roadkill
when you don’t drive, your schedule is set at the mercy of others. i don’t take it for granted, i know what it means to be someone who only exists in public when another person agrees to give up enough of their time to let them. i’m grateful that my mother is willing to take me anywhere, even if it means that i have to arrive at least an hour early to wherever i’m going. she usually picks me up on time. tonight, she forgot to take me home.
it wasn’t always like this. i used to be a fairly decent defensive driver until i couldn’t be present enough to make the right decisions. that’s what i keep saying. right now, i can take an uber home but i still don’t have a key. it’s easier to keep walking than to go back inside and admit that i’m a child.
i’m walking around a couple old craftsmans in a residential neighborhood next to the bar, moving away until i'm out of sight from the windows. i’m freezing my ass off in my standardized thigh length dress and heels, made up with the wide smile of a pageant girl that acts as an apology for those who choose to interact with me. it’s a calling card. i wish i could be enough for someone to understand what i’m leaving behind.
there is a man across the street, walking towards my direction from thirty feet away. his outline blends into the sidewalk in the dark. it seems like he’s walking his dog, but there’s only one pair of footsteps. i choose to stand in place.
it’s the same as hiking up your skirt when you know you’re never going to get fucked. it doesn’t matter if you’re alone. you think there should be someone out there who can smell it on you, and decides to come close enough to make the real impact. the problem is that the access doesn’t matter when it’s not worth the risk.
a few years ago, when my mother and I lived in one of her violent boyfriend's apartments, we weren't allowed to park our car in the official lot. instead, we had to park on the opposite side of a busy street, next to a steel fence that bordered a mostly rural walking trail in rancho penasquitos.
to get to the car, we’d have to jaywalk and dart across the street, dodging cars coming off an exit from the I-15. most nights, we’d take long drives in circles within a 5-mile radius, waiting until he had been asleep long enough for us to crawl into bed without worrying about the next fight i'd have to break up. it was a largely unfamiliar area for us, but during every single one of our drives, my mother would point out the thing she recognized most.
this is the place where danielle van dam’s parents went to swing. they closed it down after she was killed, but everyone still knows the reason why they let anyone inside.
when crossing, i would always stop at the double lines and imagine what it felt like to be a dead animal in the road. being crushed under a tire is the same as the weight of a large man when you’re small. your face sinking into the bare skin that takes over your line of vision. pressed hard enough to make it something permanent. when you’re dead, you don’t remember what it felt like to be in pain. that becomes their job.
the man on the street walks past without a single look. my mother doesn’t return my calls. i take the uber, and stand in her parking space until she comes home.