Me and Will Shatner

I dreamed I was a policeman.

Now, you gotta know that I don't like, trust, or admire cops, so this was not a dream I would've chosen. I'd've chosen bikini babes in Bermuda, but instead William Shatner was my commanding officer. He was TJ Hooker, so I'm hoping I was only an actor in the dream, playing a cop.

Lots of us blueshirts had surrounded a patch of bushes, where we were somehow certain a suspect was hiding. A suspect suspected of what? Nobody asked. Probably smoking reefer.

Capt Shatner had his gun drawn and shouted at the bushes to "Come out with your hands up," and then he saw that my gun was holstered. I wasn't pointing it into the shadowy shrubbery where we couldn't see anyone anyway.

I didn't want to draw my gun, cock and aim it at plants and weeds, because I was afraid that I'd accidentally shoot the first thing that moved — maybe a stray dog or a squirrel, maybe the suspect's ankle if he was really in the bushes. 

Shatner gave me a good talking-to, but I was the fat rookie cop and he was very benevolent about it, smiling and putting his hand on my shoulder. His other hand was holding a gun, though, so it really wasn't the heartwarming moment he was going for. Shatner never was a very good actor.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Woke up wet with sweat, ashamed of the dream. Cripes, where did that come from? I've had some twisted nightmares, but never, even in little-kid fantasies, never ever did I dream of being a cop.

Always, I have only feared the police, and while I'll grant the hypothetical possibility of a good cop (in the same sense that my dead grandmother might be baking sugar cookies in a black hole in space), even a so-called good cop enforces stupid laws. That's the job, along with beating people and taking bribes. 

The dream was so distasteful, I had to type it just to get it out of my head. Now I gotta take a shower and wash it away.

Give me horrid nightmares that I'm back in high school. Give me body mutilation, or dreams that I've gone to Telegraph Ave without remembering to get dressed. Give me ghastly monsters destroying the city. Almost any dream would be better than dreaming I'm one of the ghastly monsters with a badge. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Ran an errand to the post office and maildrop, and as I was waiting for the bus home a passing car honked. You hear honkers all the time, and usually they're honking for nothing, so my finger was launched before I recognized Lori waving at me from behind the wheel of a passing Pontiac.

I smiled and waved back, but she didn't stop and I'm glad. What would I say to her? She's not a friend of mine, and I'm not even sure her husband Jacque is a friend of mine.

Maybe I could've asked, "Have you had that baby yet?" because she was sure pregnant last time I saw her. But the answer would've been obvious soon as she got out of the car, and after that, what have I got to say to her? To anyone, really...

♦ ♦ ♦  

Back at the hotel, Mr Patel snagged me as I walked into the building, and he had to say what he had to say three times before I could get around the accent. Which must be very frustrating for him, all day every day with everyone in the hotel.

He wanted to spray my room for roaches. OK by me, so he hollered for his teenage son, who followed me up the stairs, up and up so many stairs, and then slipped a sci-fi facemask over his head. I opened the door to my mess, and the kid walked in and sprayed the floorboards and around the sink with the stinkiest insecticide ever. It ought to kill the roaches; it about knocked me out.

I'd seen a notice posted on the board near the office, saying they'd be spraying for roaches in everyone's rooms, so I asked Junior Patel why they hadn't just used the passkey to go in and spray?

The boy's all-American, and answered with no hint of an accent, "Dad almost never uses the passkey. If you were behind on the rent or didn't answer knocks for days and days, maybe, but not just to spray or bring up mail or something."

Cripes, I'm renting from a landlord who respects my privacy. Never heard of such a thing. So why is there no latch on the communal bathroom door?

From Pathetic Life #23
Wednesday, April 17, 1996

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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