The infamous CG

This morning’s (Saturday, October 24, 2009) dream was about the infamous CG.
“CG” is my friend Charlie Gardiner, who graduated in my class at Houghton College (“HO-tin;” as in “oh” — not “WHO-tin” or “HOUW-tin;” as in “wow”), 1966.
We are somewhat alike, both being ne’er-do-wells, somewhat on the outs at the college.
Unlike me, Charlie hated the whole Houghton experience, I guess.
I, on the other hand, liked my time at Houghton, although after four years I was tired of it.
I had come to college hoping to prove our nation’s Founding Fathers got it right, and were favorably motivated.
But I was systematically shot down by mentors I thought highly of.
Beyond that, pursuit of Philosophy was frustrating.
For every supposed answer my philosophy professors had a question.
Where Charlie was in all this is unknown, but after four years at Houghton I was ready to move on.
Charlie and I had been friends in our Freshman and Sophomore years, but began drifting apart.
By our Senior year, Charlie had moved out of our rooming-house to move in with another guy in a fairly straight accommodation.
I continued to room alone, like Charlie had before, in a house of weirdoes and social outcasts.
Charlie and I swap occasional e-mails, I suppose because we are both electronically savvy, Charlie more than me.
I’ve visited CG twice, in his humble abode in Ashburnham, in the rural outback of Massachusetts. —Also his so-called vacation stead, the Holton (“HOLE-tin”) homestead in way out Jamaica, VT.
CG is a New York City native.
I’m from South Jersey, which partially explains my twisted psyche.
South Jersey is the land of smelly oil-refineries, and gravel-pits. Navigation on its waterways is by poled cement-tub.
The world does indeed have an armpit, and it is Vineland in South Jersey, where illicit drugs, especially heroin, flow freely.
Exit South Jersey an angry pessimist; rocker Patti Smith is a sterling example.
Jersey alone (north Jersey) produced Bruce Springsteen.
What I always say is that North Jersey was the garbage-dump for New York City, and South Jersey was the dump for Philadelphia.
South Jersey was always an outlet for sinners frustrated by the Puritans that ran Pennsylvania.
Honky-tonks and whore-houses and liquor stores abound.
And there was always the vast Pine Barrens, a dumping ground for Mafia hits.
New York City, on the other hand, could be a beacon of light.
Some areas looked like bombed out war zones, but there were pockets of venerable culture.
Charlie had frequented same, and it was possible to get around without a car — i.e. as a teenager.
Houghton, by comparison, was a cultural backwater, far out in the sticks.
For me, though, Houghton was a step up in intellectual pursuit; and furthermore people there valued my opinions.
My dreams about CG always seem to reprise our college experience; him in an apartment much like his spare accommodations in our college rooming house.
Both CG and I are always gray-haired old fogies.
I’d been contacted about picking up CG to take him to a class we shared.
I was driving our Honda CR-V.
(My last visit to Asburnham was the CR-V.)
I exited I-590 at Blossom Road, and there was Charlie, walking under the bridge.
All scraggly and gray-haired — he hasn’t had a haircut in years.
I turned on my four-ways, and crossed into the opposing lane to pick him up.
It was him; same snide remarks and verbal pot-shots.
A mocker, just like me.

• Charlie is somehow related to the Holton Family. A Holton cousin of his also attended the college, and graduated two years after us.
• The “CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.
• “I-590” and “Blossom Road” are Interstate-590 and Blossom Road, an east-west road through southeastern Rochester. At that point 590 (north-south) is no longer an Interstate; just a state highway, although a four-lane divided expressway. 590 passes over Blossom Road, and there is an interchange.