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The Red Trunks(continued) My brooding made no difference to Laura. She chattered away as I drove
for fifty monotonous kilometers, staring at the tailgate of a red pick-up
truck the whole way, some veiled flaw tugging at the back of my mind
like a kid at his dad's pant leg. I glanced in the rearview mirror and
noticed the Honda behind me driving a little too close for my liking.
Ahead of me in the oncoming lanes, a Mini Cooper grew larger and sailed
by. The realization struck with a pang in my gut. I checked my mirror
again. The Honda was still there — a red Honda. For the next three
minutes I scanned the highway until I was certain. I told Laura what I saw. My wife turned her trademark mask of condescension on me, the one that
said, You're an idiot and now I'm going to explain why. "You think
there are more red cars than normal on the road today?" "Yes," I said. "I've been counting." "Good for you, Honey. And if I told you to count the blue cars,
then blue cars would miraculously appear everywhere. If I said silver,
you'd see the silver cars. Basic psychology, Philip." I grumbled an unintelligible answer and stared at the red pick-up.
Something about the red cars was trying to make a connection to that
dark corner in my mind where the imperfection in my dream lurked. I
could feel it. And four kilometers later, on a huge billboard, I saw
it. "Laura! Did you see that?" "What?" "The woman in the red bikini!" "You saw a woman in a bikini on the side of the highway?" "No, on a billboard. Did you see it?" "You obviously did." "That's it. That's what I was wearing in my dream. That's what's
wrong!" "You were wearing a red bikini?" she said dryly. "I'll
say that's wrong." "No, red trunks. I was wearing red trunks. Have I ever owned red
trunks?" "Red's not your color, Hon." Not my color. She was right. I never would have owned red trunks, and
I know I didn't wear red trunks in Punta Cana. That was the flaw, the
only particular that made the dream an imperfect replica of the real
day. The discovery didn't improve my mood. If anything, it bothered
me more, though I knew that was stupid. It was just a dream with one
little change, but I couldn't let it go. An attempt to discuss it with
Laura drew only ridicule, so I ruminated in silence. "Let's stop in Montreal for the day," Laura chirped. "We've
never been to Montreal." "But I want to stop in Quebec." "We did stop in Quebec," I told her. "Sleeping in a motel just inside the border does not constitute
stopping in Quebec. I want to absorb some French-Canadian culture. We
are a bilingual country, you know." "I don't speak French." "You don't have to speak French to visit Quebec, Philip." "I don't like French," I grumbled. "I like Spanish." Laura glared at me for a whole minute before saying, "You don't
speak Spanish either." "But I like Spanish." "This is about the driving thing again, isn't it? You have some
dream about an old beach vacation, and it puts you in a fouler mood
that when we started. Fine. Head for your border then." We spent our second night in Montreal, at the Manoir De Jacques. I'm
sorry to say Jacques' evaluation of his property as an historic manor
was all too true — a little long on history, a little short on
renovations. But after an entire day of window shopping, I didn't care.
I was exhausted and failed to absorb any Quebec culture in the tourist
boutiques Laura dragged me through. Already the second night and we
hadn't covered even a quarter of the distance. The thought of the journey
stretching ahead of me was disheartening. I fell into bed thinking maybe
I'd get lucky and escape to Punta Cana in my dreams again tonight. I didn't.
Cancún. My eyelids flicker open, and it takes me less than two
seconds to recognize the painting of the matador hanging over the bed.
I am in the Gran Melia Cancún. This is our first sunshine-destination
vacation. It's June, and hot, but I don't care about the heat, not with
an ocean, a pool, and all the free-flowing Mexican beer I can drink,
waiting for me as soon as I step outside my air-conditioned room. The
day starts well, as my ham, cheese, and onion omelet melts in my mouth
like edible gold. Laura and I finish our coffee refills and head back
to the room to prepare for another day in paradise. Then I see them. A pair of red trunks are draped over the chair back. I begin to feel
uncomfortable, trapped. I don't want to put them on, but I watch myself
do it anyway, somehow unable to choose not to. My mind reels and thrashes
like a caged bobcat, but there is nowhere to go, nothing I can do. I
must relive this day in Cancún, the same, all the same, except
for the red trunks. I tell myself the color of my swim trunks doesn't
matter, I'm being ridiculous, but my anxiety is slow to dissipate. The day progresses and the sheer calm and beauty of the vacation seeps
through me. I begin to relax within myself, but the carefree quality
of the vacation is lost. I can't find it again.
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