The whole dream plays on to the background music song of Creep, by… I don’t even remember who.
But the one that’s like “but I’m a creeeeeeeeeeep. I’m a weeeeeirdo-o-oooo.” You know the one.
Both the cars are finally fixed, and shiny new, perfect; the Sonata is pearlescent again and the Town & Country hadn’t even been in the shop, but it’s fixed now, no matter. Those are the two cars my mind decides to destroy via nightmare.
It’s a regular day, I didn’t note whether or not it was this cold. But my car, after its month-long retreat in the auto body shop that claimed its body and our wallets, is finally returned to us, and I’m driving the thing, probably against my wishes. (I don’t want that fancy new car; Let me just drive the 10-year-old Camry, please.)
I decide to go on a hike, as I do (casual). The hiking trail is up a mountain, as they are (casual). The incline of the drive is about 180 degrees, as in 90 degrees to the regular ground, as in Completely Vertical. NOT CASUAL. Somehow, though, I decide that this is something within the realms of possibility, as dream physics tend to convince you of.
I’m going up up up, slowly feeling the incline and reaching out my window to hold onto a railing, with my bare hand. You know, like, just in case my car falls off the ground it’s driving on and I’ll have to hold me and the Sonata up by that railing, from falling to our shattery deaths below…casual.
It’s getting a little scarier now and I feel my little car protesting, “I am nottttt a rollercoasterrrrr” ; good thing I’m holding onto that railing out the window. I notice that the left front wheel is on fire now, hmm. But drive on, cause the only living way is up.
Inevitably (what?! I thought this was dream physics!!), the speed of acceleration decreases, to zero, to negative, as the Sonata and I start to slow, and then the velocity drops, to slow, to zero, to negative and we’re traveling backwards now.
And, in a final, undramatic protest, the front wheels let go of their patches of ground, a tiny-voiced wheeeeeee! buzzes in my ears as I imagine their little treads doing a wave of white-flag surrender, we’re letting go.
And we fall.
[And this is somehow the only non-vivid part of the dream. But Creeeeeep plays on, and everybody’s flailing their arms in slow motion as the singer goes wheeeeeeeeeoooooooooooaahhhhh ohh oooohhh ahhhh ooeeeeehhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!]
The next thing I perceive is that we’re on the ground, and I’m perfectly unharmed, as I usually am.
But the Sonata is not, as it usually is not.
And somehow, the damage is doubled cause the Sonata happened to crash-land on my mom’s van, which had also (casually) been parked at the foot of the vertical hill-cliff. It’s all casual. Everything in its splintery, metalcrushy glory.
There are further terrible things to deal with, like calling my mom, while worrying about locking my keys inside the car even though there’s a hole big enough for me to crawl through up front, since the engine has dropped and flown out somewhere. Mostly calling my mom. Casual.
She sounds really angry, even before I start the saga of the Sonata, and suddenly the vertical hiking mountain is a scrapyard of junkcars and their forlorn, junky parts, crawling with hillbilly metal scavengers. Things get warm and fuzzy toward the end as a southern gentleman hillbilly shows me how to pry off my plates, cause apparently I’m gonna need those if I’m gonna flee the scene of crime before the authorities arrive. I thank him and tuck these into my sweater.
So yeah, it must’ve been cold enough for a sweater.