On Transit Road

[A woman at a Transit Road restaurant told troopers someone tampered with her car. The investigation revealed it wasn't the woman's car; hers was a few parking spaces over.]

Lorraine's head was steady but her mind swirled like a snowglobe in the hands of a tweaker. She thought she was walking steady and straight. Maybe. She couldn't tell if she was peaking or crashing.

But there was Jack on her car, dirty white face and tattered holiday scarf around his non-existent neck. She stopped and started rummaging around for her keys, looked up with a start and moved off to the side when a car following the arrows honked at her, finally dumped everything out on the trunk of her car, images swirling as she pawed through the pens and keyrings and notes and extra sunglasses and gum and Rolaids rolling toward the edge. Red Reno Hilton die; car keys. She held them in her mouth and swept everything back into her bag, bent over and picked up what'd fallen, found two pennies and a paper clip and threw those in, too.

Lorraine's brain spun faster in the bright sun, reflected and magnified off the parked sea of white vehicles. Her key wouldn't fit into the lock. She turned it over, tried again. Turned it over, tried again. Turned it over, licked it off, tried again. Jammed. Fuck. She turned around, leaned her ass against the door. Gloria; she had to get home.

She saw a pair of well-fed state troopers sauntering toward their patrol car. She weaved over, steady as a rock. "Officers! Hey, officers! I can't get into my car. Someone tried to jimmy the lock. Can I use your slim jim?"

"Ma'am, we can't let you use official state equipment. Which vehicle is yours?"

"That one." She ran. "This one, right here. See? The lock's messed." She pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head, squinted, put them back over her eyes.

"That's your car."

"Yes! With the Jack In The Box ball." She started mashing the key against the lock. "It's fucked up."

"Well, somebody is. Ma'am, that's a squad car. I'm going to need to see some ID."

Lorraine's world spun as her purse dropped to the ground, contents spilling over the asphalt.

What You See

It was one of those rare summer evenings. Absolutely clear skies. Not too cold. Let the gulls and whales play in the fog-blanketed seas and leave her the stars tonight. The stadium blanket her head rested on could not hold back the smell of grass, or the dirt underneath, worms furiously working to pile it on the green. Around her, the traffic and sirens and voices of The City, and the perfume of jasmine she supposed on the softly moving air.

"Hey, look. A satellite."

"Where?" She felt the blanket pull as her date swiveled his head around.

"There, just over the trees. See it?"

"The moving one, right? Yeah. You getting cold?"

A breath of laughter. "Scoot closer. It's not really cold tonight." But when Donny's arm touched hers, it felt feverish against her chicken skin. She thought of sitting in the cafe, warm thighs touching under the small round table.

"Hey, look." He moved his arm to point. "A plane."

"Ha-ha, okay. Let's go get a drink then. Someplace close." They stood up, holding the blanket corners, giving it a good shake. "Goodbye, beautiful red, white, and blue stars!" She gave the sky an exaggerated salute. They started walking across the grass, back to his car.

"What, like the stars are patriotic or something? You're not a closet conservative, are you?" He laughed.

"I don't think so! Are they even allowed here?" She held his hand. "No, just saying goodbye to all the beautifully colored stars. I hardly get to see them in the summer; I miss that."

"But they're all white." He opened her door for her, went around to the driver's side.

"No they're not." She put the folded blanket on her lap.

"They are in the planetarium." As he pulled away and headed out of the park he put the roof down. "Not too cold for you, right? If it is, just say so. I know a place on Irving; that's close."

She leaned her head back and looked up. No they're not. They're blue and yellow and red and if you were good orange and green, too. "Are you colorblind?"

"Ha. No colorblindness or male-pattern baldness, lucky me...they're not white?"

"Only some of them."

"Huh." He pulled over.

"Are we there? Is this Irving?"

"No." He leaned back in his seat, looked up at the sky. "Show me a blue one."

She smiled, which he couldn't see, and pointed their clasped hands at the sky.