Perchance to Dream

Hot desert night, the Northern Lights and a hunky guy—I’m there. Or, I’m almost there, because he’s driving my old Falcon wagon and we’re forty minutes out of Tucson, and we’re about to pull off the road and put a bottle of wine and a wedge of desert moon to work. My goosebumps are getting goslings just thinking about it.

Well, lemme back up a bit—I don’t want to sound like I’m frothing at the mouth to body-slam a boy I barely know. But hey, I’ve been in Tucson eight months and the only dates I’ve had have been from the deli section. When Lanky Lenny (he’s about six-three and sorta puts me in mind of a Jimmy Stewart-Matthew McConaughey cross) sidles up from the neighbor’s house and says he knows of a “beauty spot” (his words) in the desert where you can catch sight of the Northern Lights, it took me seven seconds of coyness to say “Yeah!”

OK, I don’t know him all that well, but he’s my neighbor’s buddy, and he’s said “Hi!” to me at least four times, and he’s got these long blond-brown lashes that just won’t quit. What’s not to like? So we roll off the road about three-quarters of a mile and he pulls my wagon into an old wash and stops. A little tingle goes up in the service porch of my mind that maybe parking in a wash in the desert isn’t kosher, but Lenny’s got the wheel and I don’t want to sound bossy this early in the game, so I let it by.

We’ve got our camp set up, sleeping bags right next to each other (and I’ve positioned them so the zippers face in—why waste time?) and it’s cozy, but I have to pee. Modest lad that I am, I walk a pretty good distance into the dim desert for privacy’s sake. Only when I turn to head back to the camp, I can’t see a thing. I walk back the way I thought I came, but I’ve obviously gone too far. Then I walk back another way. Nothing.

So now I’m a bit spooked, so I yell out, “Hey Lenny!” And then again, “Hey, Lenny, where are you?” Nothing. What the hell? Is this guy pulling some trip on me, trying to scare me by not answering? Or maybe he’s a loon? No problem, Lenny Boy. Two can play. So I’ll give him what he gave: I’ll sit here for 15 minutes, without a peep. He’ll crack; they always do. Fifteen minutes later, no crack, and no boy. But now I’m a live wire.

I decide to scream bloody murder, and I let loose a howling cry that would be the envy of a banshee army and then I lean forward in my tracks, anticipating Lenny’s remorseful response, but all I get are the twinkles of far-off stars and that blanketing silence you can only hear—or not hear—in the desert. No Lenny. Not an ounce of Lenny. Not a trace, as they like to say on TV.

Damn.

Maybe he got killed. Could be, couldn’t it? Maybe some desert weirdo found Lenny at the campsite and cut his throat! Not good, this is not good. So now I go into stealth mode: I creep around with my best imitation of Native American desert savvy, and since I don’t know what that consists of, mainly I kind of hunch forward and slide on the balls of my feet and try to look out of the sides of my eyes at everything that moves. Trouble is, nothing is moving except me, and in no particular direction.

By now it’s been about an hour and a half, and I’m scared, tired and thinking that Lenny’s lashes might have been fake, when I spot my car. Yes, finally, something familiar. Running up to the car, the only thing I’m missing is the familiar jingling of my big set of keys, which I now realize are in Lenny’s pocket. Never fear, I am a desert fox. And, better than that, I have a funky car. With loose wing-windows.

Soon, I’m in my rig, and I’m better, but maybe only by a notch or two. I’m still out here in the desert, in a car with no keys, it’s the middle of the night, and the Northern Lights seemed to have skipped town, much like my desert date. I try to get comfortable, and try not to think about how easy it might be for Lenny’s killer (or killers—maybe it’s a cult thing) to climb in the car with me.

I don’t think it’s possible to go to sleep in this state, but sleep I do, until I hear a soft tapping sound and I hazily get up, thinking it’s Lenny, but no, it’s raining, and I’m in a car parked in a desert wash! I jump out of the car to see that it’s just a light sprinkle, already tapering off. Fifteen minutes later I hear them: heavy footsteps, very heavy, coming this way. But I can’t see a thing. I hunch down behind the car, worried and weaponless.

But I jump out and scream bloody murder again: if the guy that killed Lenny is here to kill me, I’m not going to go down easy. And then I hear him: “Mike, Mike, is that you?” in a kind of fumbling voice.

It’s Lenny. He’d fallen asleep right when I went to pee. Slept through my screams, the rain, slept through the whole damn desert, which must have been vibrating with my anxieties. Needless to say, there wasn’t any romance that night.

Two weeks later I’m in a restaurant with a gal pal of mine and we both see a guy standing up leaning against a booth, dead asleep. She turns to me and says, “Check it out, Lazy Lenny, that narcoleptic guy. Weird, huh?”

Weird.

But I know what to do next time I’m out for a romantic soiree in the desert. I’m not bringing wine—I’m bringing coffee.