California Dreamin'

In early 1992, at the ripe ignorant age of 17, I had semi "flown the coop" from my folks' nest. My Grandma and Aunt had taken me in to finish my second semester of high school at my hometown alma mater Issaquah. According to Wikipedia, "Issaquah" is an anglicized word for a local Native American name, meaning either "the sound of birds," "snake," or "little stream." I had once heard from a friend who heard from some descendant of a native tribe from our region that if someone acted silly or a little crazy, one would say, "they must be from Issaquah." The latter meaning really resonates with me.

I graduated with the class I grew up with. Still not sure how I managed to make it out, alive. Stated junior college. Moved into a house with some roomies. Threw a shitload of parties. Went to a shitload of parties. Dropped out of junior college. Really was going nowhere fast. This just wouldn't do. I wanted more for myself. I'm sure my folks, at the time, wanted more for me, too.
Spent a spring break down in Lake Havasu, Arizona. One night, I almost literally drank my weight in booze. I just lost complete control of my sense and sensibility. The last thing I remember; throwing back a jug of vodka. Then I recall waking up on a cold, stainless steel table under horrible florescent lighting in a medical room. A nurse came in, and the first thing I ask her is if I'm in trouble. She assured me as far as she was concerned I wasn't. Not too much time passed before I was released from the hospital, which had treated me for alcohol poisoning. I was told I had a .38 blood alcohol content. I was also told .4 is certain death. This was a wake up call.

Speaking of calls, it was my brother who heroically called 911. For someone to be in that bad of shape for my brother to think there was an urgent medical emergency is saying something. Truly. Well, you don't know my brother.

So the following night, my brother, and I were to have dinner with our folks. They were visiting him in San Luis Obispo where he attended junior college. So relieved I hadn't died, they were surprisingly lenient with me. Completely disappointed, albeit lenient.

Upon my return to Seattle, I did quite a bit of soul searching. I engaged in my first internship with a local video production company. They were working on a really cool project, documenting the story of our nation's most prolific serial arsonist Paul Keller. The work was really unglamorous, sometimes boring and tedious. I was also schlepping at an Italian restaurant bussing tables. This was at least my third restaurant gig, and I was still bussing, not waiting. In hindsight, it might have been to my advantage to acknowledge my Hispanic appearance and avoid working in restaurants altogether. Oh well, live and learn.

Sometime at the beginning of my third quarter in community college I dropped my classes and withdrew. While in the registrar's office, I recall overhearing a gal talking to another staffer about the college dropout statistics. Apparently the percentage of people who drop out of college and return to graduate with a degree is astronomically low. This really got to me. What kid grows up dreaming of being a loser statistic!?

For once I actually intentionally followed my brother's lead. I applied and was accepted to his college in little San Luis Obispo. So that summer I wrapped up my video production internship, quit my schlepping gig, said farewell to lifelong friends and moved to California's Central Coast.

The night before I left I had the oddest dream. I was in a large, green vehicle. It was a boat of a car, kind of like an old Lincoln. Actually I couldn't tell whether it was a car or SUV. It was really large and full of passengers; family. I don't recall if the car was full of actual relatives or people who felt close to me like family. That part was ambiguous, probably the latter as I have a very loose knit family at best.

We were driving on a major freeway through the heart of a major downtown. It could've been I-5 through Downtown Seattle under the Washington State Convention Center. It could've been the Hollywood Freeway through Downtown Los Angeles. I'm not really sure. Again, ambiguous.

I was sitting in a middle seat, and for some reason there was no working safety belt. We were cruising at a good clip, about 75 miles per hour. Then it was as if someone flipped a switch on traffic, and the cars ahead of us appeared to suddenly be at a stand-still. The driver hit the brakes. It was too late. We slammed into the back of the car ahead of us. I slammed through the windshield and into the pavement.

The next thing I know, I'm standing there watching all these people get out of their cars and rush over to the pileup. I stood up on my tippy toes to get a look at the motionless body lying in the road. The person was face down into the pavement, it wasn't pretty. Upon closer examination, I notice they're wearing the same clothes as I was. Then it hit me. That was me lying there, motionless.

In denial, I begin trying to get people's attention. No one acknowledged me. More and more I try to get in people's faces. It's clear no one sees or hears me, or so I thought.

There was a lighted escalator to the side of the freeway, like at a transit or subway stop. The people riding up it waved to me, motioning for me to follow them. So I did. I began my ascent. Suddenly I'm in a hospital room. My nearest and dearest are gathered around a table. They were grieving over my white draped remains.

A man came through the wall. He was dressed handsomely in full white tie tuxedo. In the most loving of manners he asked me if I had any regrets. I searched myself and honestly I didn't, so I said no. He asked me if I was ready to go. I searched myself again, and while I felt the loss of the life I had known, I felt unimpeded to move on. The mysterious man extended his hand toward me. I reached out and he grasped my hand tenderly. He then led me through the wall he had just moments before walked through.

On the other side, we're in a beautiful red rock canyon environment, like you see in Southern Utah. I look over at the mysterious man. He is now dressed in a sheriff's uniform and there's a squad car just ahead of us. We get in and drive around a bend. As we clear the bend, I see this magnificent city stretch out before us. It's beautiful, strange and seemingly multi-pastel colored.

The mysterious man drops me off at a park. There's a news kiosk, so I take it upon myself to learn more. There are multi-colored leaflets being distributed to passers by. They look like blank pages from a variety pack of construction paper.

A younger man around my age approaches me. He says I must be new, and not to worry, that over time I'll be able to see the words. Then he invites me to follow him to a pay phone. I oblige. He picks up the receiver and makes a call. Then he says your turn and hands me the phone. My mom is on the line, calling my name as if she's wondering whether it's me on the other end. I say, yes, mom, it's me. I'm here. She continues to call my name. She doesn't hear me and hangs up. My new acquaintance explains to me we can sometimes contact our earthbound loved ones. He also informs me we're to have dinner with the creator that evening.

Next thing I know, we're at the creator's home. He's the same mysterious man who first came to me through a wall. He and a woman are preparing dinner in a very nice, yet modest, completely wooden kitchen. This is inside a completely wooden house. There is a feast of food spread out on a long, wooden table. We begin to sit down at the table together, and I can't remember anything more about the dream beyond this.

The next morning I was on the road to start my new life and finish my college degree in California ...