pillow, smelling her perfume.
The phone rang. After a long while, I heaved myself off the bed and answered it.
âBob? Itâs Jack.â
âJack? Not my best friend Jack? Not my old med school buddy? Both for one and one for both?â
âBob . . . I donât know what to say to you.â
âI have a good idea. You could say, âBob, Iâm going to go to the top story of Century Park East and Iâm going to jump offâ.â
âPlease, Bob. Donât joke.â
âWho the fuck is joking? You think Iâm joking? I put a curse on you, Jack! I swear to God! You and your fucking Great Dane! I curse you!â
There was a lengthy pause. Eventually, Jack said, âCanât say I blame you, buddy. Stay well. Donât be a stranger forever.â
I hung up. There was so much I could have said, but most of it would have been obscene, and what was the point?
Six weeks and three days later my curse worked.
It was a Saturday morning and I was driving east on Olympic, on my way to see my friend Dick Paulzner for a game of squash. I pulled up at the intersection of Western Avenue and who should be waiting at the traffic signal right ahead of me but Jack, in his fancy-schmancy Porsche Cayenne SUV. Sitting much too close to him, with her fingers buried in his hair, was Kylie, in a pink baseball cap; and hunched up in the back seat like somebodyâs Hungarian grandma was Sheba.
My Jeep was burbling away like it always did, on account of a sizeable hole in its muffler, and it wasnât long before Jack checked his rear-view mirror and saw that it was me. He said something to Kylie and Kylie turned around and gave me a little finger-wave.
I ignored her. But then she took off her baseball cap and waved it wildly from side to side, and I could see that she was laughing.
I could go to confession three times a day for the rest of my life and still not be forgiven for what I did next. I saw scarlet. All of the hurt and all of the rejection and all of the anger, they all boiled up inside of me, and I went temporarily mad. That was supposed to have been my life, sitting in that SUV in front of me. That was supposed to have been my happiness. Instead of that, I was sitting alone in the vehicle behind, being laughed at by the girl of my dreams.
I pressed my foot down on the gas, and rear-ended the Cayenne with a satisfying bosh !
I could see that Jack and Kylie were both jolted, and Sheba was knocked right off her seat and on to the floor.
Jack and Kylie turned around and shouted at me, although I couldnât hear what they were saying. I shrugged, as if I didnât understand what they were shouting for, and then I pressed my foot down on the gas again. There was another bosh ! and the Cayenne was shoved forward three or four feet.
Now Jack was really mad. He climbed out of the driverâs seat and came storming toward me swinging Shebaâs metal-studded leash. Just to annoy him one more time, I slammed my foot down and rear-ended the Cayenne again.
This time, though, there was no loud impact. Jackâs foot was no longer on the brake pedal and he must have left the Cayenne in neutral. My Jeep barely nudged its rear fender, but it rolled forward another ten or twelve feet, well past the traffic signal.
Without any warning, a huge red Peterbilt semi came bellowing across the intersection and struck the passenger side of the Cayenne. The collision was so devastating that the SUV was pushed all the way across Olympic and on to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, demolishing a mailbox.
Even today, I canât recall the noise of that crash. It must have been deafening, but the way I remember it, there was no noise at all, only the silent crumpling of metal and the glittering explosion of glass.
When my hearing suddenly returned, however, I heard the screaming of twenty-two tires on the blacktop, and Jack screaming, too, as if he were trying to
The phone rang. After a long while, I heaved myself off the bed and answered it.
âBob? Itâs Jack.â
âJack? Not my best friend Jack? Not my old med school buddy? Both for one and one for both?â
âBob . . . I donât know what to say to you.â
âI have a good idea. You could say, âBob, Iâm going to go to the top story of Century Park East and Iâm going to jump offâ.â
âPlease, Bob. Donât joke.â
âWho the fuck is joking? You think Iâm joking? I put a curse on you, Jack! I swear to God! You and your fucking Great Dane! I curse you!â
There was a lengthy pause. Eventually, Jack said, âCanât say I blame you, buddy. Stay well. Donât be a stranger forever.â
I hung up. There was so much I could have said, but most of it would have been obscene, and what was the point?
Six weeks and three days later my curse worked.
It was a Saturday morning and I was driving east on Olympic, on my way to see my friend Dick Paulzner for a game of squash. I pulled up at the intersection of Western Avenue and who should be waiting at the traffic signal right ahead of me but Jack, in his fancy-schmancy Porsche Cayenne SUV. Sitting much too close to him, with her fingers buried in his hair, was Kylie, in a pink baseball cap; and hunched up in the back seat like somebodyâs Hungarian grandma was Sheba.
My Jeep was burbling away like it always did, on account of a sizeable hole in its muffler, and it wasnât long before Jack checked his rear-view mirror and saw that it was me. He said something to Kylie and Kylie turned around and gave me a little finger-wave.
I ignored her. But then she took off her baseball cap and waved it wildly from side to side, and I could see that she was laughing.
I could go to confession three times a day for the rest of my life and still not be forgiven for what I did next. I saw scarlet. All of the hurt and all of the rejection and all of the anger, they all boiled up inside of me, and I went temporarily mad. That was supposed to have been my life, sitting in that SUV in front of me. That was supposed to have been my happiness. Instead of that, I was sitting alone in the vehicle behind, being laughed at by the girl of my dreams.
I pressed my foot down on the gas, and rear-ended the Cayenne with a satisfying bosh !
I could see that Jack and Kylie were both jolted, and Sheba was knocked right off her seat and on to the floor.
Jack and Kylie turned around and shouted at me, although I couldnât hear what they were saying. I shrugged, as if I didnât understand what they were shouting for, and then I pressed my foot down on the gas again. There was another bosh ! and the Cayenne was shoved forward three or four feet.
Now Jack was really mad. He climbed out of the driverâs seat and came storming toward me swinging Shebaâs metal-studded leash. Just to annoy him one more time, I slammed my foot down and rear-ended the Cayenne again.
This time, though, there was no loud impact. Jackâs foot was no longer on the brake pedal and he must have left the Cayenne in neutral. My Jeep barely nudged its rear fender, but it rolled forward another ten or twelve feet, well past the traffic signal.
Without any warning, a huge red Peterbilt semi came bellowing across the intersection and struck the passenger side of the Cayenne. The collision was so devastating that the SUV was pushed all the way across Olympic and on to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, demolishing a mailbox.
Even today, I canât recall the noise of that crash. It must have been deafening, but the way I remember it, there was no noise at all, only the silent crumpling of metal and the glittering explosion of glass.
When my hearing suddenly returned, however, I heard the screaming of twenty-two tires on the blacktop, and Jack screaming, too, as if he were trying to
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