he woke up to the tearing of steel speckled radials on asphalt somewhere far away beneath his feet. three hyrdoponic portabello-sized bullet holes made like paint on the two-inch thick polymer glass windows near his head. soft, crisp thuds hit the doors. what was an almost motionless ride that lulled him into a sleep filled with vague dreams too abstract to make any sense of now, awake, quickly became a rocking boat on troubled water. the custom job Escalade swam on the road; it’s shocks tirelessly absorbing the heaviness of its steel/carbon reinforced siding.
the glowing screen from the onboard diagnostics laptop set aglow the beads of sweat forming on the driver’s brow. soundless mouths. that’s all he saw through the glass panel separating the driver’s cockpit from the passenger’s cabin. the second driver, doing most of the yelling, pressing his whole self in what could only be words of little joy, reached under his seat and pulled out a flat black case. a thick, stubby gun appeared, and with a suddeness the victim of the stubby – a small, mexican-make car – bulged and exploded. it stopped, resting in its strips of flailing reds and oranges, and dust that it had kicked up from the road, shrinking slowly as the back window of the Escalade framed the wild, chaotic growth of an unending forest. then the ride was like before, when he fell asleep. the drivers were looking forward, peering through nothing but foliage and a faint road. the beads of sweat gone, the gun and case tucked away. in the silent cabin, the fatigue pulled at his body again, and he closed his eyes. a gradience of manufactured womens’ faces danced in watercolors multiplied on top of each other. their fragmented bodies jumping from beat to beat through the thick mesh of music.
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LeeVy took two minutes outside the bodega. he was counting. he always had to count with Roub. he tells LeeVy it’s in and out, but getting around the city is a bitch in the summer. the tracks get too wet, so the cars stay back; tunnels bogged by flooding. instead, they took bikes over braHklan bridge, through the makeshift tents covered so thick with exhaust dust that if LeeVy tapped on just one canvas roof a thick cloud would appear above it. the bridge and its braHklan side were for campers; those who chose teepees made from scavanged tarp, canvas, buckling plywood, orange splotched corrugated steal, and miles after miles of rope. who makes that much rope, anymore? biking through the tent town was like experiencing a kaliedescope of scenses and coming out the other end craving some roadside food. that’s why chEyena town was on the other side; ready to fill up stomachs with moo shu fake pork and the melt-apart toro.
