Anthropological Dreams
I have dreamt of being an anthropologist since my sophomore year of college. But I haven’t usually literally dreamt of being an anthropologist…
So, James Clifford (played by Rick Moranis) and I are in some strange David Pricean/Tom Clanciesque/Samuel Beckettish chase through south-eastern New England, the FBI hot on our heels. It is imperative — absolutely imperative that we keep a goose under our protection out of the Feds’ hands. We repeatedly refer to the goose as a ’silver goose’, but it’s more of a grey, with a tawny breast. I believe that it held some significance for a Native American tribe in the area.
The G-men track us to an abandoned lodge in a marshy on the Massachusetts side of the MA-RI border. We make a hasty exit, passing a convenient pool of gasoline on the porch of the house. Clifford tosses a cigarette into the pool, and the lodge explodes, FBI agents and all. We are safe from further pursuit by the Government.
Sadly, the goose is killed in the explosion. Clifford and I agree to go our separate ways: I strike out West, heading for the Great Plains or perhaps even the Pacific; Clifford goes North, toward Boston, bringing the body of the goose with him. He wears it on his head.