Something Blog

I Dream of Jeff

         Nothing is more cliche for me than not meeting my blogging expectations. In record time I broke my goal of posting a weekly blog here at Writing.com, but there is no time for lament. Instead, I shall trudge onward as I offer this week's topic...

I Dream of Jeff!

         I was recently in California, Los Angeles to be exact, visiting my uncle Roland Something when he offered to introduce me to his good friend, Jeff. So we drove out together, with my dad and my brother Ken Something, winding through the western mountains on our way to meet this friend. We drove and drove and drove some more, making our way through the mountains. Suddenly we turned a corner and were able to view a house with a sprawling field in front. The open yard lay in disuse with dry soil and withered plants twisting in and out of the dry rows. The house was large with an equally huge workshop of some sort next door. Pulling in and piling out of the car, we gazed over the untended plot of land; we were actually there today to lend a friendly hand to my uncle's friend. Immediately, we turned toward the house and saw Jeff.





         "Hey guys, welcome to my humble abode!" Our host called out to us, and as he did I recognized his face. Did he work at my school? No, it wasn't that. Then he spoke again. "Roland, dude, good to see you!" He reached in and gave my uncle a manly hug, and that was it.





         "Dude! You're Jeff Bridges!" I thought aloud. He chuckled and reached out his hand. "Haha, I mean...I'm Steve, nice to meet you."





         At that moment, we saw a tough but beautiful woman in her thirties or forties, surfacing from the big workshop. She wore a heavy apron and welding goggles and introduced herself as Jeff's wife. Something told me, and I would soon find confirmation, that Jeff's lie was more than making movies. But there was one thing with which he was he was definitely synonymous. "Come inside for a bit before we get to work."





         We followed the pair the front room of the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows all the way around. There were benches where we ritualistically sat in a circle as Jeff produced a white, twisted length of white paper. I had seen The Dude partake in such sacrament a hundred times in my viewing of the famous Lebowski movie, but never in my wildest dreams did I ever think of smoking with the man himself. A spark was set before the joint and the smell of freedom filled the air. Before I knew it we were passing around another, and one more passed into the circle from nowhere. When I looked up, we all held our own marijuana cigarettes and passed them simultaneously to the left on cue. Finally, the smoke was finished and Jeff stood up. "It's time to get to work guys."





         Indeed there was plenty of work to do, for our job today was to prepare the barren field for planting. With shovels, picks and hoes, we quickly put ourselves to the grueling task. We started at the corner furthest from the house and began to work our way back, row by row. Jeff was mending the barbed wire fence with uncle Roland while my dad, my brother and I tilled the soil and removed the dry, dead plants. As I chopped and hacked through the soil, I couldn't help but hear music running through my head, as is usual when I am busy with manual labor. It was a rock-and-roll band with a familiar distorted guitar hammering the melody onward. Then it hit me: it was the shredding of my good friend and former band mate, Carter Carlton. Then the song came to a silence as Carter wailed out a solo that was unmistakably his own. It echoed from my head and through the mountain valley where Jeff's home lay and I was aware that the sounds were not imagined. I turned to look for the source and I spotted an outdoor concert hall down the road. "Pardon me guys," I said as I lay down my tool and darted toward the music.





         When I arrived at concert hall, my mind was dead set on finding my friend Carter. Instead of taking the front entrance, where guests were showing their tickets to uniformed workers in booths, I snaked around the fence to a rear stage entrance. I found myself in the left wing of the stage, where I spotted Carter exiting stage right at the end of his performance.





         "Carter!" I shouted out to him, and somehow he heard my call over the noise of the crowd and he turned to see me.





         "Steve, whats up man! What are you doing here?" He handed his guitar to a technician and darted back across the stage to my side, but not before taking one more bow to a roaring audience.





         We spent a few minutes catching up, as it had been a few years since the break-up of our old band, Team No. The band had been our little piece of the rock-and-roll dream at nights while in the day we toiled away at university. Now it seemed that Carter had made it with a solo career; Team No had never played for an audience a tenth the size of the one here. But our reunion was cut short as I remembered that I had left my relatives to work in the sun at the home of Jeff Bridges. We said our goodbyes and I was soon jogging back down the road.





         When I returned to Jeff's the front yard looked totally different. The work was finished, the soil all tilled in neat, clean rows, the barbed wire hung taut on the posts. But I could see the guys standing in the glass front room of the house, so I scurried to meet them. They had opened beers to celebrate the completion of the days work and were gathered around an odd piece of electronic equipment.





         "This is state-of-the-art stuff, I just bought it yesterday but I can't get it to work right." There were four square, pancake-thin panels held upright by black stands. They appeared to be made of glass, but Jeff told us they were actually speakers. His computer had already booted and music software was playing "Refugee" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. "This is cutting edge technology, but a little too over the edge for me to figure out," he explained, sipping from his dark bottle.





         "Let me take a look," I said as I slipped between Roland and Ken, kneeling behind the computer case. Immediately I spotted the tubular wires that came from the glass speakers, but they were plugged into the wrong jacks. I got to work correcting the configuration, unplugging a wire here, switching it for that one over there.





         "Be careful down there, dude," Jeff warned, doubting my technical capabilities. But before he could come around to supervise, a howling guitar solo backed by church choir keys filled the room. "Hey, alright!" My brother handed me a newly opened beer and we all toasted to my victory over the setup of the speakers. The sound was amazing, as clean and crisp as if The Heartbreakers were jamming live in the living room before us. We relaxed in the plush couches that were arrayed in the near corner and continued to chat about his crazy sound system, musical tastes, and other similar things. The topic of my leaving in the middle of work never entered the conversation. Soon, the Somethings were ready to hit the road and leave Jeff and his wife's home. We shook hands, shared manly hugs, and then we were off. I felt like I had made a new friend that day.





         Now, I bet you're wondering, 'If Jeff Bridges was really your new friend, wouldn't you have some more interesting stories to tell?' The answer is yes, dude! It would be a few weeks after the initial trip when Jeff would call me personally and invite me back to his home, the first of several invitations. We became fast friends, despite the age difference, and we consulted each other on many of our daily affairs. He even allowed me to invite a friend or a family member to come and hang out from time to time, and this is where I lead you into the most interesting bit.





         My mom had been a fan of Jeff's movies since she was a teenager in the seventies, so she didn't skip a beat when I asked her to come meet the star in person. The three of us met for dinner at a high class restaurant in north L.A., the kind where the waiters wear tuxedos and white gloves. At first the conversation was evenly split between us all, but soon it had shifted to exclude my input. Jeff and my mom seemed to be hitting it off well, so I finally excused myself to go for a walk in the neighborhood. Afterward my mother didn't have much to say, other than stating that Jeff was such a nice gentleman. I would have no idea of the depth of their relationship until the Academy Awards ceremony later that year.





         We were dressed to kill as Jeff and I walked the red carpet into the Academy event. I was playing the role of Personal Assistant as Jeff returned to fulfill the part of Award Winning Movie Star. Cameras were flashing, people were schmoozing, but we made little time for meeting and greeting. Jeff had been nominated for Best Male Actor in a Leading Role and he was anxious to take his seat and wait out the final verdict. In the meantime, we busied ourselves with small talk and catching up, but I could sense that there was something else on his mind. Finally it surfaced.





         "I'm sure you know that your mother and I have still been seeing each other," to which I nodded, half predicting the rest of the conversation. "Well," he continued, "I've asked her to marry me, Steve, and I want to run it by you before we do anything official." I was ecstatic; the thought of Jeff Bridges, one of my closest friends as of late, becoming my step-father was so ridiculously awesome. I would be introducing my friends to my mom's new husband, The Dude! Almost falling out of my chair in surprise and laughter, I was caught by a sharp beeping tune. It was a song I knew well and dreaded just the same. I closed my eyes, trying to squint away the annoyance.





         When I opened my eyes, I was not at a fancy award ceremony, wearing a tuxedo, or sitting next to Jeff Bridges. I had fallen, laughing, out of my seat and into my bed at home. The irritating midi music was my morning alarm blasting from my cell phone. Never had I been to Jeff's home, fixed his computer, or drank his beers. My meeting with my very real friend, Carter, was only a fantasy. And the greatest invention of all was that my mother would be marrying a famous movie star. I rubbed sleep from my eyes and reached for my dream journal and began to record my latest crazy adventure.