I was driving a very small car, fire engine red with white trim. It was so low to the ground, I felt as though my ass were dragging across the ground, derriere road rash. It wasn’t light out yet, gray light just forming on the horizon. I drove to the institution early so I could get a good parking spot. The lot got very full, very fast. I was in a rush, so I had to wash my hair in the back seat of my tiny car. Luckily the car came with a shower nozzle, the kind you find in a kitchen, thin flexible metallic hose with a black nozzle. You just press the button, and water scoots out. I’m glad I had the option. Clean hair is so important.
After I washed my hair, my friend came and tapped on the window. I couldn’t see her face because her shaggy dirty blonde hair covered her facial features. She wore a large beige cable knit sweater, reminding me of a rug with a zipper up the front. She was going to take my car and drive it to an unknown location. She got in and dropped me off at the institution door, but it was too early. I told her I’d wait until the doors opened, but she insisted and drove back to the parking lot. I said, you’ll never get a parking spot. She wasn’t worried.
When we got back, the lot was full. Another little car was driving into the space we vacated. Only little cars were permitted in the lot. So many little cars in one place, you’d think a clown convention was happening. We drove around and around but couldn’t find a spot.
My friend was getting frustrated. I asked her if she wanted to come for dinner. She was very appreciative. She said sure. She’d come back and pick me up at four. I walked to the steel institution doors. They opened.
She arrived right on time at four. We drove to my house. I was living in another car, a station wagon with the same wood panels adorning so many basements in shag carpet time. My house had no wheels. It was parked in an abandoned lot with a large park flowing outside the back window. The wagon had a portable stove on the back.
I poured some wine. We drank and she admired my Swedish shelving. They’re Olof Palmes’. We sat in the front seat drank wine and ate steak and potatoes and green beans. After dinner, we jumped over the front seats and sat in the back and listened to the radio. A song came on about a guy who was in love with his best friend’s girlfriend. I said I hadn’t heard the song in a long time. She said the guy was an asshole. Who does that?
We pulled the seats back and laid down in the wagon area, watching the trees and the grass sway in the park. We drank the rest of our wine. We talked until the park was only shadows. She said, it’s getting late. I have to work in the morning. After she went home, I got out and lit the wagon on fire. I walked down a dark road, wishing I hadn’t given her my car.
Last night I was on this Navy ship. All military metal with haze gray walls. We are about to get torpedoed by a submarine. I ask the captain why are they shooting at us? He says they don’t trust us. They want to shoot before we do. They want the advantage. Fear. Too much fear.
The Spicy Road 