IX

It was raining today. Not that pleasant rain that carries with it a faint smell and feeling of freshness and velocity, but an icy rain coupled with vicious wind ripping through the thickest jacket and laughing with its steely corruption. And it didn’t bullet down with passion or violence; it was like a sad story oozing out from the clouds and falling down lazily to the earth, disparagingly and sluggish. I felt branded and insecure.


“That red mustang ran that light and almost hit you.” I was walking briskly with a thousand rants running through my mind and hardly heard the older man beside me, blatantly making a statement directed at me through my shielding hair. I jerked myself out of enmity and further wrinkled my brow, knowing the straight line next to my left eyebrow would be cruelly indented and give off a “piss off” glare.

“What?” My voice was cracked and dry from disuse. I’d sat through an hour and fifteen minute lecture on how JD Salinger defined “love” and was not feeling as alert as I should have been.

“That red mustang ran straight through that red light and nearly hit you.”

“Oh? I didn’t even -”

“You should be more careful.” The man gave me a condescending look and crossed right in front of my path in the direction of the business building.

“Yes, Father,” I mouthed at his turned back, feeling like throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the commons and screaming that “I can’t control whether or not somebody’s gonna run a red light, ass hole!” But I held my tongue back, wagging brutally within the cage of my lips, and picked up my pace to get to my car before the 2-hour limit was up. Something about his manner was so demeaning. He had to run to catch up with me, too, just to reprimand me for walking across the street when the little walk signal lit up. And I looked, but didn’t see anyone coming obscenely fast. Anyway, the insurance money would be pretty kickass at the moment. Maybe I should go play in traffic. I could use the beer money.

But douche bags will be douche bags. I got to my car and threw my shit in the front seat. The cab itself looked like a dump, and the dash was covered in a layer of thin dust from rolling through summer camp with the windows open. So it’s a nostalgic thing for me. Everyone keeps telling me to clean it off, but I kind of like it there. It’s a reminder of the good times, and I need that in the dead cold heart of winter, when people are dicks and we all actually realize and accept that we’re alone in the end.

I drove in the city and nearly rear-ended a few Richmond drivers. No one can stay in their lane, and when the buses are driving in the right lane they take up most of the lane beside them reserved for non-bus traffic. So Broad Street ends up looking like a mass exodus of the surrounding area with people driving crazily away from some zombie outbreak. Resident Evil IV could easily be shot on and around Broad, near the new government building on 7th, particularly.

Visibility sucked. But I got to Murphy’s Law and slipped on my heels from the back seat of the trash-mobile. My feet chilled instantly when I removed my suede boots in preference for my black heels, and I sighed. “Meeting band member #65.” But it wasn’t so bad. The short young man sitting close to the entrance sucking on an Icehouse bottle seemed okay, and we moved to a table and talked business. We shot the shit for two hours, me downing 3 Yuengling’s and him trying to keep up.

“You know how to put down a beer,” David laughed, sipping gingerly on his bottle. I remarked it was easier drinking out of a wide-mouthed glass and dually noted I was taking it slow. I folded the napkin under my drink into an octagon and turned the napkin over so that the folded edges were face down on the table. David did the same. I noticed when I came back from the bathroom for the second time, and he remarked how I had inspired him to fold his napkin into the similar shape, adding a smile to the end of the phrase. The creepy black man sitting near the bar with a great view of me kept staring, and I kept avoiding his glance.

“We’re having a party on Sunday for the Super Bowl, if you’re interested in swinging by. So far the count’s up to 30 people if you wanna bring friends.” Casually David stuck his hand in his jean-pocket and looked remorsefully at my car. We had exited the bar and were having that awkward “soooo I’m leaving” conversation. I was glad he couldn’t see the cab in the dark.

“Cool. I don’t have plans yet. Sounds like fun; I’ll see if I can make it.” I didn’t know if he regretted asking me after that answer, but something in his face signaled to me that he only offered to be nice, and expected a soft decline. I wasn’t too worried about offending him though; upon paying for my beers and my thanking him profusely, he had made the comment that I’d “definitely make it up in singing with the band”, and signed the receipt left-handedly. So I had him hook-line-and-sinker, and he hadn’t even reviewed my YouTube vids since the first time he heard them several months ago. From my hungover debut with the BluesTones he had deduced that I would be a perfect fit.

We parted ways and he got into his truck, interestingly enough parked adjacent to mine, and I heard the engine start with a howling muffler rumbling underneath. My car nearly sputtered out when I turned the key, and I knew I had to get gas if I wanted it to start in the morning. I think the Exxon lady was onto me when I walked in the front doors and wanted $10 on 2. She gave me that “you look like you’ve had something to drink in the past 8 minutes” look and kept her eye on me when I walked out. A train whooshed by with an obscenely loud horn blowing right next to the damn Exxon station, and I fumbled with the nozzle insertion. Ever since my dad tried to refuel my car with a gas can and dropped the top of the metal connector into my tank, nozzles have hated dishing out the fuel. I never know when it’s completely full because the damn nozzle cuts off every 3 seconds and I have to jiggle the thing to get it to keep fueling. Either way, I was pissed at the cold rain slicing open the skin on my hands, and flattening my hair to my scalp, and I was constantly looking for a cop car to show up and tell me the lady in the shop had called and was worried I would endanger myself and others on the road. I got home completely unscathed, and so did my car.

I think the moral of the story is that people should mind their own goddamned business. If I get killed because I was stupid, it’s my own fuckin’ fault. But if some idiot in their expensive mustang runs a red light and slams into an individual following the walk signal rules, it’s their fuckin’ fault for breaking the fuckin’ law. No old man need reprimand me for being a rule-abiding citizen.