So last night I dreamt that I visited my old lab and my former boss was standing in the hallway eating dates. Her funding had been cut in half so she was carrying folders of grant applications under one arm. When she saw me she smiled like she knew something I didn't and asked, "How's it going?"
We walked silently down to her office, and she periodically spit date pits into a cup, like it was tobacco juice. "So," when we finally stopped outside her door, "When are you getting back into a program?"
I knew she was asking if I was going to stop wasting my life and go back to school. I felt like I might cry or hit her but instead I just said, "Why would you even ask me that?"
"Come on," she started, "we all know you just gave up."
"Just because I didn't follow the tenure track you think I'm a failure? " I sputtered.
She opened her mouth but I cut her off. "For your information, I'm very happy in my position. I'm making a difference."
"Are you?" she asked. "Well," and she paused to spit a final pit into the cup and set it down. "I guess that's that isn't it?"
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Preparing for the Bahamas
This really happened though it could easily have been a nightmare.
The day after Thanksgiving, I was lying on the treatment table at the Silver Springs Medical Spa in North Vancouver while an esthetician ripped the hairs out of my lower body. I had not worked with this girl before and her accent was confounding me.
In the course of chit chat one sentence in particular eluded me and after asking her to repeat herself three times my natural Canadian politeness kicked in so I just nodded and smiled. My other natural instinct, namely obsessiveness, continued to work on the translation problem until I realized that one of the keywords used was "Brazilian".
I spent the next twenty minutes using my yogic breathing to combat not just the awareness of my healthy Celtic hair roots leaving my body, but avoiding any ill-advised calculation of the pain to shaft diameter ratio given how much beefier the hair north of my thighs is compared to anywhere else.
I still have no idea what she asked, but perhaps the barrier of my underwear was sufficient to communicate what my words might not - ie please leave me covered. In any case, I left with most of the arctic circle intact.
I drove home to begin the easier part of prepping for the Bahamas: packing a suitcase.
The day after Thanksgiving, I was lying on the treatment table at the Silver Springs Medical Spa in North Vancouver while an esthetician ripped the hairs out of my lower body. I had not worked with this girl before and her accent was confounding me.
In the course of chit chat one sentence in particular eluded me and after asking her to repeat herself three times my natural Canadian politeness kicked in so I just nodded and smiled. My other natural instinct, namely obsessiveness, continued to work on the translation problem until I realized that one of the keywords used was "Brazilian".
I spent the next twenty minutes using my yogic breathing to combat not just the awareness of my healthy Celtic hair roots leaving my body, but avoiding any ill-advised calculation of the pain to shaft diameter ratio given how much beefier the hair north of my thighs is compared to anywhere else.
I still have no idea what she asked, but perhaps the barrier of my underwear was sufficient to communicate what my words might not - ie please leave me covered. In any case, I left with most of the arctic circle intact.
I drove home to begin the easier part of prepping for the Bahamas: packing a suitcase.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
tropical storm in Seattle
I wake to rain pounding the windows, wind whipping the house. I half-expect to open my curtains to see palms trees thrashing the pre-dawn air, open my slider to hear the crashing surf. It feels just like the last week I spent in the Bahamas.
Everyone said it was unusually cold that week, at least ten degrees cooler than normal. Which was somewhat comforting since the only thing I kept wishing while there was that it was at least ten degrees warmer. Well that and... will those $*#%!$-ing bugs stop BITING me?
I sit in my Seattle bed and reminisce by scratching. There are more noseum bites on my arms, legs, and torso - even my feet and fingers - than there is tanned skin. If I was a calomine lotion girl, I'd just pour thirty of the melted strawberry ice cream bottles into a bathtub and crawl inside. As it is I have used up a whole tube of hydrocortisone cream and am getting set to crack a new one.
Thunder rumbles in the distance while I look at the steady glow of my one am (1254 to be precise) clock radio, and this almost finally breaks the spell. The frequent windstorms in Bahamas lacked thunder, but that didn't stop them from shaking down power lines; the power in our hotel went out so often that I never actually got a chance to set the flashing just-woken LCD of the ancient clock radio on the nightstand to the correct time. Instead I'd click the shutter on my camera, press play, and mentally adjust the timestamp by three hours.
But here I am, in the middle of the night, awake, mentally adjusting the glowing numbers on the clock as if it will anchor me, feeling my dreams fade. It's exactly like every night on my just-ended tropical vacation. I had a lovely time but it was cold, itchy, and I couldn't sleep.
Everyone said it was unusually cold that week, at least ten degrees cooler than normal. Which was somewhat comforting since the only thing I kept wishing while there was that it was at least ten degrees warmer. Well that and... will those $*#%!$-ing bugs stop BITING me?
I sit in my Seattle bed and reminisce by scratching. There are more noseum bites on my arms, legs, and torso - even my feet and fingers - than there is tanned skin. If I was a calomine lotion girl, I'd just pour thirty of the melted strawberry ice cream bottles into a bathtub and crawl inside. As it is I have used up a whole tube of hydrocortisone cream and am getting set to crack a new one.
Thunder rumbles in the distance while I look at the steady glow of my one am (1254 to be precise) clock radio, and this almost finally breaks the spell. The frequent windstorms in Bahamas lacked thunder, but that didn't stop them from shaking down power lines; the power in our hotel went out so often that I never actually got a chance to set the flashing just-woken LCD of the ancient clock radio on the nightstand to the correct time. Instead I'd click the shutter on my camera, press play, and mentally adjust the timestamp by three hours.
But here I am, in the middle of the night, awake, mentally adjusting the glowing numbers on the clock as if it will anchor me, feeling my dreams fade. It's exactly like every night on my just-ended tropical vacation. I had a lovely time but it was cold, itchy, and I couldn't sleep.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Christmas in November and Hell on Earth
I went up to Squamish BC this weekend to see the fam - it's hard for us to find a time in December that works for everyone so we this year we're doing Christmas the weekend of US thanksgiving. Really nice hotel room on the local golf course, portable pre-lit tree, brunch in the hotel in the morning, a trip to my sister's construction job site in the afternoon, and fish and chips takeout for dinner. Then we opened presents. What could be more traditional?
Really it has been delightful. It snowed fairly heavily this week, and the entire Sea to Sky corridor, on which Squamish is one of several possible way stations, is set right inside a mountain range. The sight of Santa himself driving his sleigh across the alpenglow couldn't make this more seasonal and festive.
Last night I dreamt I was on a boarding school university campus. I was married to a man; my husband and I were taking different degrees so I'd see him between classes. He was in the dorm for early risers. As I was on my way back from a really late night film class, I ran across him in a narrow bed waking from sleep. He took off his trunks under the covers and tossed them at me. "Is that an invitation?" I asked. He replied sarcastically but in the affirmative.
I went to get ready and ran across an old girlfriend. She showed me her six-pack from recent workouts and at the graze of my hand across her bare stomach I felt like I was melting and drowning. We made out; it was hot and very risky, right in the middle of the morning in a building full of my colleagues. Creeping back to my dorm I spotted my old boss seated in an open air lecture within line of sight of where I had just been. We made eye contact and even though I couldn't tell if she had seen me, I flushed with guilt. She leaned over to someone else in my department and whispered.
Of course when I got back to my husband's dorm room he was already up and gone. I wondered whether I should try to explain where I'd been.
Next door was the fiction library building. I walked in through the glass door, which streamed with condensation from the exhalations of all the people already inside meeting the winter cold outside, and pulled a book off the shelf at random. It turned out to be a handwritten account of the end of the world, illustrated by pictures of tunnels going to hell.
"The entrances were set in pairs and threes across a great wall, under a fiery sunset. There was an enormous communal wailing and the rank smell and bitter taste of sulfur as we drew closer to the rippled mouths of earth. People hung back, afraid, but each in turn in the vast line of humanity, pushed forward by the frightened masses behind them, was sucked through one of these holes like a straw, feet-first, so that we could see the horror on their faces as they left us."
Next to this book was a first edition copy of The Cat in The Hat.
Really it has been delightful. It snowed fairly heavily this week, and the entire Sea to Sky corridor, on which Squamish is one of several possible way stations, is set right inside a mountain range. The sight of Santa himself driving his sleigh across the alpenglow couldn't make this more seasonal and festive.
Last night I dreamt I was on a boarding school university campus. I was married to a man; my husband and I were taking different degrees so I'd see him between classes. He was in the dorm for early risers. As I was on my way back from a really late night film class, I ran across him in a narrow bed waking from sleep. He took off his trunks under the covers and tossed them at me. "Is that an invitation?" I asked. He replied sarcastically but in the affirmative.
I went to get ready and ran across an old girlfriend. She showed me her six-pack from recent workouts and at the graze of my hand across her bare stomach I felt like I was melting and drowning. We made out; it was hot and very risky, right in the middle of the morning in a building full of my colleagues. Creeping back to my dorm I spotted my old boss seated in an open air lecture within line of sight of where I had just been. We made eye contact and even though I couldn't tell if she had seen me, I flushed with guilt. She leaned over to someone else in my department and whispered.
Of course when I got back to my husband's dorm room he was already up and gone. I wondered whether I should try to explain where I'd been.
Next door was the fiction library building. I walked in through the glass door, which streamed with condensation from the exhalations of all the people already inside meeting the winter cold outside, and pulled a book off the shelf at random. It turned out to be a handwritten account of the end of the world, illustrated by pictures of tunnels going to hell.
"The entrances were set in pairs and threes across a great wall, under a fiery sunset. There was an enormous communal wailing and the rank smell and bitter taste of sulfur as we drew closer to the rippled mouths of earth. People hung back, afraid, but each in turn in the vast line of humanity, pushed forward by the frightened masses behind them, was sucked through one of these holes like a straw, feet-first, so that we could see the horror on their faces as they left us."
Next to this book was a first edition copy of The Cat in The Hat.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Workday redux
I woke at 6am having dreamt I did all the things I plan to do today at work. Of course the dream also had pirates and an international alien drug running conspiracy... NOT. And.... REALLY?!?!?!
Apparently it's not bad enough that instead of sleeping cozily through a snow day with my arms wrapped around a hot beverage and/or person :D, I'm working on Thanksgiving. Now I get to do my work twice.
There was a lot more drama in my dream than I expect in reality. I think there will be an N of 2 in my building today and the other person will likely be the security guard. In my dream the halls were decked with scientists doing experiments and drinking. FTR the reason there is no public service effort to propagate the Don't Drink and Do Science message, is because there is no real need for it.
There was also a creek that ran through my building and I was constantly moving my lab around to different buildings on campus in order to avoid the thugs that were hunting me down.
I shouldn't complain though. Really. In fact that was in my dream. I had a conversation right before waking with a postdoc that works down the hall. I explained to her that I was channeling gratitude.
Then I caught a glimpse of a man dressed all in black sneaking down the hallway, ninja-style. So I excused myself and moved my microscope to another room.
Happy US Thanksgiving!!! Today I am thankful that I am not really the target of an international gang of science poachers.
Apparently it's not bad enough that instead of sleeping cozily through a snow day with my arms wrapped around a hot beverage and/or person :D, I'm working on Thanksgiving. Now I get to do my work twice.
There was a lot more drama in my dream than I expect in reality. I think there will be an N of 2 in my building today and the other person will likely be the security guard. In my dream the halls were decked with scientists doing experiments and drinking. FTR the reason there is no public service effort to propagate the Don't Drink and Do Science message, is because there is no real need for it.
There was also a creek that ran through my building and I was constantly moving my lab around to different buildings on campus in order to avoid the thugs that were hunting me down.
I shouldn't complain though. Really. In fact that was in my dream. I had a conversation right before waking with a postdoc that works down the hall. I explained to her that I was channeling gratitude.
Then I caught a glimpse of a man dressed all in black sneaking down the hallway, ninja-style. So I excused myself and moved my microscope to another room.
Happy US Thanksgiving!!! Today I am thankful that I am not really the target of an international gang of science poachers.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Dream in four acts
I had a dream in several acts, like a Shakespearean play or - if that's too lofty - a tv series. The same characters reappeared in subsequent dreams and the conversation and plot referred to earlier events.
I slept fitfully last night, which normally would result in me getting up extra early. But I've got a headache that drugs can't touch so the thing I most wanted to do every time I woke up in the night was go back to sleep.
I dreamt that I was dating a guy in my dance class. In reality this is someone who is good looking, sweet-natured, a terrific dancer, and also someone in whom I have no erotic or romantic interest. In the dream neither one of us were dancers. We met in a library that was in the middle of shifting from the Dewey decimal system to the Robot intervention system. Every time I went to look up a book it had been declassified by one system but was not yet in the new system; essentially it was in library cataloging limbo. We bonded over being human in a confusing and digital age.
The library became our shared condo and also a lecture hall; two of the our fellow classmates - a short curly-haired blonde and a tall silent redhead - also lived in the library. We slept in the master bedroom which was also where the rare books collection was housed; they slept in the study. In the daytime, various professors stood at the door to the library to give lectures that virtually no one could hear or see because the acoustics in the library absorbed rather than reflected sound, and because the book stacks obscured almost any clear line of sight. We diligently sat on couches and took notes anyway. There was a lot of whispered "What did he say?"
I woke up to a blinding headache, and exhaustion so profound it seemed impossible to go foraging for drugs. I knew there were none in the house, but I suspected there were some in my car. Instead I went to the bathroom and drank water straight from the faucet, then stumbled back to bed.
My boyfriend and I moved into a one-bedroom house in the suburbs with our library roommates. We slept in the master and they slept in the living room. There was a sun room with lots of plants at the back of the house. None of us were in college anymore. The roommates worked together waitressing at a local diner and my boyfriend was in construction. I taught at the local high school. But we went to night classes at the local university together sometimes, not as official registrants, but just to sit in the back row and listen.
In class one night we met an amateur filmmaker who doing a documentary on relationships. He wanted me to discuss how my lesbian marriage had been different than my current straight relationship. I declined but gave him permission to interview my roommates.
The redhead was too shy but the curly-haired blonde loved being in front a camera; she had all kinds of opinions and as she talked about how sad it was that my boyfriend and I never seemed to have sex I realized she was jealous and would take my place in a heartbeat given half a chance. I knew he wasn't interested in her but wondered what kind of damage she could do by continuing to live in our space.
I woke up to the same blinding headache and the same series of judgement calls: yes, in excruciating pain, no not willing to put on clothes and go to my car, yes thirsty, no not willing to get a glass from the kitchen, and now unconscious.
We were having lunch on the patio with my boyfriend's family and friends around a big white plastic picnic table. My roommate's comments were still bothering me and I realized that I had never had sex with my boyfriend and that since we moved into the house we barely touched anymore - there was no privacy. So I took his hand, and when he looked at me, I kissed his forehead, eyebrows, cheeks, lips; his expression was pleasant surprise, and then we kissed for real. Under the table where no one could see, I shifted my leg so it was against his crotch and pressed, heard him make a sharp intake and then release a moan into my kiss. I moved against him again. I wondered how the people around us felt and then I got lost in the slow, delicious seduction and stopped caring.
I wondered why I had waited so long.
I woke and slept again and this time I was living in my childhood home with at least fifteen other people, some family and friends. I was single. The roommates and their partners shared my sister's old bedroom, I was in my own room, thankfully alone. The bathroom she and I used to share was still full of all the things I own now; I realized that I had failed to clean it for company. I waited impatiently through three other people's showers and discovered dildos and vibrators and lingerie still sitting out in plain sight.
I went down to breakfast. The small kitchen was stuffed with people and the stove had so many things going on it seemed like pots were sitting on top of pans. I cooked an egg for myself and somehow destroyed two of someone else's eggs that were sharing the same pan. I apologized, and tried to replace them. It took five eggs to recreate their original breakfast because I'd drop the egg, or over cook it, or break the yolk. The last egg to be rejected, gushed blood on opening. I wasn't hungry after that so I gave them my egg instead.
I am awake for good now and ambulatory so it's off to the car for drugs, off to the kitchen for a glass of water, and maybe a quick check to make sure my bathroom would not be unfit for company.
I slept fitfully last night, which normally would result in me getting up extra early. But I've got a headache that drugs can't touch so the thing I most wanted to do every time I woke up in the night was go back to sleep.
I dreamt that I was dating a guy in my dance class. In reality this is someone who is good looking, sweet-natured, a terrific dancer, and also someone in whom I have no erotic or romantic interest. In the dream neither one of us were dancers. We met in a library that was in the middle of shifting from the Dewey decimal system to the Robot intervention system. Every time I went to look up a book it had been declassified by one system but was not yet in the new system; essentially it was in library cataloging limbo. We bonded over being human in a confusing and digital age.
The library became our shared condo and also a lecture hall; two of the our fellow classmates - a short curly-haired blonde and a tall silent redhead - also lived in the library. We slept in the master bedroom which was also where the rare books collection was housed; they slept in the study. In the daytime, various professors stood at the door to the library to give lectures that virtually no one could hear or see because the acoustics in the library absorbed rather than reflected sound, and because the book stacks obscured almost any clear line of sight. We diligently sat on couches and took notes anyway. There was a lot of whispered "What did he say?"
I woke up to a blinding headache, and exhaustion so profound it seemed impossible to go foraging for drugs. I knew there were none in the house, but I suspected there were some in my car. Instead I went to the bathroom and drank water straight from the faucet, then stumbled back to bed.
My boyfriend and I moved into a one-bedroom house in the suburbs with our library roommates. We slept in the master and they slept in the living room. There was a sun room with lots of plants at the back of the house. None of us were in college anymore. The roommates worked together waitressing at a local diner and my boyfriend was in construction. I taught at the local high school. But we went to night classes at the local university together sometimes, not as official registrants, but just to sit in the back row and listen.
In class one night we met an amateur filmmaker who doing a documentary on relationships. He wanted me to discuss how my lesbian marriage had been different than my current straight relationship. I declined but gave him permission to interview my roommates.
The redhead was too shy but the curly-haired blonde loved being in front a camera; she had all kinds of opinions and as she talked about how sad it was that my boyfriend and I never seemed to have sex I realized she was jealous and would take my place in a heartbeat given half a chance. I knew he wasn't interested in her but wondered what kind of damage she could do by continuing to live in our space.
I woke up to the same blinding headache and the same series of judgement calls: yes, in excruciating pain, no not willing to put on clothes and go to my car, yes thirsty, no not willing to get a glass from the kitchen, and now unconscious.
We were having lunch on the patio with my boyfriend's family and friends around a big white plastic picnic table. My roommate's comments were still bothering me and I realized that I had never had sex with my boyfriend and that since we moved into the house we barely touched anymore - there was no privacy. So I took his hand, and when he looked at me, I kissed his forehead, eyebrows, cheeks, lips; his expression was pleasant surprise, and then we kissed for real. Under the table where no one could see, I shifted my leg so it was against his crotch and pressed, heard him make a sharp intake and then release a moan into my kiss. I moved against him again. I wondered how the people around us felt and then I got lost in the slow, delicious seduction and stopped caring.
I wondered why I had waited so long.
I woke and slept again and this time I was living in my childhood home with at least fifteen other people, some family and friends. I was single. The roommates and their partners shared my sister's old bedroom, I was in my own room, thankfully alone. The bathroom she and I used to share was still full of all the things I own now; I realized that I had failed to clean it for company. I waited impatiently through three other people's showers and discovered dildos and vibrators and lingerie still sitting out in plain sight.
I went down to breakfast. The small kitchen was stuffed with people and the stove had so many things going on it seemed like pots were sitting on top of pans. I cooked an egg for myself and somehow destroyed two of someone else's eggs that were sharing the same pan. I apologized, and tried to replace them. It took five eggs to recreate their original breakfast because I'd drop the egg, or over cook it, or break the yolk. The last egg to be rejected, gushed blood on opening. I wasn't hungry after that so I gave them my egg instead.
I am awake for good now and ambulatory so it's off to the car for drugs, off to the kitchen for a glass of water, and maybe a quick check to make sure my bathroom would not be unfit for company.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Bicycle freeway hangover
I was keeping up with traffic on I-5 on my bicycle and two other bikers passed me going really fast on the right; they must have been going 70. We were approaching an off-ramp and one of them drifted into the exit lane; at the last minute she swerved to get back on the freeway and lost control. Her bicycle somersaulted, and she slid face-down across the pavement for what seemed like a Very Long Time. The Metro bus behind her skidded to a stop just inches from her head.
I ditched my bike and went running towards her; I saw her traveling companion, also running. He had been riding slightly ahead of her when she fell off her bike so he was still fairly far away. He was talking on a cell as he ran. I got there first, yelled over my shoulder, "Did you call 911? She needs an an ambulance." He was still talking on his cell, but nodded, mouthed 'yes'.
I flipped her over. She had a lot of bruises and abrasians. One of her eye socket was broken; her eye rolled around inside like a blue and white marble. The impact had knocked off her helmet but she was conscious. And talking. "I got to get my bike," she said, struggling to sit. "Sorry I'm in your way, I'll be out of here right away."
"You need to stay down for a minute," I told her. "You fell and we're going to have someone look at you and make sure you are OK."
"I'm fine, I just need to stand up," she said.
I picked her up and laid her on the blue velvet couch attached to the front of the bus. "Just stay here for a second and catch your breath, OK?" At first she struggled against me and tried to stand again but she was too weak. A second later, as her friend pulled up, panting and out of breath, she collapsed and started shaking and crying. I pulled her close and gently smoothed her hair. "It's all right," I said. "The shock is wearing off so you're going to be emotional."
"It hurts," she said, sobbing. "My face."
"Close your eyes," I said. "You gave yourself a black eye and that will help it feel better." I didn't really know if that was true but I wanted her to stay calm. The bus had been nearly empty so apart from two old ladies and the bus driver, there was just me and the other biker. "She needs ice." I looked around. The off-ramp led to a small shopping complex but all the stores were shuttered and covered in graffiti.
"I'm going to go see what I can find," I told the woman's friend. I sprinted across seven lanes of traffic, and crawled up a steep embankment. At the top was a decrepit plywood barrier about eight feel tall topped by razor wire. I kicked it till I had made a decent sized hold and crawled through. On the other side, trash-and-broken-glass-strewn streets, dusty straw-colored grass, and old brick apartment high rises, speckled with cracked or shattered windows. No stores anywhere. Children ran screaming across yellow lawns, kicking balls, spilling into the streets indiscriminately. I saw no adults and no cars.
"Hello?" I walked down the sidewalk till I got to the first building. At my knock, the door swung wide. To get to the apartment on the main floor I had to climb a pile of books and squeeze through a small louvered window. But on the other side, the apartment was clean, bright, simply furnished. Sun streamed through a kitchen window. A woman in a short brown dress smiled at me and profferred a glass of orange juice.
"I just need ice, actually. Thanks though. Do you have any?"
The woman held the glass outstretched a little further. "You really should drink this; it's good for you. What are you doing out there all by yourself?" Her tone was like a kindergarten teacher, so convincing and disconcerting that I wanted to look myself up and down, reassure myself that I really was five foot six.
"There was an accident," I said. "On the freeway. A woman hit her head and I need to keep the swelling down till the ambulance arrives."
The woman's brow crinkled momentarily then she smiled and shook her head at me. "You kids have such elaborate games. But that's a little grisly; maybe you should play dress-up or tag instead."
Behind me, three children around 8 came pelting through the door and started talking all at once. "Mama, mama, there's a hole in the fence. And a loud noise. And Sarah went through it and we couldn't stop her. And a cat followed her."
The woman's face turned ashy; she collapsed and lay unmoving on the floor. The kids turned to me. "Can you help us get Sarah back?"
I followed them to the fence and squeezed through the hole I had made. From the top of the hill I could see a little blond girl, maybe six, almost at the bottom, headed right for traffic. "Hey!" I screamed, running downhill. "Stop." She kept moving. I caught up to her just as she had crossed the first painted lane; a car rocketed by and honked in the next lane over as I pulled her back to the shoulder. Bent down, out of breath. Took her face in my hands and said, "Don't. Do. That. Ever."
She stared at me blankly. I heard another siren wailing in the distance. The three other kids stood huddled next to the hole in their fence.
I woke up in a sweat. My phone had four text messages all within the last two minutes. Chirp chirp. Now five.
My head hurts from the ill-advised vodka shot I chased some wine and cocktails with last night. I am feeling very New Year's Resolution Ish - deciding again to quit drinking. Not that I remember doing anything extreme. I just don't know that at 39 I need to wake up feeling this iffy about consciousness.
So, if you'll excuse me, I've got a date with a gallon of water and possibly a fried egg.
I ditched my bike and went running towards her; I saw her traveling companion, also running. He had been riding slightly ahead of her when she fell off her bike so he was still fairly far away. He was talking on a cell as he ran. I got there first, yelled over my shoulder, "Did you call 911? She needs an an ambulance." He was still talking on his cell, but nodded, mouthed 'yes'.
I flipped her over. She had a lot of bruises and abrasians. One of her eye socket was broken; her eye rolled around inside like a blue and white marble. The impact had knocked off her helmet but she was conscious. And talking. "I got to get my bike," she said, struggling to sit. "Sorry I'm in your way, I'll be out of here right away."
"You need to stay down for a minute," I told her. "You fell and we're going to have someone look at you and make sure you are OK."
"I'm fine, I just need to stand up," she said.
I picked her up and laid her on the blue velvet couch attached to the front of the bus. "Just stay here for a second and catch your breath, OK?" At first she struggled against me and tried to stand again but she was too weak. A second later, as her friend pulled up, panting and out of breath, she collapsed and started shaking and crying. I pulled her close and gently smoothed her hair. "It's all right," I said. "The shock is wearing off so you're going to be emotional."
"It hurts," she said, sobbing. "My face."
"Close your eyes," I said. "You gave yourself a black eye and that will help it feel better." I didn't really know if that was true but I wanted her to stay calm. The bus had been nearly empty so apart from two old ladies and the bus driver, there was just me and the other biker. "She needs ice." I looked around. The off-ramp led to a small shopping complex but all the stores were shuttered and covered in graffiti.
"I'm going to go see what I can find," I told the woman's friend. I sprinted across seven lanes of traffic, and crawled up a steep embankment. At the top was a decrepit plywood barrier about eight feel tall topped by razor wire. I kicked it till I had made a decent sized hold and crawled through. On the other side, trash-and-broken-glass-strewn streets, dusty straw-colored grass, and old brick apartment high rises, speckled with cracked or shattered windows. No stores anywhere. Children ran screaming across yellow lawns, kicking balls, spilling into the streets indiscriminately. I saw no adults and no cars.
"Hello?" I walked down the sidewalk till I got to the first building. At my knock, the door swung wide. To get to the apartment on the main floor I had to climb a pile of books and squeeze through a small louvered window. But on the other side, the apartment was clean, bright, simply furnished. Sun streamed through a kitchen window. A woman in a short brown dress smiled at me and profferred a glass of orange juice.
"I just need ice, actually. Thanks though. Do you have any?"
The woman held the glass outstretched a little further. "You really should drink this; it's good for you. What are you doing out there all by yourself?" Her tone was like a kindergarten teacher, so convincing and disconcerting that I wanted to look myself up and down, reassure myself that I really was five foot six.
"There was an accident," I said. "On the freeway. A woman hit her head and I need to keep the swelling down till the ambulance arrives."
The woman's brow crinkled momentarily then she smiled and shook her head at me. "You kids have such elaborate games. But that's a little grisly; maybe you should play dress-up or tag instead."
Behind me, three children around 8 came pelting through the door and started talking all at once. "Mama, mama, there's a hole in the fence. And a loud noise. And Sarah went through it and we couldn't stop her. And a cat followed her."
The woman's face turned ashy; she collapsed and lay unmoving on the floor. The kids turned to me. "Can you help us get Sarah back?"
I followed them to the fence and squeezed through the hole I had made. From the top of the hill I could see a little blond girl, maybe six, almost at the bottom, headed right for traffic. "Hey!" I screamed, running downhill. "Stop." She kept moving. I caught up to her just as she had crossed the first painted lane; a car rocketed by and honked in the next lane over as I pulled her back to the shoulder. Bent down, out of breath. Took her face in my hands and said, "Don't. Do. That. Ever."
She stared at me blankly. I heard another siren wailing in the distance. The three other kids stood huddled next to the hole in their fence.
I woke up in a sweat. My phone had four text messages all within the last two minutes. Chirp chirp. Now five.
My head hurts from the ill-advised vodka shot I chased some wine and cocktails with last night. I am feeling very New Year's Resolution Ish - deciding again to quit drinking. Not that I remember doing anything extreme. I just don't know that at 39 I need to wake up feeling this iffy about consciousness.
So, if you'll excuse me, I've got a date with a gallon of water and possibly a fried egg.
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