Category: Bad Days
There are a lot of fucking idiots on the streets, pardon my French. So it’s a matter of necessity that you employ defensive driving techniques, lest you end up being a maroon smear on the pavement. I say this because I’ve had to share the road with such idiots in the rain in both San Francisco and NYC these last couple of weeks.
Over the years, I’ve found myself unconsciously acting on certain defensive patterns while driving. So I decided to write them down here. Maybe one day, these will become lessons I pass onto my kids.
Or maybe one day, I’ll write a book, get filthy rich, then hire a chauffeur so I never have to deal with those fucking idiots on the streets anymore.
I should add that I’ve never taken a defensive driving course before, though I’d really like to. I wonder what kinds of tips they teach you in those classes. You should trust what you learn in those classes more than you trust what I’ve written here.
And to be honest, much of this may be common sense to you. If it is, then I thank you, because you probably aren’t one of those fucking idiots on the streets then.
Anticipate the Future
Look at least two cars ahead of you. Just watching the car in front of you isn’t enough. If visibility allows it, look past the car in front (e.g. through the windshield, over the side, by their shadows or reflections on the street) to the next car.
Some drivers don’t have good braking habits, so by looking two cars ahead, you can monitor the braking patterns of both. As a general rule, you should brake when the car in front brakes; an extension of that rule is to brake when the second car ahead of you brakes. You don’t have to be a frequent braking maniac either; simply being ready to brake is enough.
It should go without saying that leaving yourself plenty of space between you and the car in front is smart as well. This gives you some buffer room for sudden stops. Tailgating is just about the dumbest thing you can do.
If you have enough space, and are watching two cars ahead, then you can sometimes find yourself not needing to use the brakes as much. This has the added benefit of saving wear and tear on your brakes. If the car in front hits the brakes, you can watch the rate at which the space decreases. This can indicate when and how much to apply your brakes.
Although if you’re not entirely confident in your braking judgment, please feel free to apply your brakes whenever the car in front is doing so.
SUVs, vans, and trucks can impede your visibility. In such cases, try and get into a lane where the car in front is a regular passenger car.
Be Predictable
Let the drivers around you know what you’re going to do. You can do this through the use of your car’s various indicators. Not only are the left and right turn blinkers indicators, but your brake light is also an indicator. Using these allow other drivers to react to your actions appropriately.
If the cars in front suddenly brake hard, hopefully you’ve already given yourself enough space to react. In such a situation, tap your brakes to let the car behind know you’ve got a sudden stop. The tap should be hard enough to have some visual jerk of your car, but not enough to lose control. The point is to use your brake lights and an extra indicator to let the driver behind know there’s a sudden stop.
I’ve seen some drives also employ their blinkers in these situations. If you have the clarity of mind to do this, then go for it. It seems to be a fairly useful technique too.
After you’ve made the initial indication, ease up on the brakes and allow yourself to continue forward a bit. The intent here is to give the driver behind some space in case he doesn’t or can’t brake quickly enough.
This basically means you need to be mindful of the space in front and in back of you. If the driver behind is tailgating you, move to another lane and let him pass. You can use your brakes and speed to influence the average driver behind you into a safe distance. For aggressive drivers behind you, just let them pass.
And obviously, use your turn signals all the time. You never know when another driver intends to merge into your target lane. A signal will let him know your intentions, so he can react accordingly. Not only is this a defensive technique, but it’s also a courteous one too.
Have an Exit Strategy
As you’re driving, assume the worst. Picture in your mind the potential accidents that could happen around you. Doing this isn’t meant to drive you into a state of perpetual panic; this is meant to help you visualize an exit strategy to get out of any potential mess.
In other words, plan your escape route. Assume that the cars in front of you will stop short or get into an accident. Try to avoid being boxed in by cars and trucks, if possible. Lanes at the edges (left-most or right-most) can sometimes offer good exit points if they have shoulders or space to drive into.
On a street with low traffic, the center lane can be the safest, since you can exit into the left or right lanes easily if needed. There is buffer room on the sides of you for driving adjustments.
Drivers tend to do this unconsciously already. Whenever there are two cars next to each other, generally one of them will pull away. This is a sociological phenomenon that happens to be beneficial as well, because if the lane next to you is clear, it can be an exit lane.
This all may seem like a lot of extra mental overhead. But after having avoided several accidents and been in a few close-calls with some fucking idiots in San Francisco and NYC, I’d much rather be a defensive driver than a pissed-off accident victim.
We got off the ski lift right before the high winds forced Kirkwood to shut it down. That left us at the top of Caples Crest with a handful of other snowboarders and skiers, all huddled to the ground to shield our faces from the stinging squall.
The winds had begun as Leslie and I approached the top. Our chair had swung precariously in the frozen gales. It would have been fun, like a playground swing, had it not been for the ten foot drop and piercing cold. Unless you grew up on an Alaskan playground, I suppose.
As we crouched on the ground, I looked down the slope. All I could see was a sea of white. Visibility was near zero. There were some dark splotches which I assumed were trees.
“Is it safe to go down?” a nervous snowboarder asked. Fortunately, at the top of Caples Crest was a Ski Patrol station.
One of the patrols answered: “Sure, if you’re very careful and know what you’re doing. You can also hang out here and wait for the winds die down. If it gets worse, we’ll start taking people down.”
A few daring souls took off down the slope. I silently watched the white swallow their bodies.
Several minutes passed with no mercy from the storm. Leslie turned to me. “Want to go down?”
I shrugged. “Sure, what do we have to lose? Just our lives, right?”
With that, we go on our snowboards and slowly slid downhill. I quickly realized that to say “visibility was near zero” was like saying “the sun is kinda hot.” There was literally a wall of white in front of us.
In other words, the storm was tighter than a virgin’s ass, and we squeezed through it like a cucumber without KY. Got the image down? Good.
We carefully glided through the soft snow. I’ve never boarded in snow as powdery as this before. I imagined this might be something like how surfing on water feels like.
The first twenty feet or so were smooth going and really damn fun. Then the winds picked up and I tumbled head-first down the mountain. With the soft snow all around me, I felt like I was falling into a bed of really cold cotton.
There was a slow-moving dark blur next to me, which I assumed was Leslie. I tried to push myself to my feet, but instead buried my arms into the snow. The harder I pushed, the deeper my arms sank. I had to pack the snow down to finally get back up.
Slowly, we made our way down Whiskey Slide. Except for a few boarders and skiers that flew past us, the slope seemed mostly deserted. The storm continued and the powder got deeper and softer, making each fall a real chore from which to recover.
Finally, we saw a sign. “A black diamond,” I shouted. Leslie nodded. “What do you want to do?”
We’re both relatively new to snowboarding and mostly stay on greens and blues. Although my first snowboarding trip was years ago, I go on an average of only once a year. A black diamond in a blizzard would be, well, what’s that s-word that means something like death? Oh yea: suicide.
There was a path next to us that was a blue. We tried to make our way there, but only slid further down the black. So we dismounted our boards and began walking.
The powder was high now. Each step consumed our boots. Walking through it was excruciating. I think I uttered just about every piece of profanity I could think of while making that arduous trek.
We came across a skier and several other boarders. The winds suddenly picked up and we all crouched again. I imagined us becoming frozen snowmen on the slope. One day, kids will visit us and put coals and carrots on our faces.
“Hello?” yelled the skier. “Do you know where we are?”
I marched over. “Not really. I haven’t been able to see a damn thing.”
“I haven’t seen any signs either,” added a snowboarder.
We all surveyed the mountain around us. The snow was still coming down hard. Part of me wanted to stay here until the storm passed. Another part of me thought back to the frozen snowmen on the slope and wanted desperately to get off the mountain.
“Maybe we’re right above Low Whiskey and High Whiskey,” I offered.
“I don’t think we are anymore. Look.” The skier pointed down the slope. “It’s all closed off over there. We can’t get down that way.”
“What’s down there?” asked a snowboarder. He pointed towards the right, where Leslie and I came from.
“It’s a black diamond. It’s open if you want to take that route.”
The skier and boarders exchanged glances and shook their heads. I guess they were new at this too.
“Oh, wait, I have a map!” chirped the skier. She pulled out her map and we all clustered around her.
“Ah, I think that closed off area could be this area here with the dashed red lines,” I pointed at the map. “So that means if we go left, we’ll be right at Hay Flat.”
“Ah! Great!” cheered the skier. “Thanks!” And with that, she skied over to the left. Leslie and I walked a little bit more before trying to get on our boards again. The other boarders hopped on their boards right away and glided past us.
The snow was up to our knees now. In some areas, it even came up to our thighs. We weren’t able to get back on our boards again. Each time we tried, we sunk deeper into the snow. So we opted to continue walking.
Did I tell you that walking through knee-deep snow sucks? Well, it does.
After twenty minutes of an agonizing hike, I decided to try getting on my board again. Leslie continued by foot while I wrestled with my board. But it was no use. At the rate I was sinking into the snow each time I tried to get up, I was bound to end up in Australia soon. So I started walking again.
I made it to several rolling hills below me. Since the snow was still too soft for me to get onto my board, I hatched a brilliant idea: I put my board on the ground, sat down on it, and pushed myself forward.
In effect, I rode my board like a sled down the rolling hills. If you’ve never tried this before, you’ve got to try it at least once. It’s hella fun!
Steering can be an issue though. Several times, I had to kick my feet down to stop myself from crashing into a tree. But other than the potential tree-splattering danger, it was fun!
Finally the storm started to ease up. I could see more hills in front of me and the Snowkirk ski lift beyond them. Energized, I continued sliding.
The last hill before the ski lift seemed really steep. Really steep. Suddenly, I found myself blazing down the hill. I sensed the incline drop sharply and I saw a cliff in front of me. First, there was hill, then there was air.
I leapt off the board and kicked my feet deep into the snow. My board slipped beneath me and disappeared into the void.
Time stood still for a moment. I contemplated what had just happened to me. I had no idea how tall the cliff was, nor what was below it. I wondered what would have happened if I continued to ride my board down.
Cautiously, I climbed towards the edge. The hill made a steep drop of about fifteen feet. Below that was a hole in the snow; in the hole were some rocks and flowing water. And in the water was my board.
“Mike! Mike!”
I saw Leslie standing in a distance near the ski lift. I waved back and looked down. The side of the cliff wasn’t total vertical. I took in a deep breath and started climbing down. Fortunately, I made it down without incident.
The hole where my snowboard fell was about eight feet deep. It looked like there was a stream under the snow and ice here. I walked around the hole to try to figure out a way to climb down. The snow around it didn’t seem stable and I decided to abandon the board.
I marched through more knee-deep snow towards the ski lift, cursing along the way. A Kirkwood lift operator was with her and he called the Ski Patrol. After they retrieved my board, Leslie and I continued down the rest of Hay Flat and Snowkirk. By this time, the storm had mostly subsided.
My legs were on fire from the walking and my wrists were stiff from the falls. As we glided back to the lodge, I almost cried for joy. If there weren’t people everywhere, I would have kissed the lodge itself. Maybe even given it some tongue.
After all of this, Leslie and I treated ourselves to some snacks and hot chocolate. As we kicked up our feet in the warm, safe lodge, I looked out the window.
“Want to go back out there?” I asked.
“Sure!”
And we went back for more.
. . .
Have you ever been caught in a blizzard?
It’s been a while since I’ve had the energy to write. To be honest, I’m not really in the mood right now. But the cathartic nature of writing is what is compelling me to sit here and type. Not that I’m the one who really needs the healing.
If I could, I would send any ounce of curative energy I might feel to you right now. Fortunately, you’re no longer in the hospital and are with your parents, resting & recuperating. A little bit of extra energy wouldn’t hurt though, right?
The hospital. I’ve never been comfortable in a hospital. I could never be a doctor. All those smells and sights and sounds make me feel real uneasy and queasy.
Seeing you in there unleashed a deluge of different emotions. I’m not sure I can name all of them, but I know there was sadness, anger, and helplessness.
Sadness in seeing you lying there in pain. With those IV tubes on your arm and tray of pills & water by your bed. Each time I saw you, my heart tightened. You were in such agony. I was starving to see you smile.
Anger in the infection that was hurting you. All I wanted to do was to grab those germs out of your body and strangle them with my bare hands. I hated those germs with a passion. Personifying them as physical bad guys whom I could slaughter made me feel better, though only by a little.
Helplessness in not being able to do anything to make you feel better. All I could do was stand there, watching you in pain. If I could, I would have absorbed all of that suffering and taken it into my own body. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t do anything. And that inability to help shook me to tears.
There was also guilt for the selfishness I exhibited over my work. Sure, I can make excuses and rationalize that my work has been extremely busy these last few weeks. A number of issues all seemed to coalesce into the same time period. There were days I felt my head was about to explode. But what is that compared to the distress you felt as you laid there in the hospital?
There was also hope. I know it sounds out of place here, but there were a few times when I did catch you smiling. And it was great seeing all of your friends visit you and send colorful bouquets of flowers. There are a lot of people who care about you and want to see you get better.
Then came the day when the color returned to your face and you cheerfully talked about your roommate. Quite a character your roommate was. I’m glad there was some kind of comic relief in your hospital room.
I’m really thankful that you’re feeling better now. Please let me know if there is anything else that I can do for you. I still wish there was more I could do.
When you’re feeling well enough to go out again, I’ll take you out for some pearl tea. It may not be much, but I hope it will help.
“Oops!” Kathy yelped. Her expression froze as her eyes searched the food court, making sure no one saw the blob of ketchup that just landed on her left boob.
I looked over and grinned. Kathy’s eyes slowly drifted downward. With the burger still halfway in her mouth, she stared sadly at the red dot on her white t-shirt. “Oops!” she muttered again.
I grabbed a handful of napkins and was about to wipe them when her Decency & Discretion Warning System came to order and snatched the napkins from my hand. She caught the look of confusion in my eyes. “Um, it’s probably best you don’t rub my boobs in public,” she whispered. Blushing, I handed her more napkins.
She giggled as she soaked up the majority of the ketchup. “I should wear a bib!” she joked.
I threw on my Dutiful Boyfriend Cap and got up. “I’ll look for some seltzer water for you,” I declared.
She beamed me a gracious smile. “Thanks!”
I scanned the fast food outlets for a booth that had seltzer water. Passing several by, I approached a Chinese food shop. “Excuse me?” I asked the old man behind the counter. He looked up and stared at me through his thick glasses. “I was wondering if you have any seltzer water?”
“Wah?” he asked.
“Seltzer water?”
“Wah?”
I sensed didn’t know what seltzer water was. “Soda water?”
“Soda? You want Coke?”
“Soda water. Clear soda water. Not Coke.”
“Soda? You want soda?”
I decided to go for another approach. “My girlfriend just spilled some ketchup on her shirt and she needs to get the stain out. So I need some…” I paused and scratched my chin. “…some bubbly water. Like soda, with bubbles, but without any syrup. Just the carbonated water itself.”
“Ah, water!” he shouted and went over to the soda machine. He filled a small cup and handed it to me with a smile.
I looked down into the cup. It was regular water. “Um, thanks,” I muttered and walked away.
I continued down the food court, taking sips of the water. The next booth was a bar. Two ladies were behind the counter, engaged in an animated conversation. I finished the water in two gulps and approached them.
“Excuse me; I was wondering if you have any seltzer water? My girlfriend just spilled some ketchup on her shirt and needs to get the stain out.”
“Ah!” one said, holding up a finger. “Say no more.”
Then, with the precision of a military drill sergeant, she filled a cup with seltzer water and handed me a disposable washcloth. I hadn’t even considered a washcloth. These ladies knew exactly what a ketchup stain needed.
“Thanks!” I hollered.
“Anytime! Good luck with her stain!” they replied. I hustled back to my girl.
As I returned, I saw Kathy struggling with a handful of napkins. I handed her the seltzer water and washcloth. She beamed a “Thank you!” with her eyes. Then, with a big smile and a few giggles, she began working at the stain.
Seltzer water is amazing on stains. I don’t know what kind of magic it holds, but it works. You could put seltzer water on Gorbachev’s head and rub the red mark from his scalp.
Her efforts left a noticeably large patch of sheer wetness on her white t-shirt, right around her left boob. She looked down and pouted, trying to dry it up with a napkin. Then she looked up at me and said, “Thanks honey! That was so sweet!”
“You don’t have to thank me,” I answered. “Just stop trying to dry your shirt. That patch of wet t-shirt is thanks enough!”
. . .
Have you ever had to hunt for seltzer water?
Chinese parents have stomachs of iron. Literally; their stomach lining is cold hard metal. Rivets line their intestines. There is very little they cannot digest; I kid you not. Want me to prove it?
Well, pull up a chair and let me tell you a story. ‘Tis a true story, a story from my youth.
I was in grade school, only eight or nine years old. My family and I were in some nondescript Chinese restaurant near our house. It was the kind of place that uses fluorescent lights and has greasy tables. You can smell the grease and oil down the street.
We were given a booth with plastic seats and plastic chopsticks. And this was a good seat. Whenever Chinese waiters see a Chinese family in a mostly-white town, they always give them extra-special treatment. If you’re not Asian and you’re hearing this, sorry, but it’s true. Sucks for you.
My brother and I sat across from each other. My Mom was next to me, my Dad across from her. Menus with slippery plastic covers were placed on the table. I picked up a menu and opened it.
A cockroach fell out of my menu and into my lap.
Let me repeat that.
A friggin’ cockroach fell out of my friggin’ menu and into my friggin’ lap.
Now I hate bugs. Absolutely hate them. When I was a kid, they terrified me. So I flipped out and batted the cockroach off my legs with noisy fervor. The other patrons looked over and probably thought I had a wild ferret in my pants or something.
My Mom, on the other hand, calmly looked over and said:
“Don’t worry, all Chinese restaurants have cockroaches. Do you want sweet and sour chicken or sesame chicken tonight?”
We stayed and had dinner there. Stomachs of iron, I tell you, stomachs of iron.
. . .
Do your parents have stomachs of iron?
“All the lonely people,
Where do they all come from.
All the lonely people,
Where do they all belong.”
- P. McCartney
You wake up but aren’t sure you want to get up. For half an hour you lay, debating the merits of the day. Finally, you push yourself up.
The world is gray with clouds. Your room is monotone. It smells old and dusty.
You thrown on comfortable clothes and grab a book. It’s a funny book and you could use a smile today. Then you leave your warm room for the chilly world outside.
You stop by a café at and order an omelet & coffee. A table near the window is free and you take it.
As you wait for your breakfast, you watch the world. A couple holding hands walks by. You watch them stroll past a young man with a dog. The couple plays with the dog and chats with the young man.
Two elderly ladies are waiting at the bus stop across the street. They’re engaged in an animated conversation. They wave their hands through the air to declare their statements. So involved are they, that they almost miss the bus when it arrives.
The omelet & coffee comes out. You can see the heat rising off the fresh coffee. You open your book and dig into your meal. Both hold firm your attention as you enter their worlds.
Occasionally, your attention is broken and you look up. A group of four is standing outside, laughing. One of them has the other three wound up in a humorous story. You catch bits and pieces of words; it’s about how his date did something funny last night. Farted? Ordered a tart? Wanted to go to K-mart?
An hour and a chapter pass. You weren’t able to follow the story well, so you make a mental note to reread the chapter. Then you exit the cafe, pick a direction, and just walk.
Bicyclists ride by. They peddle uphill and disappear over the crest. You follow them up the hill. The view of the city from up here is awe-inspiring. Little details of buildings and cars are all visible. You make a mental note to return here someday.
As you continue, you come across a larger park with generous fields of grass and ample benches. One of them is empty, so you take a seat.
A group of teenagers walks by, trailing dirty jokes and cynical commentary in their wake. They comment on the tight bodysuits of the bicyclists and how they’d rather not see the details that they can see. You can’t help but nod to yourself.
On the bench next to you is an elderly couple sitting together. The man has his wife’s hands in his. They’re chatting quietly to each other. She giggles at something he says. He beams a boyish grin and strokes her hand.
You look at your book and marvel at the people all around you, at the stories they are all writing with each other. You sigh.
Then you open up your book and enter the author’s story again, hoping that someday, you’ll get to write a story with someone too.
. . .
Have you ever felt lonely?
You ever have one of those days?
You know, one of those days where nothing seems to be going right? And you just know it’s going to be a bad day?
You wake up and literally roll out the wrong side of bed—which in your case, happens to be a wall, which you SMACK right into.
You lie there, and just know that today is going to be a bad day.
You get up, get dressed, and walk out the door—only to realize that you’re walking funny, because you have the left shoe on the right foot, and vice versa.
You stand there, and just know that today is, oh boy, sure going to be a bad day.
You walk to your car and furiously try to unlock the door with the keys—only to discover that for the last five minutes, you’ve been trying to unlock your car with your apartment keys.
You lean on your car, and just know that today, holy shit sure is going to be one fucking bad day.
You ever have one of those days?
Yea, me too.
. . .
Ever have one of those days?
I wonder what was on her mind. She seemed awfully depressed, sitting at the bar by herself. She finished three drinks in the span of fifteen minutes.
She came in by herself. Sat down and ordered a Cosmopolitan. Stared off into space and drank her cocktail, without a glance to anyone else in the bar.
Drinking alone. That’s a sign of depression if I ever saw one.
She got up and left after her third drink. Quite abruptly.
We were near NYU. She could have been a college student. Maybe a graduate student; she didn’t look like an undergrad.
She wasn’t ugly at all; fairly pretty, in fact. So it couldn’t have been that she couldn’t find someone to be with.
Maybe it was something from New Years Eve. It was only two days after New Years. Maybe her boyfriend cheated on her. Maybe he dumped her. Maybe she dumped him, and was having second thoughts.
Though she didn’t order straight alcohol, she chugged her cocktails pretty quickly. She must have wanted to get drunk, but couldn’t handle doing straight shots.
Wanting to get drunk. Alone. For some people, something’s got to upset you pretty badly to push you to that brink.
She didn’t look like the type who was a lush and would get drunk for the hell of it. So she definitely had to have a purpose.
In some local bars, the bartender would offer a sympathetic ear. This wasn’t that kind of bar though. It was a college student haunt and the bartenders there had their hands full of eager college kids.
She must not have wanted to talk. No glances at anyone else, no sympathetic bartender. Probably wanted to be left alone to her alcohol.
It could have been family trouble instead. Or school trouble. But something told me that it was romantic trouble. People take on a certain look when they’re heartbroken.
Military veterans call it the hundred-yard stare. After seeing combat, they have that stare where their eyes are always looking off in a distance, even when they’re looking at you.
That’s the kind of look she had in her eyes.
After her third Cosmopolitan, she tossed her money at the bar and left. Didn’t want to stay and linger.
Maybe the alcohol helped.
Alcohol rarely does that, but let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. The Cosmopolitans helped her realize that her problem wasn’t that bad.
She’ll get through this. The world wasn’t over. She’d find another man. There are plenty of fish in the sea.
I felt proud of her when she got up to leave. There you go girl, I thought to myself. Get out of this bar and back on your feet again.
But then again, maybe I’m totally wrong. Maybe she was thinking of something totally different. Maybe she was just having some car trouble.
Gosh, I sure wonder what was on her mind.
. . .
What do you think was on her mind?
It happened again. A-fucking-gain.
I saw the trunk of my car wide open as I walked towards it. The small rear window was smashed. Shards of glass glittered in the back seat. Maps and other contents of my glove compartment decorated the front seats.
I looked in my trunk. It was stark empty. Hollow.
My emergency roadside kit that my Dad gave me for Christmas was gone. My set of auto mechanic tools was gone. My spare motor oil and breaking fluid was gone. My spare sweatshirt and fleece jacket was gone.
I couldn’t understand it. My car was right in front of the well-light entrance of an apartment complex. This was a busy street. I only parked here one night. How the fuck could this happen?
How the fuck could this happen again?
The first time was on another street; a little more deserted and quiet street.
I didn’t think it was dangerous because I live in a fairly well-to-do yuppie part of town. Unfortunately, I’m near the border of a touristy part of town. Which means wandering out-of-towners sometimes get fiercely curious about the contents of one’s car, apparently. Bastards.
At least the first guy didn’t break anything. I could see his big palm print on my window. He must have simply pushed my window down or used a Slim Jim or something. All he took was some spare change and my sunglasses.
The second time was on that same street. I hadn’t learned my lesson yet.
The small rear window was smashed. Another set of sunglasses was stolen, along with a set of auto mechanic tools, spare motor oil and breaking fluid. The thieves didn’t touch my emergency roadside kit or spare jackets, fortunately.
It cost me a nice chunk of money to get that damn window fixed though.
This time, it’ll cost more than a nice chunk of money. Now I’m paranoid about leaving things in the car. My trunk has been bare since the break in and I’m afraid to put what I used to believe were essentials in there, like tools and spare motor oil.
It’s not the loss of my belongings that really pisses me off. It’s that my car was broken into while parked in a well-lit, busy street in my yuppie neighborhood. It’s the loss of security I feel when I park my car on any street now that really pisses me off.
Sigh. I can’t believe it happened again.
. . .
Has your car ever been broken into?
Look! Look at him over there. Smiling. See him? That’ll be me someday. I’ll be smiling again someday too.
I can’t right now. It hurts too much. My skin has hardened this way, and any movement otherwise means the skin will crack and bleed.
I remember your laugh. It lingers in my ears; sometimes I think I can still hear it in my empty apartment. I wish I could have recorded that beautiful melody, so I listen to it one more time.
When I look at the blue sky, it doesn’t quite look like a clear, crystal blue sky. Not like it once used to. It’s a reflection of a tear. One great big tear, filling the vast sky like an endless ocean.
I remember your touch. You were always so warm. I’d be chilled to the bone and all you had to do was touch me to melt me down. I’m surprised I never melted away into water.
That restaurant shop down the street, I can’t go in there anymore. It’s haunted. Too many ghosts wander its tables. I wish I had the courage to face them, to sit at our table by the window again. But I don’t.
I remember your smell. I can smell it on my clothes sometimes. It’s like a waif of a memory, lost among old arguments and fights. Like I treasure hunter, I sometimes seek out more of these memories.
Someday, I hope to be able to find enough of them to put back together what we once had. But that’s probably a fruitless search.
I’ve grown accustomed to the taste of tears. They’re salty, a bittersweet salty. I wonder if drinking them will make you thirstier? It’s about the only thing I can swallow nowadays. It’s amazing how one can grow so comfortable with something so bitter.
Do you still see him? Smiling over there. He looks really happy. That will be me again someday. I hope.
. . .
Have you ever been hurt so badly that you thought you’d never smile again?
