“ . . . dreams are not prophetic at all, put no stock in dreams & omens. (They DO prophesy, but on a subconscious level that has nothing to do with conscientious life.)” - Jack Kerouac  

June 4, 2004 [Nocturnal hours]  

And so I’m dreaming.  

My car speeds down streets I can only name while I’m awake. I’m in the town of Fremont and the air seems unnatural. My head’s beating and my thoughts are convoluted with emotion. I’m suffocating myself due to a type of confusion one would experience in high school. At my side sitting relaxed on the passenger seat is she, the one bringing about this confusion. Her eyes are squinty and her smile is continual. She wraps me in mirth with brunette hair and a soft complexion. Fiddling with the stereo she flings in a CD of hers and tells me to listen to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs because she loves this particular melodic song: and she chants the words as if she were the band’s lead singer, twisting along the passenger seat, jamming away to the inebriated beats. And I’m trying to get on her level, trying to feel everything she’s feeling. But it’s hard because I’m feeling outright guilty. I’m here in my car with this woman and I’m not even thinking of my fiancée.  

And as we pass a sign on the right-hand side of the road she says: ‘That was a stop sign back there! Why didn’t you stop? Keep your eyes on the road. This isn’t a game, man.’  

I didn’t stop for the sign (whatever it was). Perhaps it was a stop sign. We make our way to a nearby school, trying our best to make a concert that has supposedly already started. But there’s no music heard when we pull into the school parking lot. There are dozens of cars and motorcycles adorning the lot in meticulous geometric patterns. We head toward the school hall, seeing a vendor selling popcorn and pizza and soda and candy to the right of the hall entrance.  

And she says with a smile I want to experience closer: ‘Buy me some pizza.’  

And I think to myself: ‘If I could I would.’  

This school we’re at is stuffed with notable educators and brilliant students who will one day be famous artistically and intellectually. A great school. Named after a saint who was known as a Confessor. It’s the school I teach at.  

We come to a large group of people once we’re inside the hall. Everyone’s gossiping about George W. Bush and the war in Iraq. The woman I’m with flirts with me—direct smiles, animated nudges, keeping me madly interested in her. Then mystically there’s no more her. She leaves me and flutters away and mingles within the various crowds filled with the faces I see all the time. She leaves me purposely, making me think of her, making me feel the guilt because I’m engaged to another and everybody here at school knows this.  

A few students and faculty members say their hellos and shake my hand, but I’m looking around for the woman I came here with, asking people questions as to where she may be. All I receive are uncertain shakes of the head and unrestrained giggles.  

And a student probes: ‘Do you get around, Mr. Rodriguez?’  

I know what he meant by that, this eighth grade boy with dirty-blonde hair. I may project that demeanor right now, but it’s really not so.  

And I reply: ‘Such an interesting life, one who gets around.’  

I walk toward the stage. The music of the concert hasn’t started yet, but there’s music playing from six-foot concert speakers. And unfortunately this pre-show music consists of distorted tracks playing from an unfamiliar CD. The music playing over the concert speakers teases the audience madly, making everyone restless and eager to see the band. And the band will be The Strokes—one of my preferred rock bands of today.  

And then the show finally starts. Some band members come on the stage, but I don’t recognize any of them. It’s not The Strokes by any means, just some imposters holding plastic guitars. A few staff members see me and offer me a seat next to them, near students who have crushes on each other. I see a young member of The K-Mangos. (The K-Mangos were an attempted rock band I was in, an impressive ensemble of students and staff—musicians banging out cover rock songs. This young boy I see played cowbell and did a fine job at it.) I see him sitting close to the front of the stage, excited with emotion; he’s sitting next to a girl he likes.  

The show never starts. The imposters break down the stage and smash their plastic guitars against the walls and floor. The audience is exceedingly upset. Adults and children rush the stage and pummel the imposters with folding chairs and clenched fists. The woman—this eye-catching lesbian—I drove here with is still gone. I can’t find her anywhere. And not once did the woman I’m engaged to show up.