Going Home

 One of the best responses to the argument that dreams are but random firings of brain cells is, "Then why do we have recurring dreams?" The notion here is that if dreams were so random, why do we seem to have dream motifs or even the same dream over and over again?

I was thinking about this after a repeated motif in my dreams came up again the other night.  I'm in a strange city, usually staying in a hotel somewhere unfamiliar.  I can't seem to get back to where I'm staying or supposed to be.  I walk the streets looking for a familiar neighborhood, mostly for safety reasons.  Sometimes, I'm at a conference and can't find the way back to a hotel room. On other occasions I'm with childhood friends and then suddenly find myself alone, unable to phone them or anyone else for that manner.  One variation even has a dysfunctional cell phone in my possession.  I realize that I should just call someone or Lyft and get a ride home, but the phone is usually an old flip-phone and it disintegrates in my hands as I try to find a number to call.  

Sometimes I wonder about the origin of these dreams, off just exactly what it is that in behind their origin.  I'm reminded of an experience I had many years ago while serving as a VISTA Volunteer in all the wrong sections of Houston, Texas.  Most of my service was in the inner city, the 3rd Ward, to be exact.  But Houston, in 1969 was regarded as one of the most violent cities in the country.  In fact, the 5th Ward was known as "Blood Alley," and the word on the street was that if a 24 hour period ever went by without at least one homicide, it would make headlines in the Houston Chronicle.  I actually saw that during my year there.

Given this context, here's the experience I had.  I had gone to a movie with three other VISTAS. It was in downtown Houston on a Friday night.  That was a big deal because we had very little money and simply wanted a break from the intensity of the training we were completing.  Around 10:00, when the movie let out, we were faced with the issue of finding our way home.  Home for us was a placement with a poor family who lived in the worst poverty pockets in the inner city.  I was the only one who needed to get to the 3rd Ward. A few others were in the 4th and 6th Wards and at least had one or two others with them.  Bus service was dicey at that hour, so we set off walking in various directions.  My trek "home" would take about 40 minutes to an hour.  A single, white guy walking in an all Black neighborhood at that hour was not a good idea.  I had no choice.  Even in daylight hours I'd get asked for money and if I had paid my "protection fee."  That's just the way it was.  This was before the crack epidemic that would hit in the 1980s, but the evidence of folks getting high was all over the ground.  Empty bottles that once held Boone's Farm Apple wine and MD 20/20.  The latter was a cheap Mogan David  20 proof red wine especially targeted for the ghetto.  Robitussin cough syrup bottles were also plentiful examples of a cheap high.  

I walked for about half an hour. It was now completely dark.  The last mile was still ahead of me and the street scene was getting more active.  I began to get looks, then stares.  I stopped at a well lit gas station. I noticed a pay phone and then it hit me.  During my daytime walks in this neighborhood I had seen what were known as "Transportation Services."  Predating Uber and Lyft, these were enterprising locals who stenciled their names, i.e. "Brown's Transportation Service" on their car doors and, unlicensed, went about hauling locals to church, the grocery store, or laundromat for a nominal fee.  For a dollar or two, you could get a round trip to a doctor appointment.  Win/win.  I remembered the name of one such service and called for a pick-up.  A young man about my age appeared driving an old model Chevy and I asked for a ride to Drew Ave.  15 minutes later, I arrived at the home of the Miller family, with whom I was staying during my VISTA training.  Problem solved.  I had only about 3 dollars and some change in my pocket, but, as I recall, this little one-way trip only set me back 2 dollars.

Relieved, I thanked him and managed a 50 cent tip.  He spoke very little, but the look on his face told me he was wondering what the Hell this kid was doing here at this hour.  

I've come to believe that this experience might be part of the reason for one of my recurring dream motifs.