There was wind and rain and blinding headlights

turning into

streaked tailights in a second.



We were standing on the side of the

5

somewhere between disneyland and

L.A.



How we hated that city

and to be broken down halfway seemed

that hell was the last stop before

limbo shimmered in the distance.



Some slivers stick with you till the end,

and the glare of passing cars

left sploches on the inside of

my eyelids as i tried to flag them down.



The sliver in question was

of course

of the female variety, shivering and

beautiful and distracted, with a far off look in her eye.

No matter how often she claimed to despise our destination

I knew that it was home to which she was

returning,

always returning just as the sun

disappeared behind clouds and

gleamed like that final beacon of the West that

millions of teenagers across America dreamed of

as it ate OUR dreams alive.



Sometimes dreams make wrong turns,

ending with us on the side

of strangly familiar highways at 3 am

wondering which way home really was.

I guess that is what it would be like

if the sun got lost

on it's way across the ecliptic.



But these are the dreams that never die,

and these are the dreams

that stick with you

like that rusty nail that will ultimately

bring down the shoulders of the city

on which we were trying

to bridge the gap between yesterday and tomorrow.



The new day dawned on

a tow truck with us in the front seat,

silent and staring at the wasteland of cracked concrete

and shattered senses.

We left the car at her cousin's,

90 dollars poorer.



Walking down Sunset at 6 in the morning,

there were lonely rockers and sidewalk

gurus disguised as bums.

The lady with her shopping cart piled high with trashbags filled to

bursting

seemed the pinnacle of sanity as

we looked for a cup of coffee

wordlessly.



It seemed that the weight had settled in with each mile

and our heads now sagged under the burden of

smog and sunlight.

Anonimity was our only blessing;

we were merely passers-by,

glitches in the static hum.



We found our coffee in L.A.'s version

of a mom and pop shop,

something between gourmet and diesel fuel.

The coffee didn't want to talk.

Neither did we.

Somehow the conversation we weren't having

seemed to have more weight

than any we'd ever had.



Two years of running seemed to have left her

withdrawn and confused; lost in her own hometown.

Two years of running, one failed addiction after another,

she'd grown tired and

frightened that the answers she'd found

didn't apply within the confines of this

urban morass...



She finally cleared her throat and I

tore my eyes away from her reflection in the dingey window...

She looked just as muddled across the table

as in the pane.

I leaned forward expectantly,

rocking the table slightly and sloshing

black liquid on the surface.

Everything in Los Angeles seems to be in

disrepair.



"It's almost 8," she said,

her voice ragged from lack of sleep and

excessive smoking.

I grunted my lack of surprise.

"Knowing him, my dad'll be at the hospital at 9."

"Should we catch a bus then," I asked.

She stood and pulled her last smoke from the pack.

She murmered that we should

walk.

In my head I was cursing

my car's blown water pump.



Sharing her cigarette,

we started the trek down to the

pre-grave.

The Doctors said it was cancer,

malignant.

Unexpected,

the way tragedy always is,

though to hear her speak of it,

it was neither unexpected nor

tragic.

Her mother had never been a saint,

though apparently it wasn't too late

for martyrdom...

Everyone, even a crucified murderer,

had that last chance for redemption.



The community hospital of the City of Angels

appeared to be on the losing side of the war

as we sat on a bench out front to gather our wits.

It was 10 o'clock.

I wasn't sure if my vocal cords still worked,

but it didn't matter;

I had no words for this.



She thought she was a trial

I shouldn't have to undergo.



Once upstairs, her father stood as the last anchor left in oblivion.

Mother lay still, merely a wisp,

a shell clinging to life to see her daughter smile again.

Pain filled the gaps that the iodine and morphine

left in the air between them.

I stood outside, in what shadows

were left by the flouresence;

I didn't want to add my weight.

Doctors passed,

murmuring of sorrow and pain and sad times.

I felt they had no idea.



Minutes passed as days,

and the hands on the clock

choked me with every tick, tick, tick,

before she finally emerged.

She looked like she'd seen a ghost,

and I battled every fiber of my being

not to hold her close.

I felt she would let me know when it was ok.



The elevator passed floor after floor,

seeming to speed toward Hell.

Limbo is getting closer.

Eternity passes with no words.



High noon sun glared,

splitting my head wide open to fry my brains

as if the night hadn't done enough.

She staggered to our bench

like Atlas had passed his task to her.



And she said, "People say

I have her eyes..."

And they flooded...



There are floods that suffocate the land and

there are floods that sweep away all the debris left behind by

the storms of winter,

floods that fill a thirsty field and bring

flowers and shade on a hot day,

but the intensity and

immediacy is always the same

and I found myself drowning in one of the latter.



Dry and powerless, the concrete slab beneath me

left me cold and frightened as

I held her hand as if it were broken.

In the two years I'd known her she had never cried once.



The storm passed and the calm after was

brimming with an energy almost palpable, malleable...

so I kissed her cheek and said,

"Let's go home,"

as if the slightest noise would deafen her.

My bloodshot eyes burned with envy of her release.

I thought she took it for sympathy and turned my head away.



That sliver finally pierced my heart when

she nodded and whispered,

"home..."

Her grateful smile was weak

but no less beautiful or sincere,

and I realize now that she had meant

"I love you too."

03/28/2006

Author's Note: the best collaboration ever, done with one of the greatest writers i know, johnny fathom.

Posted on 03/28/2006
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Michael