The mechanic is obviously a fraud, this is not how a motorcycle should work, I tell my friends. The small grey car I was given (lent?) for my pains goes on its own, nobody at the wheel, and I pursue it on the bike, against traffic, in convoluted roads. There’s police, stopping a flashy sport car, but I can’t ask for help, as they’re focused on harassing the driver. As I am distracted, the possessed economy car crashes and I with it, and I flee. I’m not terribly injured but my pants are ripped and I look positively disreputable, I’m forced to walk back, in areas off limits to pedestrians, although theres plenty of young punk. I enter a crowded school auditorium or arena, bizarrely open. It looks like a carnival, or a giant jungle gym, or a water park without water. As I try to leave I lose my backpack, with cards, keys, id, everything. I can’t go home or eat, or anything. Somehow I meet my friends who offer cash, but I don’t particularly want it. They’re nearly all married with children, it’s unseemly. Still I take $20 and find a dilapidated bus/ jitney office and buy some first aid. There’s no way to get a ride, so I abscond in a theater underground. I look for my backpack backstage, crawling in soft stone cuniculi, but the talent need to rehearse, and I’m in their way. I must pass through the lockers which are divided by sex but enormous and looking like those of a swimming pool or an operation theater block. It’s quite embarrassing but I have no choice and I pretend they’re patients

Suburban DC


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