was pulling out from the light when a man on a bicycle cut me off. I swerved to avoid him.”
“Swerved right into me, you mean.”
“That’s true.”
“Fuckin’ A it’s true!”
The policeman gave him a dour look and wrote things down on a big pad he took from his breast pocket. Everything on him was large: the pad, pen, the gun that sat brown and shiny on his wide hip. “And what were
you
doing, passing on the right?”
“She was going too slow. I had to get by.”
“She wasn’t
going
at all—she was trying to avoid the bicycle. You were wrong being there. That’s why she hit you and that’s what I’m putting in my report.”
The albino’s mouth opened once, then closed tightly. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s absolute bullshit! How do you know what she’s saying is true?”
“Because I got witnesses for one, and because I don’t hear you denying any of it!”
“Where’s these witnesses?”
The cop pointed to a group of people standing around his car, talking to his partner.
“They all say you pulled out too fast and tried to pass her on the right. Dangerous move, you know. Illegal, too. Means you’re not going to have much of a case if this goes to court.”
“I don’t believe you’re fucking telling me this!”
“I don’t like your attitude, Whitey. Let’s see your driver’s license.”
The other reached into his back pocket and brought out a beautiful red leather wallet. I saw a large decal on it for
Midnight
, that abominable horror film that is so popular these days.
“Now,
this
is interesting! You realize it’s three months past due? You got an invalid driver’s license and a probable reckless driving charge looking at you, Bruce, Bruce . . . Beetz? That’s a hell of a name. You want to complain some more, Bruce Beetz?” The policeman winked at me. The albino saw it and his face looked like he’d swallowed a piece of pain.
As soon as I got home I drew a bath, my second of the evening. Baths are a secret love and constant indulgence. Like my hero Blanche Dubois, whenever something goes wrong, I turn on the tap. Hot, hot . . . as hot as possible. The doctors all say the shock isn’t good for my heart, but it’s one of the few times I say that’s too damned bad. I keep thinking my heart has a mind of its own, anyway. Since it knows it’s living inside me, it should be used to being dropped into cooking water whenever something makes its owner nervous.
I poured in a lovely big dollop of coconut oil bubble bath. Watching it swirl pearl and creamy through the water, I forgot a while about my crunched car and the angry man with the white hair. The angry white man with the white car.
After hanging my clothes up, I gratefully stepped into the smoking bubbles and got comfortable. A few heavy blinks later, I was sound asleep.
I dreamt I was in an unknown city, gray and sad enough on first sight and smell to be something Eastern, most probably Communist. Sofia or Prague, a foreign city in the truest sense of the word. A city of quiet, and anonymous pain. I had never been there, that was sure. More surprising was my companion. Tightly holding my hand was a little boy I didn’t know: an albino dressed in blue jeans and a blue blazer, red sneakers, and a red St Louis Cardinals baseball cap.
“What’s your name?”
“Bruce Beetz.”
“How old are you?”
“Seven.”
“Do you know where we’re going?”
He frowned. “You’re supposed to be taking me home.”
“Where is that?”
He started to cry. I squeezed his hand and tried to smile reassuringly. But I really had no idea where we were or who he was, besides the little boy version of the man whose car I’d just hit.
The whole dream was so strange and ludicrous that I woke up laughing. I often fall asleep in the tub and haven’t drowned yet, but waking with a giggle is
not
me.
I looked around the room with tired hot eyes, refocusing on what I’d lost to sleep. Nothing had changed
“Swerved right into me, you mean.”
“That’s true.”
“Fuckin’ A it’s true!”
The policeman gave him a dour look and wrote things down on a big pad he took from his breast pocket. Everything on him was large: the pad, pen, the gun that sat brown and shiny on his wide hip. “And what were
you
doing, passing on the right?”
“She was going too slow. I had to get by.”
“She wasn’t
going
at all—she was trying to avoid the bicycle. You were wrong being there. That’s why she hit you and that’s what I’m putting in my report.”
The albino’s mouth opened once, then closed tightly. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s absolute bullshit! How do you know what she’s saying is true?”
“Because I got witnesses for one, and because I don’t hear you denying any of it!”
“Where’s these witnesses?”
The cop pointed to a group of people standing around his car, talking to his partner.
“They all say you pulled out too fast and tried to pass her on the right. Dangerous move, you know. Illegal, too. Means you’re not going to have much of a case if this goes to court.”
“I don’t believe you’re fucking telling me this!”
“I don’t like your attitude, Whitey. Let’s see your driver’s license.”
The other reached into his back pocket and brought out a beautiful red leather wallet. I saw a large decal on it for
Midnight
, that abominable horror film that is so popular these days.
“Now,
this
is interesting! You realize it’s three months past due? You got an invalid driver’s license and a probable reckless driving charge looking at you, Bruce, Bruce . . . Beetz? That’s a hell of a name. You want to complain some more, Bruce Beetz?” The policeman winked at me. The albino saw it and his face looked like he’d swallowed a piece of pain.
As soon as I got home I drew a bath, my second of the evening. Baths are a secret love and constant indulgence. Like my hero Blanche Dubois, whenever something goes wrong, I turn on the tap. Hot, hot . . . as hot as possible. The doctors all say the shock isn’t good for my heart, but it’s one of the few times I say that’s too damned bad. I keep thinking my heart has a mind of its own, anyway. Since it knows it’s living inside me, it should be used to being dropped into cooking water whenever something makes its owner nervous.
I poured in a lovely big dollop of coconut oil bubble bath. Watching it swirl pearl and creamy through the water, I forgot a while about my crunched car and the angry man with the white hair. The angry white man with the white car.
After hanging my clothes up, I gratefully stepped into the smoking bubbles and got comfortable. A few heavy blinks later, I was sound asleep.
I dreamt I was in an unknown city, gray and sad enough on first sight and smell to be something Eastern, most probably Communist. Sofia or Prague, a foreign city in the truest sense of the word. A city of quiet, and anonymous pain. I had never been there, that was sure. More surprising was my companion. Tightly holding my hand was a little boy I didn’t know: an albino dressed in blue jeans and a blue blazer, red sneakers, and a red St Louis Cardinals baseball cap.
“What’s your name?”
“Bruce Beetz.”
“How old are you?”
“Seven.”
“Do you know where we’re going?”
He frowned. “You’re supposed to be taking me home.”
“Where is that?”
He started to cry. I squeezed his hand and tried to smile reassuringly. But I really had no idea where we were or who he was, besides the little boy version of the man whose car I’d just hit.
The whole dream was so strange and ludicrous that I woke up laughing. I often fall asleep in the tub and haven’t drowned yet, but waking with a giggle is
not
me.
I looked around the room with tired hot eyes, refocusing on what I’d lost to sleep. Nothing had changed
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