The Day

dedicated to people who don’t deserve it


I was high in the air when the rush sweep sent me off axis.  I remember the frozen atmosphere as I made my weightless turn, the shoulder below me driving farther forward as I began to fall back to earth.  Gone was the basketball I had once held, gone the desire to score it.  Down I fell, readying myself for the impact.

It was the wrist that touched down first.  Bone to bone to concrete to nothingness; gravity split on me—-and with an attitude.  Of course, I was still hoping for a sprain, but as the seconds went to minutes, I found myself less and less willing to call for passes.  When the game finally broke, I was relishing the thought of an ice pack, but not a weekend of incapacitation.

Luckily I had access to a first-rate first aid kit.  Well stocked and appropriate for this sort of recovery.  I drifted to sleep with only a faint murmur of tomorrow in my inner ears.


No such luck on the sprain.  I am off to the ER feeling every bit the wrongness that has invaded my lower arm.  In the rearview mirror I can barely see the workers who have been repairing my neighbor’s condo.  Pain is causing me to drift.  The professionals splint me and the pressure begins to subside.  Now reality begins setting in: There goes summer.  There goes basketball.  There goes…  The mixture of uncertainty and discomfort is nauseating.  Pharma-call is made and I get ready to settle in for an extended homestay.

Something is terribly amiss.  I have come back to my home and the workers are keen to talk to me.  I can sense the urgency and know it’s not good.

“Oye…que pasó con tu novia?”


“Nada.  Por que?  Pasó ella por acá?

“No hombre, la tercera cuartoamiga. La negra.”

I don’t know if it was MY face, or Santos’, that jailbroke the horror.  I know how I felt.  The sinking floor of your soul making straight for the center of the earth; the gaping chasm between what you know and what you can’t yet quite imagine making itself heard.

“No hay. Quién estaba aquí?”

“Señor! Apenas llevamos esa mujer a la gasolinera en Congress!  Salió con las cosas!”

I made my gimp popped way to the back of the pad and saw broken glass fanned out among the ivy.  I rushed inside and found my entire world in upheaval.  Everything had been ransacked, gone through, and handled…EVERYTHING.

I mean, I have never even imagined going through my belongings like this person must have.  Every paper, every nook, every single possession and stray piece of life had been examined with a singular mind.  Crack.  This must be the work of a crack fiend.  But it doesn’t seem sufficiently random.  If this had been a hard up junkie, I would imagine more recklessness.  Not the three partially consumed iced teas that were erected like watchtowers along the ruined landscape.  Obvious, that someone was in here without haste.

A knock at the door.

“Senor, podemos llevarte a donde llevamos esa negra.  A lo mejor este alla.”

So we went but she wasn’t there.  The attendant remembered her being there and pointed in a direction.  The trail had gone a bit cold though.  So I called the authorities and they sent a team to give my place its second working over for the day.


Sneezing and finding myself cooperating and chatting with the authorities.  The amount of fingerprints is startlingly sick.  I am among the fumes and the stirred dust.  The violation now creeps in.  The first person to every disrespect my home gave way to these clinicians of crime, and their combined negative energies were threatening to overwhelm the gentle spirits of sanctuary that had so far reigned in this place.  It felt sticky and thick, like ether full of burnt molasses.  I wanted to cast it out.  I wanted to burn some sage and say the words and reclaim…resurrect.

Once they were gone, I began the detailed search.  Downstairs Upstairs.  On the bed lay the silver box.  I believed it was my Dremmel set and expected to find some of my prize tools lifted.  But it wasn’t that box.  It was my papers.  My documents.

And what do you do sir?

“I’m unemployed.”

Not this box.  Titles to rare vehicles, birth certificate, passport, account information.  I’m talking 100% prime cut identity theft.  This woman knew what she was after and had hit the jackpot.  Maybe she wasn’t a crack whore after all.  Naw, now she started to appear in my imaginations wearing black leather and a certain poise.  I’m thinking somewhere in between Angelina Jolie and Macy Gray, but I could probably be convinced to go more Mel B meets Matrix.  Of course what I’m really pondering is how to shut the cracks down.  How to plug the hole in the window of my legality and livelihood to make sure I am not utterly destroyed.  The wrist could have just bent, but it broke.  The ER techs could be mending the sheep of just running one hell of a scam.  But I now turn to preventing them.  Now to protection.  Now to reImagine from here on out.

Happy 31st birthday to me.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *