The Island of Boyhood Dreams

I found myself on an island made of boyhood dreams.

Marilyn Monroe was there. Though, in my dreams, she was still Norma Jean. And I would always get to her before fame did.

We would have six kids, and I would walk around the house in my bath robe. Because in my dream everyday was Saturday.

Norma Jean would have successful Tupperware parties and I would ogle her party guests and make risque jokes that would make the women blush and want to get to know me better. But I would always fight off their advances. Because I knew that after they left Marilyn would make us spectacular martinis and we would cozy up to the fire and canoodle.

Many years later we would die in each others arms at the age of 87. Even though Norma Jean was thirty four in 1960, and I was only seven, in those dreams everything seemed equal.

A mild sounding dream. I know. But this was 1960. Dwight Eisenhower was still in the White House. Elvis was just home from the Army, leaving his mojo behind in Germany. Where, six months later, the Beatles would find it in Hamburg. You know the rest. It would be another couple of years before folks started getting restless.

Another dream I found on the island was me sitting front row center at the Ed Sullivan show on Sunday evening, February 9, 1964. That was the night of the Beatles first performance in America. That was also the night John gave me his guitar pick. I knew he was watching me from the stage. I could tell. I was playing along with my phantom ‘58 Rickenbaker as they jumped into All My Loving, Till There Was You and She Loves You.

Afterwards Lennon would rush to the edge of the stage and hand me his guitar pick.

“Have this pick handy for the second set, lad,” he would tell me. “I Saw Her Standing There is the song. You jump in after the intro, one, two, three, four! And play like ya bloody well mean it!”

Not all of my dreams involved icons, though. There was also Mrs. Brockman. She was the sex goddess of my neighborhood. I had her seduce me over and over again. To the point that I would turn beet red every time I’d stand in line at the school cafeteria waiting for Mrs. Brockman to scoop some mashed potatoes onto my plate.

For a thirteen year-old, I was one fine fondler in those dreams. Thanks mostly to my friend Nate, who told me he would put semi-inflated balloons in his sisters trousers and practice his butt fondling technique. So I brought his technique to my dreams and made Mrs. Brockman one happy woman.

Such are dreams.

Enough of that for now. I was at a loss as to what I wanted to write on my train ride home and for some reason thought of Arthur Miller. Maybe I was just tired and feeling a little Willy Lomanish. But thinking of Miller made me think of Marilyn. And thoughts of Norma Jean made the rest of my train ride a pleasure. I didn’t feel one bit like Willy Loman by the time I reached my station.

I’ll sleep well tonight.