be Carrie Fisher. I wished my guest would go away so I could finish working on the self-watering bamboo trellis, because it really seemed like a good idea.
We were going South because we all had the week off of work and we wanted to do something fun. Even at the time I couldn't remember quite where we were headed, but it was somewhere like the Wisconsin Dells or the House on the Rock. We were just about in the middle of California, heading towards Nevada.
I had been driving for a very long time when Staniel offered to take over. I pulled over and let him take the wheel. I told him that we needed gas soon and that I needed an ATM to purchase said gas, but Staniel said he'd pay for gas; a town big enough to have ATMs might have someone who'd spot us. He'd been shooting at rabbits and street signs with a pistol for most of the trip so far and was worried that someone had complained. I acknowledged that this was a good idea and I climbed into the back seat. It was a good thing that this car had two back seats - like a van - one behind the other, because Sean was asleep in the first one. He had a flattened cardboard box over him, which looked warm.
I made myself comfortable with scratchy car blankets and a sweater and fell asleep. Time passed, and I woke up.
Sean was driving and we weren't on the road anymore. We were just driving across rolling, grassy hills, picking our way through the trees. The sun was bright but tree-filtered.
I asked where we were, but nobody knew. I was worried that we'd driven past our turn and gone into Texas. I was also worried that we would run out of gas and be stranded. Then we came over another hill and were in the middle of a playground full of children dressed in white and yellow. I thought of it as an amusement park at the time, but it was more of a non-motorized playground, with swings and merry-go-rounds. Staniel was still taking potshots at animals and trees from the passenger's seat, so I asked him not to shoot any of the children. He raised his eyebrow and said nothing, but concentrated on reloading.
Sean parked the car next to a swing set and we all got out. The children had flowers in their hair and hands, and paid us no mind. My clothes were wedged into all the wrong places, my feet felt loose in my shoes and I wished I could take a shower. As soon as we'd gotten out, the car started to steam violently from both under the hood and in the back, where the engine would be if it were a Volkswagen van. Sean poked at it with a shirt-wrapped hand while Staniel sat on the roof with a carpet bag. He carefully swaddled his pistol in an oily rag, then took out several bottles and started doing intricate things with contact lens solution.
I realized that the children were speaking Spanish, and got upset. How the hell did we drive not only into Texas, but through it and into Mexico? Sean looked sheepish and Staniel was about to say something when I realized that they were speaking Portuguese and we were in Brazil. Goddamnit! I started yelling and yelling, wondering how we could go over the Panama Canal without either of them noticing; wasn't there somewhere to turn around? Mostly I was annoyed because we still had to get back home before our vacations were over, but I was also angry at myself for letting someone else drive.
That's when I realized that this was all a flashback, and I was telling someone else about this while I worked on my garden. I had a brilliant idea that I could make a kind of trellis out of bamboo, then run water through it so it would water as well as support the plants. I had it mostly assembled and was carefully making holes in the bamboo with a finishing nail. It was the only one I had, so I had to be careful. I think I was still in Brazil, or at least somewhere with a lower level of technology. Also, I seemed to be Carrie Fisher. I wished my guest would go away so I could finish working on the self-watering bamboo trellis, because it really seemed like a good idea.