You know that part in the
movie Wayne’s World where Wayne sees Cassandra on stage for the first time, is
transfixed, and Gary Wright’s Dream Weaver starts playing in his head? Well, I
had my very own Dream Weaver moment recently. Mine went down quite a bit
differently, but it was equally memorable.
It was a rainy Saturday and I
promised my 12-year-old son that I would take him and his friend T. to the mall
to search for Funko Pop figures. (For those of you who have been living under a
rock, or at least not in close proximity to pre-teen boys, Funko is a company
that sells licensed pop culture collectibles, particularly vinyl figurines and
bobbleheads. If you’re into Marvel Comics, you can collect all the characters
from the new Avengers End Game movie. If you’re into rock and roll, you can
collect various rock stars. If you’re a big fan of Disney/Pixar movies, Funko
has got you covered. Heck, if you’re a horror movie buff, you can even have
your very own Jack Torrance or Pennywise bobblehead.)
So, rainy afternoon, mall,
two boys. All was going as planned. They were shopping for collectibles and I
was enjoying lunch on my own, marveling at how nice it is that they are old
enough to explore the mall by themselves and how much fun it is to see them
enjoying that new freedom. They met me at the appointed time and place with
full bags and empty pockets. Success! We all dashed through the rain to the car
and, as they excitedly told me about their shopping adventures, I tried to
start the car. No go. Literally. I tried again and again, and the ignition
would chug-chug, turnover, and then die.
I called AAA and sent the
boys back into the mall for another round of snacking and shopping. The AAA guy
showed up within 45 minutes, which I didn’t think was too bad, but it wasn’t a
flat tire or a dead battery, so he couldn’t fix it. Phase Two was calling a tow
truck, which was supposed to come within an hour and a half. It didn’t. And, as
it turns out, even a mall full of Funko Pop figures can only entertain a couple
of pre-teen boys for so long. I called T.’s mom and she swooped in to save the
boys while I continued waiting for the tow truck.
After two hours and two more queries
to AAA, I received a call from the tow company dispatcher who told me she had
switched my cell phone number with someone else’s. The driver had been driving
around to various mall entrances trying unsuccessfully to connect with me.
Fantastic.
At long last, I saw the tow truck pull up
across from the mall entrance where I was waiting. I waved with one arm.
Nothing. I waved with two arms. Still nothing. I flailed both arms over my head
and jumped up and down in the pouring rain like a crazy person. Nope. Finally,
I darted across two lanes of traffic and approached the driver’s side of the
truck. The driver was looking down at his phone. “Hello! I’m Ronda!” I shouted
through the crack in his window. He seemed truly surprised that someone was
looking for him, but figured out to follow me to where my lifeless car was
parked in the crowded mall parking lot.
Just as he sidled his truck
up to my car and got out to assess the situation, the air suddenly filled with
the unmistakable smell of marijuana smoke. I looked at him like, “Are you
kidding me?” and when he looked back at me the same way, we both turned to see
smoke rolling out of the car next to mine. It was like we had stumbled out of
Spicoli’s van in Fast Times at Ridgemont High or into a Snoop Dog video,
depending on your preferred era.
Before he got to work, Mr.
Tow Truck driver made a big point of returning to his truck to open all the
doors and crank the radio. You know, how you do when you’re working in the
middle of a crowded public space. And that’s when it happened. Blasting from
the tow truck stereo… “Ooooh, dreeeam weeeeeavah… I believe you can get me
through the niii-hiiiight…” I froze, just like Wayne in Wayne’s world, but
instead of being in awe of a Schwing-worthy babe, I was mortified.
I tried my best to ignore to
the smoke-fest next door, and the impassioned vocals about astral planes and
highways of fantasy to focus on the task at hand, which was to stand there
looking and smelling like the world’s most soggy, stoner, blast-from-the-past
mom. “Help me to forget today’s pain,” indeed.
Fortunately Dream Weaver, as
I’ll now call him and forever know him, worked quickly and I felt a major sense
of relief when he signaled that it was time for me to hop in (or climb aboard
the dream weaver train as a long as I’m playing with the lyrics). Sadly, there
was no relief to be had.
The first words out of Dream
Weaver’s mouth were “So, how old are you?” I flatly informed him that I am 46
years old and he said, with a sleazy smile, “No way! I thought you were, like,
my age. I’m 33.” Right, dude. He was unfazed by my advanced years and chatted
incessantly, taking numerous wrong turns as I tried to shout directions to the
car dealership over the top of his running commentary.
Apparently Dream Weaver did a
very exciting stint in the U.S. Army, during which he participated in top
secret and very dangerous training exercises near a sarin gas storage facility.
I think he sensed that I wasn’t impressed with his military history, so he
switched to a harrowing story about when his tow truck got stolen and he had to
recover it himself using his personal car, a Mercedes. He chased the stolen
truck down a freeway in his own car, which was a Mercedes. Did I mention that
he mentioned that his personal car is a Mercedes? Oh yes, I see that I did. Were
you impressed? Me neither.
Somewhere in the middle of
all this, he became annoyed by a rattling sound in the cab of the truck and set
about trying to figure out where it was coming from, with absolutely no luck.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it, reached over, and put a finger on the empty Rock
Star energy drink can that was sitting in his cup holder. Of course, the
rattling stopped immediately. He looked over at me with the most incredulous
expression, winked, and said, “Heeeeeey, are YOU a mechanic?!”
At that moment, we were
pulling up to the service entrance of the car dealership, so I was spared from
explaining to him that I’m obviously not a mechanic or I wouldn’t be riding in
a tow truck with him. I didn’t want to share that I’m just amazingly gifted at
figuring out random car rattles, lest I increase my irresistible appeal.
The service department guy
approached to tell us where to leave my car, which I quickly jumped on as the
perfect opportunity to get off the Dream Weaver train. I thought about turning
around and waving goodbye, but I didn’t. Instead, I imagined a film tableau set
to magical, synthesized music, a shot of me walking away from the tow truck… Though the dawn may be coming soon, there
still may be some time. Fly me away to the bright side of the moon, and meet me
on the other side. Oooooh, dream weaver, I believe you can get me through the
night. Ooooooh, dream weaver, I believe we can reach the morning light.
