a dream
I just emailed Misha, and I remembered a dream that I had a couple of months ago. I thought I would post it here.
I had just received an email from a friend about another friend from high school, Dave Gallagher: http://www.davidgallagherfoundation.org/. I had not known about Dave's death. And before that, James Weese, and, shortly after Gretchen's death, another member of our high school class, Chris Carrelli. I fell asleep thinking about all of them. They were all friends, at least good enough friends that I had spent time with them outside of school. Dave came to a few parties at my house and confessed an ill-fated crush on one of my friends to me, with disasterous results. James used to ride the bus with me in elementary school, and would sometimes go with us to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and I saw him around West Chester before he died. Chris was in bands, and sometimes sat at my lunch table, and I saw him at the diner after he got back from Italy a few years ago. I wasn't close friends with anyone else the way I was with Gretchen.
In my dream, I was in the auditorium (from which I was later banned for life) at Conestoga, and people were passing by, up and down the aisles. Gretchen came in, in her skinny jeans, a teal flannel shirt that once belonged to a boy we both liked, and her leather jacket. (How many flannel shirts and thermal long-sleeved shirts did we pilfer from boys we liked in high school? It would have been a massive pile.) She tossed her purple LL Bean backpack on the seat next to mine and sat down. She opened a can of cherry Coke.
"You know, Gretchen, our class isn't doing so well," I said to her.
She nodded, and thought about this for a couple of minutes. We watched people walk up and down.
Then, she looked at me, and said "Let's trade shoes."
I had forgotten about her penchant for trading clothes. Whatever I was wearing, Gretchen wanted to wear, too. We were constantly running around in each other's shoes. I remember coming back from the Downingtown Flea Market the night of a 70's dance. We stopped to pick Gretchen up at Genuardi's as she finished work. On the way to the dance, she decided that we should trade clothes, and we wound up switching outfits quite scandalously in the backseat of someone's car. When we got to the dance, she climbed up on a speaker next to the deejay booth. I was very proud that my black wrap skirt and knee-high boots were having such a fantastic time.
I wonder what ever happened to those purple 10-hole Doc Martens, the counterparts to which are sitting upstairs, unwearable because of the holes in the soles, next to a navy flannel, a patched pair of jeans with Tori Amos lyrics written on them in blue bic pen and a men's extra large Soviet army t-shirt. I can't throw them out. I think I never will.
I had just received an email from a friend about another friend from high school, Dave Gallagher: http://www.davidgallagherfoundation.org/. I had not known about Dave's death. And before that, James Weese, and, shortly after Gretchen's death, another member of our high school class, Chris Carrelli. I fell asleep thinking about all of them. They were all friends, at least good enough friends that I had spent time with them outside of school. Dave came to a few parties at my house and confessed an ill-fated crush on one of my friends to me, with disasterous results. James used to ride the bus with me in elementary school, and would sometimes go with us to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and I saw him around West Chester before he died. Chris was in bands, and sometimes sat at my lunch table, and I saw him at the diner after he got back from Italy a few years ago. I wasn't close friends with anyone else the way I was with Gretchen.
In my dream, I was in the auditorium (from which I was later banned for life) at Conestoga, and people were passing by, up and down the aisles. Gretchen came in, in her skinny jeans, a teal flannel shirt that once belonged to a boy we both liked, and her leather jacket. (How many flannel shirts and thermal long-sleeved shirts did we pilfer from boys we liked in high school? It would have been a massive pile.) She tossed her purple LL Bean backpack on the seat next to mine and sat down. She opened a can of cherry Coke.
"You know, Gretchen, our class isn't doing so well," I said to her.
She nodded, and thought about this for a couple of minutes. We watched people walk up and down.
Then, she looked at me, and said "Let's trade shoes."
I had forgotten about her penchant for trading clothes. Whatever I was wearing, Gretchen wanted to wear, too. We were constantly running around in each other's shoes. I remember coming back from the Downingtown Flea Market the night of a 70's dance. We stopped to pick Gretchen up at Genuardi's as she finished work. On the way to the dance, she decided that we should trade clothes, and we wound up switching outfits quite scandalously in the backseat of someone's car. When we got to the dance, she climbed up on a speaker next to the deejay booth. I was very proud that my black wrap skirt and knee-high boots were having such a fantastic time.
I wonder what ever happened to those purple 10-hole Doc Martens, the counterparts to which are sitting upstairs, unwearable because of the holes in the soles, next to a navy flannel, a patched pair of jeans with Tori Amos lyrics written on them in blue bic pen and a men's extra large Soviet army t-shirt. I can't throw them out. I think I never will.
posted by Megan @ 7:26 PM
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