A friend invited me to an event where we would be sitting near the members of the Grateful Dead. I was interested in the event so I accepted, even though I wouldn’t recognize any of them.
Once there, she pointed them out, so I was spared the embarrassment of having to ask. She didn’t mention names. All I thought was that they looked more cleaned up than I expected and that I hoped no one would notice that I really did not fit in.
There was a break in the event, and one of them, who was seated in my row on the opposite side of a semicircle, came straight toward me after my friend had gone to get something. He spoke to me, and I was acutely aware that I was supposed to be thrilled when all I felt was embarrassment that I didn’t know his name and horror that my friend, who would have been thrilled, was missing this. I sensed, however, that he had come over to see me because she had left.
I was seated at a table at an elegant outdoor event. I suspect my mind chose that venue because perhaps I would look my best if forced to be dolled up for something special, even if unnatural for me. I was alone when who should appear but TB! All those dreams in which I hoped and prayed he would notice me and all those dreams in which he didn’t, and all those dreams from which I awoke heartbroken — and now, out of nowhere, without my thought or hope, here he was, about to fulfill my fantasy and speak to me! To acknowledge my existence with words! What amazing things would we talk about? How could I help him to discover the incredible, desirable person under the plain, dull, withdrawn veneer?
“So,” he said, “what do you know about Bozo the Clown?”
(Nothing. I know nothing. I don’t want to, either.)
I remembered the wise words of Spock: “After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true.”
I wonder if I will dream about TB again. Rewind?