Do you see Dustin Pedroia in your sleep, riding a tiny blue bicycle? Does the Sox’ dominating World Series victory over the Colorado Rockies turn to ugly horror in your nightmares, as Mike Lowell and Dice-K pin you down with a bruising crossfire of champagne corks? No need to go climbing a lamppost, troubled celebrants! On the dark side of Red Sox Nation — where even the lights of Fenway cannot shine — one man sits with his mailbag: Dr. Murray Westchester. The interpreter. The dream-whisperer. “Winning the World Series is all very nice,” says Dr. Murray, irritated, “but somebody burned my motorcycle!” Spread your dreams under his feet.
Dear Dr. Westchester,
I have been unable to live my life in a natural way because of Josh Beckett’s beautiful round face, which comes and goes before me in my dreams. If I cannot have him to cherish for ever and ever, then this whole thing — the “universe” — is meaningless. Help me.
-Disturbed, Packard’s Corner
Dr. Westchester replies
Grow up, Disturbed, grow up. Go downstairs, open the front door and introduce yourself to reality, which is waiting there with a clipboard and a number of questions. Josh Beckett will never be yours. There is no pie in the sky. But this is still the greatest country in the world, dammit.
****
Dear Dr. Westchester,
I dreamed that Taco Bell gave a free taco to the whole country — all of America! — just because the Red Sox stole a base during the World Series. Pretty funny, huh?
-Amused, Malden
Dr. Westchester replies
Ha ha! That was no dream, Amused. Corporate largesse is a beautiful thing, and thanks to the fleet-footedness and quick thinking of young Jacoby Ellsbury, you — like all Americans — are entitled to claim your free taco. I’ll see you in line!
****
Dear Dr. Westchester,
Can you help me with this one? Maybe you can’t. It’s just that . . . ah, forget it.
-Dubious, Milton
Dr. Westchester responds
Spit it out, Dubious.
Okay. Well, I’m a 19-year-old guy (straight!), but in my dream I’m married to Big Papi, and we’re lying in our bed at home watching late-night TV. He’s wearing one of those things that my grandmother wears so she doesn’t have to turn the TV up real loud . . .
Dr. Westchester interjects
You mean an assistive listening device?
Right. Anyway, he’s wearing one of those, except somehow it makes everything louder for me, like I can hear everything really clearly, the creaking of the bed and the rustling of the sheets and all, and he keeps turning it up and turning it up. And then he starts laughing this big bass-y Big Papi laugh. I think my head is going to explode from the noise when, suddenly, everything goes quiet, like stops. And he looks at me, very serious, and says: “You know, what they’re doing to Britney is a sin.”
Dr. Westchester probes
That’s deep. What does Britney represent to you?
Um, a hot singer?
Dr. Westchester replies
Wrong. Britney Spears is your anima, your psyche, and David Ortiz is your protective super-ego. Remember, I'm qualified in all of this stuff. The “hot singer” part of you, if you like, is crying out in pain. Listen to Big Papi. It's time for you to be Number One again. The assistive-listening device, to be honest, I haven't figured out yet. Something to do with music? Let me get back to you on that!
