Can Blood Cells Have Car Accidents? (She's never coming home)

Adrian leaves for a show.  As his hand drags the door behind him, I yell, "Hop the fence."  Nara is the easiest place to get in for free. 
   "It's my friends show," he reminds me, agitated at my lack of morals.  Or something. 

  The television screen blares drama, with its antiquated rabbit ears poking from up top.  Some program that has overstayed its welcome on NBC.  Soon, no channel will be welcome on this network.  Or any other network, for that matter. Not with antennae. 
   The screen shows me an attractive, normal looking Asian girl with dark curly hair.  And a bruise on her back.  She tells a doctor it was easy, making fifteen thousand dollars a week.  Just five hours a day, twice a week, she tells him.  She isn't sad looking.  She's paying for her mom's health insurance.  An orderly or nurse, an extra, a red-shirt, barges in as the girl tells the doctor, "You wouldn't believe how much men are willing to pay to strong arm a cute Asian in bed.

  I decide to go outside to smoke.  No one is home and I am restless.  I sit on my brick stoop and light my cigarette.  Autumn air rolls through thick Summer smog.  The streetlights are out and I am the only one on the street.  This is eerie, I think.  I wish someone were here.  I look at my phone, longing for a call.  I open it.
  It is 10:28.  I scroll through saved numbers.  I scroll through people.  I know who I want to call.  The blue highlight hovers over a name-- six letters. I exhale smoke and watch it in the light of the window next to me.  It dissipates, like a handful of sand thrown in clear, undisturbed water.  A ball of wind cuts the smoke, forming a parabola for a moment.  I watch until the broken tail of it disappears.  It remains, but fades from imperfect vision.  Only gods can see the smoke now.  

  I hear footsteps to my left and look.  A couple walks toward me.  To my right, a neighbor exits his house, slamming his door.  Several groups of people begin crowding the small intersection.  Car lights approach.  I look at my phone.  It is exactly 10:30 PM.  Soon, the intersection is constricted.  Cars wait for pedestrians.  Pedestrians for cars.  Give and take.  This is the artery, and these the blood cells.  The intersection is a valve with no stoplights. 
  
   Can blood cells have car accidents? 

   I begin to remember a short story Ray Bradbury once wrote.  In it, a character crashes his/her car.  People hear it and come from every angle.  Horrible accidents-- the greatest spectator sport.  These people, in droves like zombies, shuffle in and watch as the car owner struggles inside his crumpled tin can.  These are the same people you see at every accident.  Literally.  The same ones, the strangers, the faces you forget.  They are always there.

  I think of how close we came to dying.  The all consuming blaze tumbled forward, snowballing fire, and we just stood there, lining the streets.  "Oh shit," came to our minds, but most of us were too far removed from the situation.  So many living blocks away, huddled for the sport. 
 
  "Fuck this," I think.  "And fuck company."  I need to study.  I need to eat.  I need to put this fire out.  I drop the cigarette and squish its cotton entrails with my shoe.   
 

Comments

[Mary]

I like your blog so much, and there are just some differences with others'. Hope there will be more wonderful things in your blog. Happy every day!

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