POETRY  - 
​     With the Theme of Dreams        
"Riding in Gary's car, speeding up to the lake, 
with two slutty-looking party girls in the back seat, -  -  - "
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Herkimer
a dream prose poem
by  Steve Surryhne

“Herkimer!” I knew it was Gary, his joke name for me was Herkimer. And the name placed me back in high school, though I knew we were long out of school, still I responded to the silly name, and felt a return of the fond feelings we'd shared. There he stood in his boxer's stance, his eyes narrowed, his lip in a slight sneer, I sensed the energy and strength behind his humor. It was positively an honor to be called Herkimer by him, and I was the one and only Herkimer. We got into our Bowery Boys act, and sometimes we were the Three Stooges, too. I'd played Tom in The Glass Menagerie and he'd played the Gentleman Caller. We were a killer duo with infinite promise lying before us for our infinite energies to fulfill. Only now, he looked concerned, drawn, worried, yes he'd aged as I had, inevitably, (or not). “Where's Beebe?” I asked, and had to admit I had no idea, it had been so long ago and I was beginning to feel confused. How was I going to get back to the city? What had happened to my car? “Beebe's sick, haven't you heard? He has polio!” I was astonished and dismayed by this, “Polio? How?” “Polio has come back, it's an epidemic, it's the new dance craze that's sweeping the nation!” I realized then he was pulling my leg. But still, how would we find Beebe, and where had I parked my car? Riding in Gary's car, speeding up to the lake with two slutty-looking party girls in the backseat who are giggling and drinking beer. I don't know them but I'm very attracted to them. Feeling aroused, I clamber into the backseat and one of the girls says “I saw you in the senior play, I know your name, it's Herkimer.”  At this the two of them laugh loudly, what a scream. Meanwhile I try to go along with the gag, I'm fumbling with the buttons on her dress, but she whispers, “I don't think there's enough time, my shift starts now, see you at lunchbreak, promise.” We are at the psychiatric unit of the hospital, she enters the building and I follow, but lose track of her amid multiple stairways and doors. The group room turns out to be a college classroom, and I'm to teach a class, completely unprepared. What happened to the girl in the car, and where did I leave my car? Some of the students are in hospital garb, others in their street clothes. Margaret, my “gray lady” at the Tenderloin Clinic is there at a desk, scribbling furiously. There is a commotion in the back of the room, I ask everyone to be seated, the group parts and there stands Beebe like a colossus in his military greatcoat, his aviator cap with earflaps and goggles, and his saber: “I come to judge, not to be judged, bow down you puny mortals and heed my word!” At this the room explodes into laughter, Beebe flashes his toothy grin and gestures with the saber—Beebe, the perfect Dadaist mind! I feel such joy in his presence having found him at last. We're careening down a steep incline with switchback curves, far below, the lights of houses and streets, we're about to drive off the road, the car launching into space, Beebe at the wheel: “I'm the bloody Red Baron!” he chuckles maniacally. Residential houses crowded together, we cross over fences and backyards, through windows into rooms where the residents are sitting, watching TV or having dinner, I apologize nervously to them as I trail after Beebe, embarrassed, but also fearful at trespassing in the interiors of other people's homes. Outside at last, I've lost Beebe again, and find myself on the street in the Mission waiting for a bus. A young woman with short, straight blonde hair, an oval face with sharp features, not pretty but arresting, approaches me and asks “What's your position on the death prize?” “Don't you mean the death penalty?” She gives me a disdainful look but asks me to sign a petition to free Caryl Chessman. As we stroll toward some apartments, I notice that the landscaping is changing from unadorned urban to lush gardens. I see now her radiant beauty which I somehow hadn't noticed before. She has also lost the slightly mocking, slightly contemptuous expression, and grown softer as we go further into the garden which I did not realize existed in this part of the city. “So you live in a neighborhood that I've always wanted to live in,” I say, and she indicates that I follow her, she's going to show me her place. I notice that she's smoking a cigarette, which I find makes her seem very sophisticated and cool, while at the same time I'm aware that I dislike smoking. I embrace her anyway saying “You're so bad, you do bad things!” I feel now that we have come to some sort of understanding and I am feeling less guilty than I was. She has become less challenging in her attitude and takes my hand as we go deeper into the garden. I look up and see the clouds parting in the sky, brilliant lights, like the Northern Lights, appear, and many stars, which move together to form intricate patterns. Suddenly I'm feeling joyous and awe-struck, this woman seems to be leading me to something highly significant. Then I realize we're both naked. . . .
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​​Steve Surryhne was an Associate Lecturer in English Literature at San Francisco State University from 1993-2012. He is currently semi-retired and has recently returned to writing poetry. A native of San Francisco, he was a baby-beat in the sixties, knew some of the beat poets and is now a neo-beat. In his alternate career, he worked in Community Mental Health in San Francisco from 1979-2012. He took first place in the Jack Kerouac Poetry contest in 2015 and has published in The Blue Moon Review and Interpretations. He is currently working on a project with a photographer friend on poem-texts and photos. 
Other works in this issue:
Poetry:
​Dream Factory
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Vistas & Byways Review is the semiannual journal of fiction, nonfiction and poetry by members of Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) at San Francisco State University​.​
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