Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Monday, June 13, 2016
One was a grimace of gnarled, stained metal.
Nothing could have survived.
Then a few rows of the less damaged, most with perfect, eight-inch holes in the windshields. Holes wide enough to fit a cantaloupe through.
Rain trickled down my nose; dripped down to my lips. I could taste hair gel and salt in the drops. I couldn’t hear anything but the pitter-patter of rain splashing softly in rusty puddles.
I got my car back, eventually.
I spent six months visiting doctors… another seventeen alone.
She called me once, over the summer.
Her voice purred on my machine, whispered over and over:
“Te amo… te amo… te amo….”
But I know what that’s all about.
Saturday, June 11, 2016
Wednesday, June 08, 2016
Okay, look: I've loved Coen brothers movies since they did tracking shots over passed-out bar patrons... and I love a weird, unexpected movie as much as the next guy... but seriously, WTF Joel & Ethan? I'm confused and scared... and I have a feeling that in ten years or so I'll be watching "Hail, Caesar" as often as I watch "Glengarry Glen Ross." Which is to say, constantly. Keep closing, Coens... keeeeeep closing.
Saturday, June 04, 2016
I drove for hours and hours. I decided I’d never tell a living soul what happened, not even my best friend. I’d never tell anyone.
Then, the car crash.
A cop picked me up at a little diner.
I called him from a payphone outside the gas station, then I had called my sister and left her a message.
In the diner, all those stupid people looking at me, wondering if I was a criminal.
In the cop’s car, there were no door handles in the back.
The cop told me stories as he drove; told me I was lucky to be alive.
And I was.
At the police station, standing in line for hours… cold coffee in a styrofoam cup; the dull thud of waiting.
The car graveyard. Rows and rows of twisted and mangled machines lined-up in order of severities.
One had been torn inside-out.
One looked like it had been scooped-up with a giant spatula.
One was crushed and bent up to the sky like a sculpture.
Friday, June 03, 2016
Thursday, June 02, 2016
She got on the phone and started talking to somebody in Spanish. I could make out the pitch and inflections of the voice on the other end. It was a man’s voice, also Spanish. Not her brother, either.
She was doing a good job; she chose words which weren’t obvious. But Spanish is like French, you know. Even big words, carefully chosen, sound the same.
I’m not that dumb, you know. I’m just a slab of meat, sitting on the edge of a bed with a stone face.
She hung-up the phone.
“Sorry, that was a friend. I had to call him.
“Sure I do… let’s go to sleep, I’m tired.”
I was gone before she was awake.
I put the room charges on my Visa; the call had been local.
I got in my car, turned on the heater, and chugged coffee. I beat the morning traffic by over an hour.