42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

I am in a bazaar, full of junk, before opening. I navigate between piles and boxes, smelling the smell of musty things left too long in the basement. Most of this stuff is worthless to anyone.
People are pinning their hopes on this stuff. To the sellers, every crumbling book, pile of plastic or bag of scrap cloth has meaning. I find a vague contempt for it all.
I weave in between bookshelves full of old magazines no one wants to read, and old crocheting booklets.
People are waking up. They’ve been sleeping here with the junk, awaiting the opening of the big sale.
I walk around them, not sure what I’m looking for. Am I trying to escape? Am I being mired in the junk?
Some of the boxes are decaying, as if they’ve gotten too wet or musty or just worn down by time.
Suddenly, I spy a box with my handwriting, my name.
Is this why I’m here, what I’m looking for?

This box is decaying too. It reminds me of boxes I long abandoned to my father’s basement. I’m scared to look in it. I haven’t seen this box in many years, have no idea what is in it. Papers? Mementos from childhood? Books? More junk?
There’s an impression of more decay as I open the falling-apart box. The cardboard has that sweetish smell.
Old cassette tapes recorded from the radio. Paperback books with leaves billowing out like pastry layers, from getting wet. A pair of shoes with moderate heels with dirt on them, and worn soles.

I set the box aside for a moment, unsure of what to do about it. I go searching some more, wondering if there’s anything else of mine around.
I have to navigate more piles of junk and a few people arising in this huge indoor place.
When I return for my pile of junk, I see someone has taken the box. All that is left behind are the shoes, forlorn, ugly, dated and dirty.
I look around more for the box, but I see someone holding it. I think about arguing with her, her and her tightly permed black hair, middle-aged belly and embroidered sweatshirt. She’s pawing through, chucking out items and fondling others.
I realize I don’t want that stuff. It is mine, but all I would do with it is throw it away. At least she might get some use out of the stuff, as trashy as it is.
I think about picking up the shoes, bend down a little, but she’s eyeing me now, and I have no way to prove they are mine.
Then I tell myself I don’t like those shoes anymore, and they are worn and filthy. I straighten back up and walk away.

The characters at this bazaar are interesting to watch. Trashy. Greedy. Eager. But there are pockets of classy things. Nice furniture.
A cowboy walks by, eating something, throws something in the trash.

I am hungry. I search for the food, and find a fundraiser dinner in an auditorium. The cost is only $1, and I dig in my wallet for that much. Then I realize my roommate Heather is with me, and she has no money. I dig out another dollar. But this is a fundraiser, and the earnest young teen taking my money seems to be expecting more. I give her another dollar, all that I have, and feel somehow cheap.

There is a large spread of food. What a good deal for so little money. But I can’t eat any of it. It is mostly barbecued food, lots of meat. I try to find anything. I saw the cowboy eating corn on the cob, but it is gone. I can smell it, but all I see are eaten cobs and a few kernels left on a table, and the sight is repugnant to me.
It’s not a good deal if you can’t eat.

I also see a carousel ride, where people are lining up to try the old amusement ride. I know that I will not be allowed to get on, for some reason. There is also an awards ceremony going on nearby. People are receiving trophies, though I don’t know for what.

In another part of my dream, seemingly unconnected, a friend mentions that a former coworker has become an airline pilot. Not just a pilot, but the pilot. He has the best job, will be flying the most.
I get an irresistable urge to change my career path too, to become a pilot. I tell another friend that I have to become a pilot right away.

I’m also driving away, going from my childhood hometown, Berrien Springs, to my adopted hometown, Niles. I’m in the passenger seat, watching out the window passively, watching the St. Joseph River go by. It is fall, with leaves everywhere and a warm fall feeling.
As I watch, I see a number of vehicles driving in the water. I evilly hope they’ll get stuck. They don’t belong in the river. Eventually, all the vehicles fall back or sink into the water, unseen, except for one.
I watch a white pickup parallel our course on the road, splashing through the water, and never getting stuck. I remember thinking how arrogant that driver must be, that surely they will get stuck soon.
But the driver doesn’t, and eventually pulls onto a path ahead of us on the road.