Dearest Rachel –
As you know, some mornings I have some pretty wild and elaborate dreams, and others I don’t. Since yesterday was one of those ‘no dream’ nights, it seems only fair that I found myself in a surprisingly involved one this morning. Indeed, this one was elaborate enough that it felt like a sequel to one that I’d had some time ago. Or maybe it’s just possible to experience déjà vu in the middle of a dream.
Déjà vu or not, I guess I should set the scene by explaining what the ‘original’ dream – or at least the storyline – was, so as to give some context to it. It had been a spread in Life magazine about a kid coming home from school, only to be assaulted by bullies on route. Pretty tame stuff, from our perspective – honestly, you would have thought it was straight out of The Red Balloon, except in black-and-white (because Life magazine) – but somehow I knew that this was the early Sixties, and this was still the sort of thing that was big enough to get the attention of such a national magazine. Then again, it was happening in Washington DC; magazines back then would seize on stuff like this as proof that our country (or at the least, our seat of leadership) was on the brink.
Pity that rag went out of business; if they thought a case of bullying was a sign of the apocalypse, imagine what they’d think of Washington today.
Then again, I should backtrack; how did I know when and where this was taking place, you might ask? And while I could simply chalk it up to ‘dream logic,’ like I do so often, I think there were signs. For one, like I said, the fact that this would get the attention of a major news magazine when this seems like a rite of passage for the small and the weak (which could be literally every kid at some point in their lives; students don’t show up at school on their first day of kindergarten fully-grown and ripped, after all) seems almost refreshingly anachronistic. Who would be fussing about something so relatively trifling these days, when there are neighborhoods in nearly any city where you run the risk of getting shot to death by a random gang bullet on any given day?
Then there was the fast that both the hapless victim and his antagonists were lily white; in a photojournalism essay today, that would never do. Clearly, this was created prior to the civil rights movement, especially in a city like this that straddled the line between North and South, one “with Southern efficiency and Northern charm,” as the president at that time was known to have described it. Oh, and the way you knew who the head bully was? He had hair growing to just about the nape of his neck. The horror!
As for the fact that I knew this was Washington… I was just starting a term as a freshman Congressman, for whatever reason. Why I would run, and how I would win, is absolutely beyond me; this is where I would have to ascribe something like this to dream logic. I recall a scene where I commented to my colleagues about how surprisingly convivial I found Members from across the aisle; yeah, I was the anachronism in this dream, having arrived with 2020-era attitudes and cynicism towards politics. Then again, the fact that I was alive and sufficiently grown up to run (and sit, I still can’t believe that) for Congress makes for an anachronism in and of itself, so… yeah.
Somehow, as I walked around town (yeah, you could do that back then without fear of violence – definitely an earlier day and age), I came across a situation much like the one in that Life magazine. In fact, it may have been those very same kids; I certainly recognized the victim and his chief antagonist. And here, I thought those photoshoots were staged, or if they had been real, someone in the area would have raised a hue and cry to stop this sort of thing.
Then again, I was someone at this point.
So I decided to be someone. Or at least act like one.
I grabbed the bully by his shoulder and spun him to face me (his hair wasn’t nearly so long that I could grab it). At first angry at having his fun interrupted, his eyes widened when he had to lift his gaze upward at the sight of a Responsible Adult staring sternly back at him (look, in a suit and tie – which was the uniform for Responsible Adults, let alone Congressmen, in that day – even I could pass for one). For my part, I tried to play my part.
“And what do you think you’re doing, kid? Wasn’t the magazine spread enough for you? You’ve already got a national reputation as a bully,” I’m not sure if I actually used the word ‘bully,’ or something more derogatory, but if you think I would have done the latter, feel free to imagine it having been said, “don’t you think that’s sufficient?”
In our day and age, he might have confronted me, or pulled a wounded gazelle gambit by screaming for help from passersby to accuse me of assaulting him. Or, given where we were, he could have simply pulled the “do you know who my old man is?” card with certain amount of credibility.
But he didn’t. I’m going to guess he simply didn’t expect to be confronted in media res, and had no response planned for when he was. He backed down, stammering something incomprehensible, and when I let go of his shirt, he and his goon squad ran off.
At which point, I turned to the kid on the ground, a black-haired tow-headed boy. “You alright, kid? Need someone to walk you to school? Where d’ya need to be?”
Again, in this day and age, that wouldn’t be an acceptable offer to make; and in any event, even a kid who’s been suffering regular beatdowns might still have too much pride to allow himself to be walked to school. I could accept that. But he was glad to have my company, and we walked the couple of blocks to his school, where I met a teacher, and informed her of the situation, including the fact (which no one seemed to be aware of, curiously) that this seemed to have been a reenactment of the Life photospread, with all the participants still involved. I think she offered to look into it, although I could tell she seemed skeptical of my story. She did seem to be leery of the bully leader, though, so that was promising.
Maybe it was the hair…
Anyway, there was more to this, such as taking my parents to some attorneys over my lunch hour in order to set up a retirement fund for them (which would have been about the time for them to begin setting that up in real life, as they would have just been married, but no, in this case, they were old enough to be my parents, if not as old as they are now). Not a 401(k), of course, as that wasn’t a thing back then; that’s why it had to involve lawyers, as opposed to an accountant or a broker.
Then again, everything in Washington involves lawyers. Possibly even getting lunch.
I did have to call my boss (Mohinder?) to let him know I would be delayed in getting back, because it took longer than planned (again, Washington, but also, that’s life). Granted, either upon hanging up or waking up, I began to wonder why I would report to a boss at all as a member of Congress. Some things you just don’t understand.
Anyway, that was my morning. Wonder how that black-haired kid is doing.
Talk to you later, honey. Keep an eye on me, and wish me luck; I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 