We've been talking this week about how hard life is. We're found wanting even in our dreams.
The other night I had a dream about my friend and longtime golf partner Bill.
Bill and I were up next on the first tee at Pine Hills—our favorite golf course, down in Ottawa, Ill. We were waiting for a foursome of old people who needed to perform a musical ritual involving tambourines before they could tee off. (For non-golfers out there, this is highly irregular.) Bill and I were being polite about it—but muttering to each other our fervent hope that the musical ritual was only a first-tee thing, and not an every-shot thing.
Then one of the old women slowly and gracefully collapsed onto the grass. An ambulance was called, but it was taking a long time because it had to come all the way from Streator, 16 miles down the road.
There were several empty holes ahead of us, and I saw this as a chance to play through and get on with our round. But though the woman seemed to be coming to and there was nothing we could really do and maybe it was her time to die anyway, Bill wanted to stay and see the situation through.
My dream! Some theme! Bill's a good guy, and I'm a dick.
I wonder if Bill has dreams where I'm the good guy, and he's the dick.