Mrs. Anderson

Eleven dollars and forty seven cents for two of these? Where is this place?

I should know that as soon as I mention to my friend Pooh that I haven’t been remembering my dreams, I will not only remember one, it will be among the strangest. What makes this dream especially bizarre is that it is the second time in less than three weeks that I dreamed I was a man, this time a young one probably only seventeen or eighteen.

As my memories begin, I am walking up to the porch of a large country home. It’s white with brick colored shutters. The steps and porch are weather beaten and not in the best of shape.  Two large trees on either side of the front yard provide shade for the front of the house. A big gravel drive leads around the side of the house to my right. There is a female German Shepherd following at my heels and I think she belongs to me. The house is not mine, but I walk in as if I am expected and the dog follows me in.

Once inside the configuration of the house immediately changes. I begin making my way though rooms that lead to other rooms with no connecting hallway and it all seems to be one long straight line.  In one room a television is on. There is a game show playing with a host who reminds me of Alex Trebek, but it’s not Jeopardy. A couple of rooms later I find myself in a pantry with walls full of shelves on standard that go floor to ceiling. A Golden Retriever sleeping under a table in the middle of the room wakes up and begins an odd fight with my dog that turns out not to be a fight at all. The two seem to have more of a game that involves catching the other from behind by the tail. Fur is getting ripped out and it seems like it should be painful, but neither dog seems to mind. Throughout all this I am very interested in a small window high on one wall that has a cracked pane and cobwebs around it. I’ve seen it before in a different dream and it’s puzzling me. Finally, I shrug it off. I can’t successfully separate my dog, so I just leave her behind and move on.

I pass through a room with a door that leads to a bedroom that is occupied by a girl I’m very interested in. I wonder if she is sleeping but I don’t stop to find out. I am thinking that I just passed her parents’ bedroom and that the noise from the dogs may have wakened them. Eventually, I come to the last room with is a back porch and a laundry room. There is a doggy door in the wall and I duck down and squeeze myself through it. I’m fat, much too fat to be doing this and the sides of the small door scrape painfully on my belly as I squeeze through. Halfway though my struggle I notice a thin blond boy in the yard pushing gravel around with a rake. He looks up from what he’s doing and says, “Jesus, Dude, why don’t you just go through the door like everyone else? You’re such a freak.” Being called “Dude” doesn’t bother me in the least. It’s as if I have been one all my life.

I ignore his comment, emerge from the doggy door, straighten my clothes out and walk down the steps to a beautiful black Harley Davidson. I sit down on the seat and then turn and look around. The gravel drive has circled around and into a parking lot between two houses with a long barn-shaped building that runs between them. The barn building has several large doors like the rolling doors in an industrial building, one is open and there appears to be some kind of machine shop inside. I think I was here before in another dream as myself looking for a job. My gaze settles on the porch of the house across the parking lot with a large dark blue 4-wheel drive truck parked in front.

A lady is walking down the steps, carefully and deliberately. I know her and so I watch as the walks over toward me. She is wearing a black spaghetti strap dress that hugs a well kept figure and she is expertly managing the heels of matching black pumps in the gravel. Her hair is blond with a slight red tint, cut in a hot bob and as she approaches, I can see she is about forty and has a strong facial resemblance to the boy whose comment I ignored. I think she is also the mother of the girl I was interested in and I don’t know what she was doing in the other house. She walks around to the front of my bike and with the grace of a ballerina, she sets one foot on the front tire, a second foot up on the handle bar pausing to make sure I can see up her dress. I’m trying to pretend I’m cool and I don’t look. She steps over in a pirouette, and plops down on the seat in front of me, wiggling backward into my crotch which feels really good in a way I can’t describe. I look down and notice for the first time I’m wearing black leathers.

She leans back up against me and whispers, “Mr. Anderson is home right now, but I don’t care. Do you?” I tell her no. My voice is deep and it sounds nervous. I have a picture in my head of Mr. Anderson. He is a bear of a man who would rip of my limbs off and beat me with them if he found me with his wife. “Good,” she says, “but nothing is going to ‘happen’ until I get me a Bacon Burger. You’re taking me to Bennie’s.” Bennie’s is a restaurant we have been to before and I know where to go. My bike is an older model with a single seat that kick starts, and it’s difficult to start with her in my lap that way, but I get lucky and it starts on the first kick. Driving with her in front of me is equally difficult and to make matters worse, as soon as we get out on the road, it turns into one of those crowded Oriental city streets you see in chase scenes in the movies with nothing but obstacles. I can’t control my bike and for a brief moment in the dream, I feel like I am myself, too small to manage the bike at all let alone a second passenger. I crash into stands, the side of a truck, a couple of pedestrians and a bicycle, all with people yelling at me and Mrs. Anderson laughing and deliberately trying to make it worse.

We arrive at Bennie’s and the waiter asks if we want our usual table. I don’t remember a lot else from the restaurant except that we both order the Bacon Burgers and they are very good. I don’t remember the ride back either. We are just there. For some reason, Mrs. Anderson and my bike both disappear and I walk through the door of the front house just like I did at the beginning of the dream. I make my way through all the rooms again just like I did the first time. The television is off. The dogs are both gone. The light is on now in the girl’s bedroom, but I don’t stop. I get to the back porch and squeeze through the doggy door again, a more difficult task now with a belly full of Bacon Burger. The thin boy is gone. The blue truck gone. My Harley is back where it started. A third dog that looks like a Doberman but with spots on its legs and belly like a Dalmatian, is very excited about me crawling through the door. It follows me running hyperactive circles around my legs as I walk across the gravel lot.

I don’t remember walking into the other house, but I find myself in a bedroom with Mrs. Anderson. Things are going to “happen” now, but suddenly I stop. “Oh crap!” I exclaim. She looks at me. “You didn’t pay for the burgers, did you?” I shake my head. “Did they even bring us the tab?” I ask. “Eleven dollars and forty seven cents,” she says, which is extremely cheap, but then I had to kick start my Harley too and it seemed reasonable at the time. I am appalled. I know if I don’t go back and pay the bill, the waiter will think I skipped on purpose and the last thing I need is a bad reputation. I turn around and head back down the steps and the black dog is running around my feet again.

As I lay there this morning listening to the sound of the garbage trucks that woke me up  from my dream, I couldn’t help but be amused. First, I found Mrs. Anderson’s behavior completely intolerable and yet there she was in my dream coming out of my head. Is there some part of me that wants to chase after young men when I’m forty and married with children? Second, how funny would it have been if something had finally “happened” in one of my dreams, and I had to experience it as a man? And with a woman old enough to be my mother, no less. I still wouldn’t write about it… sorry. 🙂

© 2010 Anne Schilde

About Anne Schilde

Image "Webster's Kiss" © 2011 Anne Schilde Thanks always for reading! ♥
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3 Responses to Mrs. Anderson

  1. Tincup says:

    Wow…that is one hell of a dream. Perhaps you want and older woman:) Like most men…I enjoy the thought of women together…the man is kind of gross…with that thing dangling between his legs. I have always admired the smooth beautful lines of a woman…but…I have no desire to be a woman…LOL

  2. Anne Schilde says:

    You know, when you wake up and realize you’ve just been a teenage boy for the last however long, all bets are off on what it means. “Things” aren’t gross, although having one when you’re not supposed to is a little weird. Judging from the odd feeling, I don’t think mine was dangling. 🙂

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