Carpe Que Sera Sera
I black out again.
An accident? Sweet and Sour Christ on a Barbwired Sawhorse!
“You know, fella…I didn’t even think of that. Hmmm…that would have to be one hell of… No. No…sorry…I ran a few equations just now and I would have to say that the whole of physics, taking into account the amount of blood I lost, would certainly rule out that theory…”
He giggles and I take it as my cue, “So…your place or mine? Your place?”
“Oh shit…the precinct? Are you serious? I have to drag my bleeding ass down there? Don’t you know I’ve just been fucked up!?”
“Alright, but I have to put my newly unsoiled clothes in the dryer first…so I might be a little late. You keep that fire burning, ya hear?”
Yes…apparently I got the gay knocked into me…really hard.
On my way out, I look around the apartment for some tool of defense or violence. I’m not particularly jittery about going out…but why fuck around? There’s laundry to be done. Frighteningly, the only object even slightly worthy for this purpose is a plastic broom handle…hollow…that had better splinter on impact if it’s to be of any use.
I run across some kind neighborhood folks who saw the thing go down from across the street. They share their descriptions and sympathy with me. Then grandma pipes up. Staring down the street towards the scene of the crime, she says, “You gotta keep your head up.”
BAM! I pop her in the mouth. “Yeah…you were saying!? Eyes on the prize, Grammy!”
Spitting more dust than blood, she giggles, “Touché.”
My laundry secure, I run across another semi-witness who has heard more than he’s seen. The kid imparts his wisdom thusly, “Yeah. It’s the summer. The kids love to fight in the summer.”
Ho ho! Fight!? That is a word that in no way characterizes what took place. Look…I am in fact a damn fine pacifist…but if you want to fight, square on up and if it can’t be avoided I’ll fuck you up enough just so that you won’t bother me the rest of the day. But this was a sucker punch from behind. What kind of dumb machismo satisfaction must these assholes actually gain from this kind of game? Do they go around giggling about what a bad boy they are when they shit in their own pants? Yeah…that IS terrible, but you DID shit your own pants.
“You take drugs, Danny?”
“Good. Then what’s your problem?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Ty Webb and Danny Noonan in Caddyshack.
I make it to the precinct and converse in person with the intern, spittling blood into the air. I no longer pursue flirtations with him, instead waltzing through the paperwork, describing the back of my assailants’ heads and miscalculating their height and wardrobe. He shares his sympathy. I’m lighthearted and witty…but not flirting. He punches me a receipt and I’m on my way.
I didn’t expect much more. I had no real information and I really just wanted to go through the proper motions for census figures I suppose, but the empty ending still hit with a little bit of a dull thud.
This is a dull feeling that is now suddenly abstracted into a rainy, bad-ass crime fighting nostalgia as I’m listening to Harold Faltermeyer’s immortal theme to the Beverly Hills Cop film series…so disregard the last paragraph’s subtle melodrama.
In all seriousness, this dull feeling fades faster than it is felt, fluctuating alongside a steadily growing exhilaration that I more and more rarely have the privilege to feel. It is a feeling of joy in rediscovering that we are not simply smooth little eggs shepherded through the styrofoam crates of life, safe for all of our refrigerated existence so long as we are told to fear that which our carriers say they protect us from. Sometimes…even in the best of hands…the egg still breaks.
As the threat…any threat…every threat…is always real, an event like this is a real life-affirming reminder, restating with an astringent vigor that I am still my only real defense…an anarchist breath of actual air…the most complete relief…even if I still end up with egg on my face.
In almost all other ways, I am unaffected by this. Were I able to accurately identify my assailants, have I thought about beating their heads in until they are no longer distinguishable as either organic or synthetic material? No.
Ok…I’ve thought about it…like twice.
But truthfully, I am not more fearful. I am not more hateful. I will…in this and other things…simply keep my head up…rolling with the punches…the heavy half of a pool stick behind my back.
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be rich?
Here’s what she said to me:
Doris Day “Que Sera Sera”
I’m Thomas K…and I’m not.
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