Monday, February 2, 2009

198. THE ACCIDENT

THE ACCIDENT
All that gamesmanship went for nothing in the light of the
midnight moon. I was standing on 34th Street, thinking about
it all, when the thought struck me that whatever I'd
done had already a history of its own. Out of my
control. The light changed and two cars careened into
one another - the drivers got out yelling. The taxi-driver,
wearing the purple turban, tried to remain within reason,
but the other guy was rabid - some young-turk finance
type in a silver Benz, nearly new, screaming about
the crushed door and fender. Almost as if the
whole thing was racial, he emphatically finally pushed
the taxi-guy against his car. A shouting match ensued,
but by that time some cops had arrived, broken it up,
and walked the young kid away. The rest, I figured,
was paperwork and bullshit and not much else.
Today's raging mind stops for nothing - paper, like
elastic, stretches and bends, stories are woven, and
tales head out of control. All for nothing, or the sake
of a dollar, or some stupid explanation of status or
achievement or rank or love. I realized, immediately, that
it didn't matter to me; I never know what people
are talking about anyway.

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