PT Cruiser

Dear Dan,

Today I parked next to a PT Cruiser in the parking garage. Did I tell you I moved to the one closer to my building? Yep, I’m in garages and parking all the way up on the second or third floors! Woohoo! Big step for me, huh?

Anyway there was a PT Cruiser and I parked right next to it. It was the same blue as yours was. I was looking at it and thinking of you.

You were so proud of that car. It was one of the first PTs off the assembly line. People would cross several lanes of highway, just to pull up beside you and honk or take a picture. People crossed and stood in front of the car at red lights; then they didn’t notice that the light turned green. Once a cop pulled up behind you and you thought you were going to get a ticket for impeding traffic. He just walked around the car and gave you the “thumbs up.” Mom still talks about the two kids that offed you money to drive them home.

The Cruiser was the first car mom has been able to identify. Even now she screams, “There goes a red one!” — or whatever color it happens to be.

I just sat there for a few minutes, next to the PT Cruiser, thinking of you.

I love you, bro.

Again, in my dreams

Dear Dan,

You called last night. In my dream, my cell phone rang and it was your voice. I don’t remember the words, but I remember understanding that you were someone who knew the family and knew about the suicide. I recognized your voice. Parenthetically, I can still hear your voice in my mind.

I asked who it was calling. You said, “Dan. No! Not that Dan.” I remember telling you yes, you were that Dan. I told you how much I miss you and love you. You told me I was wrong; it wasn’t really you. I believe language might have entered the conversation at that point. Specifically the word “bullshit.” I will never forget the sound of your voice.

You told me you were fine, alive and happy. You just had to get away from everything in your life. You wanted me to know the truth.

This is where the dream took a turn. I started debating if I should tell anyone. I knew if you told me, you were trusting me to keep your secret. But it would be wrong to let mom think you were dead when you weren’t. She wouldn’t tell anyone, would she? What about Scott? No, Scott would tell someone and it would be all over.

So how did that work? There was a body that the police found. At the morgue, there would have been an autopsy — I know there was because I talked to the coroner. There was no doubt of the identity; that wasn’t the reason for the autopsy. But if it wasn’t you, who was it and how did they get your ID?

That is the reason for my headache that started last night and continues today. Thinking too much in the dream.

The side effect of thinking about dead bodies is the dream turned into a cheesy, funny, slasher movie — just like the kind we used to watch together. One person’s head was cut off; someone else lost an arm. A parking garage was involved somehow. Since I dream in technicolor, I could see some of the blood was not ketchup. It was mustard.

Soooooo yeah! Great talking to you. Please let’s do that again soon. Too bad the stuff in the conversation wasn’t real. Good thing the rest wasn’t!

I love and miss you, Danny.

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