In my dream... .... Im in The Blackbird, just west of Medford, Oregon on West Main... but in my dream, its not quite right. The floor is covered with sawdust and wood shavings, and it smells like the inside of a cedar chest with a hint of motor oil and furniture wax and new nylon rope. Im there because Diane and I have decided to go fishing, but (in my dream) we dont have any fishing tackle. As I meander about through the racks of Carhartt coveralls and rubber irrigation boots and new felt cowboy hats, a floor agent approaches. Hes a tall, ruggedly-handsome young fellow who looks like he stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalog. He smiles helpfully and asks if I need assistance finding anything. Oh, no, thanks. Im good. Just looking around, I say. Okay, then - just let me know if I can be of help, he replies, and steps away to help another customer. Toward the back of the room, I find a wide set of stairs going down into the basement. Above the stairwell is a sign that reads Sporting Goods - Basement So I go down the stairs. The sawdust-floor continues once I reach the basement level, and I find Im dragging my feet slightly, making little tracks in the shavings. Most of the basement is filled with unfinished log furniture, made with what appears to be local pine wood, but not too far in, under a sign that reads Fishing I find a rack of poles... ...but the poles are all wrong. None of them even remotely resemble fishing poles. They all look like broom-handles. There are some that look like standard handles for push-brooms, some that look like their designed for standard brooms, and a rack of some that have slightly tapered ends painted red. I know these are not fishing poles, but for some reason, I select a tapered one and test the weight. Nearby is a rack of fishing line, but none of them are wound onto spools. Theres nothing holding them in shape except the shrink-wrapped plastic packaging. Id better make sure thesell go together, I say to no one in particular. I stick my index finger through the shrink-wrap on one of the coils of line, and it springs out like a Slinky, tangling itself immediately along its entire 100 length. I try to catch the end that springs out, and wind up with a horrible mess of line. Some of it is bunched up onto itself, looking for all the world as if the nylon has frayed. I set the mess on a nearby shelf and grab a different roll of line... ...and do exactly the same thing. Im determined not to be beaten by nylon fishing line, so I try to figure out how to affix it to the red-tipped broom-handle pole without the benefit of a reel. After a few moments of struggle, I give up. I toss the line back onto the shelf (by the other tangled mess). My fingers tangle in the line, and I wind up with nylon fishing line spread around me like the web of some demented giant spider. Kicking my way free, I slap the broom handle back on its rack and head upstairs to look for the L.L. Bean Model masquerading as a Blackbird floor agent. At the top of the stairs, I round the corner into the main floor, and find myself in a maze of Carhartt coveralls and blue jeans and rotating racks of fawn-colored work gloves and aviator sunglasses. I pause to try on a set of mirrored aviators - they look good on me... but then I remember why Im there and put them back. Eventually, I find the floor agent sitting at what looks like an 1940s-era school desk - the kind with the wooden arm on the right that holds up the half-width desktop. Hes entirely too big to fit in the desk, and his legs are folded up awkwardly underneath it. Hes writing with a fountain pen in a ledger that hangs out over the desk-top on both sides. The inkwell sits on top of the book, just above his hand. He looks up as I approach. Hello again. Can I help you? He reaches up to put the pen back in the inkwell, but misses. I watch in slow-motion as the inkwell topples over, pouring its indelible black goo over the work hes already completed, and into the cuff of his shirt as well. He doesnt even seem to notice. As he stands, unfolding himself from the desk, he knocks the wooden implement of scholastic torture over with a bang. Yes, please, I say, trying hard not to look at the mess behind him. Im looking for fishing tackle. Thats in the basement. Ill show you, he says. I walk out ahead of him. Remembering that I hid the tangled line with the rest of the line, I try to get there ahead of him and move them, but he walks very quickly. As we reach to bottom of the stairs, the sawdust on the floor becomes deeper and more dense, making it hard to walk through. Its so deep that I can feel wood shavings slipping into my shoes. I glance behind me and notice that L.L. Bean Boy has stopped to kick off his fancy ankle-high hiking boots... and is putting on knee-high irrigation boots. Maybe I can get to the mess before he does, I think, but abruptly I can hear him wading quickly through the deepening sawdust, closing fast. I get to the mess first, but everything has changed. Gone are the broom-handles; in their place are racks of very nice graphite fishing poles, with reels and guides and cork grips and special logos. Next to the poles are shelves of fishing line, all neatly stowed, all coiled as they should be on plastic spools. ...and I wake up. Its 4:21am, and Im hot.
Posted on: Tue, 23 Sep 2014 16:58:13 +0000
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