Saturday, September 22, 2007
Billy has been recuperating from kidney issues resulting from the heat prostration he suffered in Texas. To his embarrassment, sometimes he cannot make it through the entire night without a trip to the yard, and will apologetically scratch the door for me to take him out in the middle of the night. The other night I awoke to a thud as he jumped from the bed and ran to the door. I staggered out of bed to take him out. I was barefoot and in just a long t-shirt, commando, like Porky Pig, but with a little more modesty since the t-shirt stretched to just above my knees. It was 4:30 AM and the street was deserted. Still half asleep and shivering, I was enjoying the stillness when a rusted out beater came roaring up the street. The driver was driving in the reckless manner of someone with nothing to lose, like a complete psychopath or someone on a 3 day meth binge searching for some victim upon whom to inflict unspeakable mayhem and depravity.
I grabbed Billy and pressed myself against the side of the house. As if the driver had spied me, he pulled into a driveway up the street and whipped around. Although I was hidden in the shadows on the side of the long corridor that leads up to the house, it was like one of those helpless “you’re the quarry” dreams where your supernatural pursuer can see you through walls and find you no matter where you run or hide. He then skidded to a stop right in front of the house. I was in disbelief that this was happening, frozen by the horrible dreamlike quality of the situation, feeling all the more vulnerable because of my attire. A hulking man jumped out of the car and ran straight for me. I remained cowering in the shadows of the corridor, clutching Billy. He came right up to me, handed me the paper and ran back to his car. It was the newspaper delivery man, and he was completely unruffled, acting as if it was the most natural thing in the world to run into a half dressed customer pressed up against the side of the house in the dark and gripping a Jack Russell terrier at 4:30 in the morning.
A really scary dream sequence.
I almost always enjoy a good skull fuckin’ by Mulholland Drive, but I will never, ever forgive him for that scare.
That movie scared the hell out of me. I remember seeing it in a small indie theatre and all of us who sat through it walked out with the same bewildered shuffle. Then I noticed a poster more or less explaining the movie and started reading it. Almost everyone that was in the movie crowded behind me and started reading it also. Made me feel better to know NO ONE understood that film. I think of it often though, which I see as the mark of a good film.Post a Comment