Heather Anne

Last night I dreamed I was making out with Charles Guiteau in—get this—a train station. You know: the guy who assassinated President Garfield in the place where he assassinated President Garfield. The dream was sick on so many levels that I got out of bed to rebrush my teeth when I woke up, spitting double what is necessary for a regular brushing. Before I went back to bed I took my copy of Sarah Vowell’s Assassination Vacation out of my bedroom and put it in the freezer.

I’m not sure if I should blame Assassination Vacation for making me care even more deeply about the details of history than I usually do, or my gym for making me watch Fox News while I’m on the treadmill, or Papa John’s for delivering pizza so late into the night, but my sleep has been fitful over the last several weeks. And by fitful, I mean that I have dream-snogged more than my fair share of historical figures this year.

I would like to say I am so excited about election season (I am) and care so deeply about democracy (I do) that I am just expressing my love (physically) in my dreams. But I’m not making out with the John Hancocks or Robert Livingstons of the past. No, I’m getting busy with historical deviants like Guiteau.

In her book, Sarah Vowell mentions that before becoming an assassin, Charles Guiteau was a member of the Oneida cult in upstate New York. The Oneidians were very Brave New World in the way they lived and loved and, er, slept. Which is to say that Guiteau could’ve shagged any of the women in the community, so long as any of the women would have shagged him. But none of them would. Love was free in Oneida, but Guiteau was apparently so annoying he couldn’t even buy it.

Yet I kissed him—with tongue—in a train station!

The night before the Guiteau dream, I dreamed that I was raining down havoc on the deck of a ship docked just off the coast of Massachusetts. With one hand I was giving the finger to the sea—to King George, really—and with the other hand I was reaching up to high-five Thomas Jefferson. “Taxation without representation, my ass!” I shouted. Thomas Jefferson gave me the stink-eye to let me know that it’s unbecoming for a woman to swear, and pulled his hand away before I could slap it.

I smiled sheepishly at Jefferson. “In other words,” I said, “Whenever any form of government becomes destructive, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it.”

Jefferson pulled his Moleskine from inside his coat and jotted down my words. He nodded his approval as he reread them to himself. “Well said, Miss Hogan.”

“Thanks, TJ,” I replied, hitching up my petticoat to get better leverage on the crates I was shifting around on deck.

Jefferson sighed a big sigh that made me think he’d thrown his back out again. “I thought I asked you to stop calling me TJ.”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

Jefferson smiled, meaning it was okay. Then he said, “Here, help me out with this.” We heaved a huge crate up between the two of us and tossed it over the side of the ship. The crate splashed into Boston Harbor, and tea, tea spilled everywhere. I grinned and Jefferson grinned. I held up my hand and, this time, he high-fived me.

It feels like I’m going to get an Abraham Lincoln dream this week, too. Before I go to bed tonight, I’ll need to repeat it until it’s sure: Don’t make out with Lincoln. Don’t make out with Lincoln. Don’t make out with Lincoln.

Also, maybe, don’t make out with Booth.

Even though, according to Vowell, John Wilkes Booth was “really super cute.”

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Toady on The Collective, Abigail extols the merits of Procrastination. Capital "P."