JimmieJoe

One of the side effects of taking Melatonin to help you sleep is “intense dreams”. I’m discovering that “intense” for me means “really weird”, and that I remember them once I awaken. Here’s last night’s strange tale.

It starts with me sitting in my truck, a ’92 Ford Ranger, in the parking area adjacent to, but not at, a set of gas pumps at a convenience store. The engine is running. I almost never do that, just sit somewhere (other than a drive-thru) with the engine running.

Not really my truck.

For some reason, my truck has a camper shell. In reality, my truck does not. I’ve never even considered putting a shell on the truck. Anyway, sitting in the truck, engine running.

So far, not a really weird dream. But it starts veering into, if not weird, then at least strange. And I remember it, when I usually don’t, so there’s that.

Sitting in the gas station parking lot, engine running, when a woman of indeterminate age, possibly early 20’s, maybe early 30’s, comes roaring up to the gas pumps and screeches to a stop, in an older, mid-size heap of a car. She’s dressed like…  well, there’s no real polite way to say it…

she’s white trash (think tank top with the bottom half ripped away, hair in a messy heap on her head,smoking a cigarette, car full of fast food wrappers and other various items of trash), extremely arrogant, and not paying attention to her driving, or how she’s stopped at the pump. I’m a bit annoyed with her, for no real reason. Then Mindy shows up. (Mindy is a fellow 9-1-1 dispatcher.)

In real life, Mindy drives a full size Chevy pickup. In my dream, she pulls up in a rather worse-for-wear version of something like this car. She pulls into the station, drives around Miss White Trash, and then around to the far side of the parking lot. For some reason, she knows MWT, and waves at me to come over to her car. I get out of my truck, and walk over to where she has parked. I leave the truck, keys in the ignition, engine running. (I don’t do that in real life, either.)

Once I get over to where Mindy is parked, she says “your truck is gone”. I look around, and sure enough, my truck (sporting the camper shell it doesn’t really have) is gone! My truck has been stolen!

Fortunately, I didn’t leave my phone in the truck, so I pull it out of my pocket to call 9-1-1.

Now, we start adding elements of previous dreams to this saga of my stolen Ranger pickup. A theme of dreams I’ve had over the years is my having trouble trying to dial 9-1-1. Whether on a cell phone or a landline, something happens to prevent the call from going through. It was a frequent dream during the years I was applying at dispatch centers around the region, but had stopped a couple of years after I finally got my current job (it took ten years of trying, but someone finally hired me). Then, recently, they’ve started making their way back into my sleep. (I wonder if my sub-conscious is trying to tell me something?) Anyway, as in many of my previous dreams, I, at first, cannot get the phone to show me the dialing screen. It will go everywhere else, but not there. Needless to say, I am frustrated.

I poke and press and fume. Why won’t it go to the dial screen? Times-a-wastin’! I’m thinking I can get video of who took the truck from the station’s security cameras, and I go inside the store, still trying to get the phone to go to the dial screen. For some reason, I know that both my sisters work at this store, but only Sherry is there now. In fact, the store is the one I used to work at, Richard’s Liquors, but looks nothing like that store really looked, before it was demolished for the Freeway 198 expansion back in the late 90’s.

Anyway, still no joy with the phone, so I try to reboot it. Rather than just switching off, then coming back on, it resets to factory settings! I’ve lost all my apps, notes, messages, and phone book! I’m not happy, to say the least, but I’m still focused on getting through to Visalia PD on 9-1-1.

Not only does the phone reset to factory specs, it changes from an iPhone 6s Plus, to my old, circa 1999, Nokia phone. And it goes from black to bright banana yellow. And it still won’t dial 9-1-1!  I’m getting more than frustrated now.

Now, this phone has regular buttons, not a touch screen, so I FINALLY get the thing to dial. It’s ringing! Success!

A Visalia PD dispatcher picks up. I can barely hear her. I tell her “my truck’s been stolen!” She starts to say something, and the call drops. AARRGGHHH!

I call back. It doesn’t go through. I call again. And again. Finally, I get another dispatcher, and tell her the same story. She tells me “oh, yes, here’s your call. We don’t respond to stolen car reports, call your insurance company.” I’m thinking, and say, “YOU DON’T TAKE STOLEN VEHICLE REPORTS???” I’m trying very hard not to be that caller… the one who screams at the dispatcher because they’re not getting the answer they want. It’s working, but just barely. I end the call.

Now, I’m not at the station anymore. I’m walking home, and now, instead of being where ever the station was, I’m near Walnut and Court Streets, walking west on Walnut, heading home. It’s at least three miles.

A feature of other dreams I’ve had decides to join this dream, already in progress. I can barely walk. My lower back is in agony, and I can barely take a step. I’m hunched over, barely moving, and thinking I’ll never make it home. I’m wondering who I can call to come give me a ride, and I can’t think of anyone. That’s a bit sad, actually.

I decide that if Visalia PD won’t come take my stolen report, surely the Sheriff’s office will…  I mean, I work there, right? I start dialing the non-emergency number (my truck is long gone now, no need for 9-1-1), and as it’s ringing,

I wake up.

Now I’ll never know why my phone won’t dial, who stole my truck, or if I got home.

I’m seriously considering whether to dump the rest of the melatonin down the toilet, or making sure I take one every night.