Last
night, for whatever reason, I had a dream that took place in my Uncle Gene’s
house. A really strange dream. Basketball. Babies. Diapers. People I didn’t
know. Who knows what the hell it was about? I rarely make sense of my dreams,
as hard as I try.
The
great aspect about my dreams, though, is that they’re usually extremely vivid
and extremely specific. Typically, the detail is pretty amazing, and my ability
to remember it later on is usually equally so. The great aspect about last
night’s dream was being back in Uncle Gene’s house again.
From
the time I was eight until I went off to college, we lived next to Uncle Gene’s
house, a house that he still lives in today. Arguably, other than my own house,
I spent more time there than any other building on the planet. I was there
before school each morning to catch a ride. I was there on weekends while being
babysat. I was there on late Saturday nights while my aunts and uncles played
cards and the kids watched “Create Feature.” I was there on the Fourth of July,
Christmas, birthdays, and more. I was there on many a night in high school and
later drinking beer after Uncle Gene went off to work. I played my first video
game there. I saw my very first MTV video there when I was 15 one morning
before school. I climbed the tree in the back yard about every chance I got. I
played “bloody bucket” and “tackle the man with the ball” in the front yard.
And I spent countless hours playing basketball on Uncle Gene’s driveway. Countless
hours.
To
this day, sometimes when I’m shooting baskets on my own hoop, I stop and say a “thank
you” to Uncle Gene for putting up with that bouncing ball against the pavement,
year after year after year. Despite endlessly banging airballs galore off his
car, off his garage doors windows, off his lawn mower, and off the side of his house,
he never once asked me to quit. He never once told me what a pain in the ass I must
have been. He never once yelled at me or even hinted at being bothered by the
racket. Not once. And this was a guy who spent years working nights, meaning
all those morning and afternoons I was slamming a ball against the pavement outside
his house, he was trying to sleep.
One
of my favorite and probably oddest pastimes as a kid was sitting on the back
steps of our deck and watching Uncle Gene mow his lawn. He was a magician with
grass. Easily, he could have worked at any baseball stadium he wanted
performing his magic. The way he perfectly criss-crossed the rows so
effortlessly, forming these perfect Xs in his yard, would leave me in awe. Time
after time I’d try to pattern what he did in our lawn when I mowed, but time
after time I’d fail miserably.
I
haven’t been in Uncle Gene’s house in probably more than 10 years. I’m not sure
why. My parents moved away years ago, and I can’t remember the last time I was even
in that old neighborhood, let alone at his house. But thanks to the magic of
dreams, I was back in that kitchen and living room and in that basement again
last night, standing next to that old pool table sitting next to his work bench;
banging my thigh yet again against the ping pong table made out of card tables;
looking out of that small, square window, the same one that I swore I saw Santa
Clause peeking in on that Christmas Eve night decades and decades ago; and
sitting again on that old, green couch that I always loved. At least I remember
it being green, and at least it’s still green in my dreams.
The
only thing seemingly missing from that dream last night was the pit stop I
always made to the freezer in the kitchen every time I was in the house. That’s
where Uncle Gene kept the steady stream of Drumsticks, which he pretty much bought
for me to stuff in my fat face. Damn, I loved those, as much as I loved the
Hostess Ho Hos and Ding Dongs he stowed away in the third cabinet drawer.
It’s
funny how some places never stop existing.
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