A long time ago I had a dream. Back in the late 70’s. Everyday that dream would drive me mad. It inhabited my thoughts every day and every waking hour. My friends I never told. They were more of the ordinary kind. They were happy to work 8 hours a day and come home to hang around, drink beer, watch tv, get high and then wake up and do the whole thing again. Day after day after day. When I say friends I mean folks I met at work and friendships struck for whatever reason.

One of those was a guy we will call Mike. He was a cool guy but he loved his alcohol. We will call his girlfriend Cindy. Mike met Cindy while in LA. Mike had left the far east coast right after high school with his best buddy we will call Sam. All 3 rented a house in Reseda, CA in the late 70’s. Mike got a chance to become a machinist for a company in Burbank. He worked hard in his training. After a while he was hired on permanently with the aerospace company in Burbank. The same company at the same time that Lawrence Bittaker was working at.

 

Bittaker was a real piece of work, read up on him if you are into true crime stories. His prison nickname is “Pliers”. A couple of months before Bittaker was arrested, wannabe Rhodesian soldier of fortune “Carlos” (a friend of mine that worked security at the plant) told me he came across Bittaker one day by the loading docks with a camera and a bag. Since no cameras were allowed he challenged Bittaker and took possession of the bag and camera. Inside the bag were some of the weirdest and sickest photos one could imagine. He probably should have reported the incident at the time but he told Bittaker to get that camera and crap off the property. A few months later serial killer Bittaker would be arrested by the Burbank police.

Anyhoos, back to the story. Mike worked hard and got raises. But he had a demon. He loved his beer. I don’t understand it since I don’t care for alcohol but Mike would plow through case after case after work.  Due to his drinking his girlfriend left him. The trio left the house in Reseda and went their separate ways. Mike found a small bungalow in Studio City and I saw him a few times over the years but it was still the same. Work 8 hours a day in a non-air conditioned building in Burbank in 105 degree heat and then come home and blast your mind out on alcohol. I felt sorry for him but there was little I could do, he made his choices in life. Work and drink, work and drink.

I found out a few years ago he passed out in his apartment bed in Nevada while smoking a cigarette. The bed caught fire, then the rest of the bedroom. Mike somehow arose from his inebriation and tried to leave the apartment. His body was found in the hallway. Smoke inhalation got him. The coroner said his BAC was .33.  And he was still working everyday at the time and drinking when he got off. He was divorced and lived alone. He left one daughter. His Pop was still alive back East. I spoke with his Pop a year or so after his death and let him know I knew him while he was out in Reseda. He was grateful for my call.

The thing is Mike just wanted to work 8 hours, go home, and drink and watch tv. He was like that when I first met him and he was like that in 2007 when he died. 48 years old. Man!!!! Only 48 years old!

Even though I was friends with Mike and Cindy for a few years I did not share their outlook on life. The work outlook. I wanted to do my own thing. I COULD NOT STAND working for someone else. I was forced to for a while so I could keep a roof over my head but going to work almost made me physically sick. So the whole time I knew them (about 4 years) Mike and Cindy were content to chew the cud but  I was going crazy working. I wanted out. So bad!! So bad it hurt. The politics of a job and the kinds of people you have to put up with just was not for me. I knew that deep inside. I was not cut out for a job.

I searched and searched for something, anything, that would let me walk into the main office and tell my boss that “I quit.” I fantasized about that every day. What it would be like. What I would be wearing, how I would hold myself, the look on my boss’s face, what he would say, etc…

I looked at the stats and I knew if I worked my entire life for someone else I would become another statistic buried somewhere just like the rest. I had no desire to become another statistic.

I think most people just don’t have that wild hair that it takes to go out on your own and pull yourself up by the bootstraps. I have been fortunate to meet other like-minded folks since I struck out on my own. The common thing is that they had a deep, burning desire to be their own captain. And the weird thing is that once they decided to do their own thing all told me the same thing. That weird things, people, places would start appearing in their lives that would help them on their way to their goals. Things that when you look back make the hair stand up on your neck. What are the odds of that happening you think to yourself.

At work I would imagine myself on a road trip on a 1981 Honda Goldwing Interstate. Driving past the place I used to work at and giving them a tip of the hat for all the BS I had to put up with that drove me to do my own thing. In my mind’s eye I would slow down and stop at the front gate, think about all the negativity that went on there, breathe a sigh of relief I was gone, kick it into 1st gear and roll on down the street to the I-5 on ramp for a much-needed, mind clearing trip to Key West.

And you know what? That image, that dream, that most consuming, all overpowering image did come true. It took a little bit longer than expected, but it did come true. I rolled up to the gate, did exactly the same thing I did in my dream, thought about all the BS I put up with there, all the hard times, all the times that I lived on $65 a week after expenses, all the times I cried myself to sleep at night because my dream hurt so bad and I knew it was so close, yet so far away, all the times I had to deal with ignorant, lazy, dumb people who thought they knew better than me what I should do. I thought back on all of that, smiled, kicked her into gear and set off for Key West.

Driving away and accelerating onto the I-5 on ramp I had this song playing full blast in my headphones with a big grin on my face and a tear running down my cheek. Dreams do come true.

 

And you know what? As I typed this post I had this very same song playing the whole time. It’s funny how things work out and how one song can change a life.

 

When You Build Your Dream Then Call Me Home

 

 

L

Somewhere In Montana

“Something is about to happen. Something very wonderful.”

This post was composed under the magical influence of Sara (Live July 1983) by Stevie Nicks