Saturday, February 19, 2005

every now and then, life makes you bleed from every pore of you

I am fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

As I backed out, there stood destiny, amongst the rubble of the sky.

As I backed out, there stood fate, blowing me kisses, asking for sex, wanting me to die over and over and over again and again and again.

I am fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

There was the sound of metal rubbing on metal. Force from mass with inertia.

There was the orgasm of fate, blushing, rubbing itself against me, my car, his car.

I put her in D. I drove back into the parking spot. I got out.

I am fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

There was little damage on his car, plenty on mine. I stared to the ground. . .I almost cried. . .I wanted to cry. . .I wanted it to not have happened. But there was fate, and once she stole your virginity, once that moment in time happened, it could not be undone.

I was shivering. My jaw rattled. My arms shuddered. Goosebumps dimpled my skin.

Chris Kuntz, Mike Skorick, Kate, her brother Seth, stood out there with me. Stood in the cold. The freezing over. It was surreal. A dream, a dream I had always had in my head. One that I didn't want to happen, ever.

But it happened. . .

We went in and called the license plate number over the intercom. Eventually, they came. Eventually the lone cop car came, ushering in my doom.

The officer was a young fellow, he was nice about it.

The owner of the vehicle was an old, skinny man.

The officer filled out my doom for a long time. When he came out, he talked to the victim. Then the old, skinny man, and his friend who was smoking a cig, were free to go. He said he was sorry to me. That was nice to hear. . .but it did not undo it. Didn't make it go away.

It stayed.

The officer gave me back my license, registration, insurance information. Gave me my $50 citation. My doom was in these papers. A mark that wouldn't go away.

I am fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

I came home with the damage taped up. I sat in my car. I didn't want to go and tell my dad. I wanted this to be a dream.

I unlocked the garage side door. I stepped in. From the door into the house's window, I could see our dining room table. My dad sat inside, in his reclining chair, watching TV, oblivious. I felt like crying again, I stood there until I gathered myself together. I just wanted to stand there forever. I just wanted time to stop going.

My father was amiable as I stepped in. "What's the word?" he asked. I sniffled, almost cried again. He turned on the lamp and saw me. "I'm screwed," I said.

Then I told him what happened. Then he scolded me. "You're careless." And I was. And I am.

We were almost to the garage. He was still berating me. "I don't need your diatribe," I told him. I had already said this to myself over and over and over again in my head until it had driven me mad.

"Jesus Christ" he said, as I stepped out.

There stood my bold red car, with the duct tape on it, with the mark of doom.

He shook his head. He walked back to go inside. "Park your car in the garage."

So I did. I went back in. We found out how much the deductible will cost. . .$1,000. Around how much I have in the bank from working at the Steak Buffet for $5.65 an hour. I wondered how many hours that was. . .and I didn't want to know. Then I'll have to sell the car. . .

"I won't be able to drive to work tomorrow," I told him. He said I would. I said I didn't want to anyway. This was the end of me and the car. It was no longer mine. . .it had never been mine really. The bank's.

I am fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

Why my brain asks, and because it answers. . .because you are careless. . .because you didn't pay attention as you backed out. . .because it was fate. . .because, because, because.
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