Conversation with a Dead Friend

I’ve had terrible jet lag since returning from TDY; I haven’t been able to sleep for more than four hours at a time. Last night, I went to sleep at midnight and right on schedule, I woke at 0400. I used the restroom and noticed I actually was still tired as I got back into bed. I carefully put myself in the same position, lying on my left side, in an effort to trick my body into going back to sleep. Much to my subsequent surprise, I did but not before having a strange dream.

I dreamt that I was walking alone on a sidewalk in west Los Angeles, where I used to live years ago (in the dream, I was visiting). It was pitch dark and I was looking for a restaurant/bar I knew was close by. I got out my Blackberry to look up the location but couldn’t remember the name. While still walking, I came across a well dressed crowd of people waiting on the sidewalk. A woman dressed as a waitress came out of the building and announced, “we’re open,” and everyone began filing inside. I realized this was the restaurant/bar I had been looking for. As I put my Blackberry away and walked to the front of the building I saw my friend Brian, whom we all called “Radar” since he had a slight resemblance to the actor Gary Burghoff of the 70s TV show M*A*S*H. Brian passed away in May 2007.

He fell into step with me, as if we had arranged to meet there. But he looked a little confused. He asked me how I’d been. “How’s life at home?” he asked. “I’m married now,” I replied, “and I have a two year old son.” This seemed news to him although it shouldn’t; he knew I was married before he passed away. He looked tan and was now taller than me. I got the sense he didn’t know he was dead so I tried to be careful about what we talked about.

We sat at the end of the bar and looked at the menu. The hamburger looked good but I wanted a steak before I knew I would have to return to Baghdad. The female bar tender told us to hurry with our decision. I chose the steak but had to order the condiments a la carte. I wanted the mashed potatoes but got the number wrong. “Twenty-nine, the mashed potatoes,” I said. “You mean twenty-seven,” she said. I looked at the menu but it said, twenty-nine. “Rico was never good with numbers,” Radar said. It was true. But really, the menu said twenty-nine for the mashed potatoes. The bar tender laughed.

And then I woke up; it was morning.