to escape, to stall, because I was
downright exhausted. Ask me again
about the waterbed. About how our
bodies were each walls quite longer
than you would expect. If one were to
expect. The boneless mass, the mass-
ive mess. Ask me again. I might say
the same thing I always say: heading
home, after my first graveyard shift
at the cardboard factory. Large
squares of cardboard are heavy.
Little known fact: after the crash,
all four get out of the other car
and take their turns running to-
wards mine, cursing. We were in
front of the courthouse in Van
Buren (is there a courthouse
in Van Buren?). One had a
bloody head. Another had a
bloody arm. This was around
four in the morning. I lock
my doors, stay in the car,
which, surprisingly is still
upright upon its four feet,
not skewed in some kind
of awkward, twisted angle.
Well, I was facing the
opposite direction, as if
going back to work at the
factory where the squares
of cardboard outweighed the
logs that I would bring inside
to my grandfather’s place.
This heat was unnecessary,
however. Everyone was
hollering. The words were
not nice, the ones directed
at me, locked in my Cutlass
Supreme. I tried to ask if all
were okay, but it just came
out a whimper. And my doors
were closed. Each door locked.
Steam was forming on the wind-
shield. This was summer in
Arkansas. Perhaps it was my
agitated pulse after the slow
motion of the bang and the
double twist at the comp-
letely hidden intersection
(an embankment, an abund-
antly leafy low oak that over-
whelmed a stop sign, etc.).
This was the stuff of heart-
breaks in these middle-sized
towns (my inexperienced
perspective). Are you
following? Several eons
later, after four pairs of fists
clenched and unclenched
under what was the only
spotlight, a streetlamp
at the intersection that
only a few moments ago
did not exist. Did it, though?
The proof would show
that apparently it did.
And so. Thanks to which,
while no one was seriously
injured, my sheepishly white
Cutlass was totaled. And
history shows that I went on
to finish undergraduate school,
and spent two years of work-
ing in a very non-gentrified
downtown Little Rock, after
which I moved (not to offend
Northwest Ohioans, but)
to the armpit of the nation
for graduate school. And
all of this before I would
possess another car of my
own (which, inevitably, was
repossessed; but that is
another story). So, living
in the two largest cities
of my life, thus far, both
exemplars of what public
transportation is definitely
not, I spent without a vehicle
of my own. But I did it. The
four football players from Alma
went home that summer night.
My ticket was dismissed.
The violence of the night
was nothing humanly
physical, despite the
threats. Except, of course
for that one thud-like crash
as my fender slammed dir-
ectly into the front pass-
enger's door of the mov-
ing sports vehicle, over-
filled with four bulked-out
boys (who were definitely
not on their way back
home from work). After
which my car spun a-
round two and a half
times while I gripped
the steering wheel so
tightly that there were
bruises on my palms
for the following week
(my only physical injuries,
thankfully). I lasted two
more weeks at the card-
board factory. It had al-
ready been a long
summer. The last I
would spend in the
town I lived for my
first 17 years. I went
back to college, back
to dreamland, back
to the fantasy-world
of my sophomore
year; the year I would
first start ‘meeting’ a
guy (the same one
the entire school year),
often at the top of
the outdoor but walled-
in concrete stairwell on
the side of the biology
building. This happened
on quite a regular
basis, as it turned
out. Usually on week-
ends when both of
our respective room-
mates were out for the
weekend. He had a truck,
too. Which meant, as awk-
ward as it might sometimes
be, our meetings did not
necessarily occur only on
weekends when one of us
were without roomies. And,
now that I think about it, there
were probably about as many
such fun-filled, invigorating week-
ends as there were weekdays.
