When I was little, I would have these fantasies as I lay in bed, right before drifting off to sleep. Invariably, it was me, being either shot, or buried in a building, while in the act of saving a girl or girls. I would see a drive-by about to happen and sprint across the schoolyard, ignoring the hail of bullets, as other kids cowered all around me. The cheerleader I had a crush on, or the girl from English class I didn’t know but wanted to, or Cindy Crawford for some inexplicable reason, would be either somehow unaware of the shooting, or completely frozen by fear. Either way, she would be the only clear object in a field of prone students, like a lone oak about to get struck by lightening on a barren plateau., and somehow I knew the killer was after her and only her. Running up to her I would make a dive at the last possible moment, usually getting struck in the chest somewhere just below my right shoulder; which would twist my body half way around as I grunt in resigned agony. This, of course, would make her fall instantly in love with me, and she would cradle my head with new eyes, tears rolling down her face in gratitude and overflowing emotion.

Later, (if I was still awake) I would lie straight out on my bed, and tuck the sheets perfectly along my body. For some reason, I thought this was how everyone slept when they were in the hospital, perfectly still and perfectly straight-bodied. I would pretend that I was unconscious, but just coming out of it, and Cindy Crawford (for instance) would be at my side, nervously questioning the doctor about my condition and expressing her love for me. And they lived happily ever after.

The other fantasy, which was much more active, had me using my body to cover ______ as the building we were in came down around us (perhaps because I live in California, the land of The Big One). I would bury myself in my blankets and pillows, and then lie there as if pinned under some huge weight. I would never panic, of course, and be primarily concerned with ______’s safety, which was always guaranteed thanks to my heroic efforts. In a variant to this theme, we would somehow get separated in the act of my saving her, and then later I would hear ______ and ______ and ______ searching through the rubble for me, no matter the danger, as they were all very much in love with me. When they would finally find me, the bass guitar and sax rifts would begin: bow-chicka-bow-wow…

Epilogue The funny thing is, I was reading druzba’s post about something similar. He would get shot in Die Hard fashion saving the girl of his dreams. I wonder if a lot of other guys had the same thing, and what the girls’ fantasies might have been (somehow I doubt it was being saved by me).

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