Good Old Boy

I dreamed of Tom Mott. He hasn’t been seen (by me anyway) for twenty years or more.
Basically his story was you take a big, fairly handsome football player type and put him in a severe car accident in his late teens. The body is fine but the Traumatic Brain Injury basically turns him into one bigass kid, with a mans appetites. He had a penchant for reciting incredibly goofy, hippie inspired, doggerel, quarts of Miller beer and young girls. We used to hang out with him and his best buddy “Sylvia Superdog” quite a bit when we ourselves were kids. He was always good for a couple bucks if you cut him in on the fun. He had a souped up Catalina and he could buy liquor. The basic theory was, put the cute girls up front with him and he’d drive you and your crew anywhere.

I remember going to his house a few times. I can’t see his Mother’s face in my memory but I can see a little, wispy woman in a house frock and apron wringing her hands and sort of moaning as Tom would gleefully and with great, grinning, enthusiasm tell her what the demented plan of the day was. This sad, old, very worried, widow woman with the 6’5, 280 lb. 10 year old couldn’t do shit about stopping whatever we had cooked up. And we ourselves were not much different than Tom, we had little comprehension of the impact that acting on our desires had on the world around us.

I have dreamed of him before but it’s been a long time. In that dream I was trying to find out where Sylvia Superdog was but I couldn’t get any sense out of the huge, blubbering, man child.