On Beauty & the Wasteland - v.2/issue 4 - Kite

On Beauty & the Wasteland

V.2 / issue 4

Kite

Flashing lights catch my eye in the rear view mirror. I’m in the left lane at a light about to cross Main Street heading to a coffee shop on a Sunday morning. I haven’t yet had my breakfast. I glance into the right lane, and seeing that it's empty, I pull through when I see another police vehicle coming towards us. “I’m going to cause an accident, and in front of the police,” I think. I pull into the gas station on the corner where I park. 

Both police vehicles park behind me. They aren’t going around me, racing ahead towards some other disaster or crime scene. “I am the disaster or crime scene,” I think. Perhaps something has happened, bad news? They have tracked me down to this exact location in the space time continuum. Is this how it’s done? 

I turn off my engine and remove my key, tossing it onto the passenger seat beside my purse, my writing, a bent up copy of Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery and Other Stories, and the miniature American flag from the Veteran’s Day parade someone had given to me. “Thank you,” I whisper as I put my head back against my headrest, consciously exhaling. 

My heart is pounding. I can’t catch my breath. When I see the officer’s head, I reach over to put down my window, noticing my hand is visibly shaking. I look up at him like a small child who doesn’t know what is happening. “What have I done?,” my eyes must say. I hear the voice of the police man… the man who is a police officer… this other homo sapien who’s head happens to be in my car window and is dressed in a uniform of authority saying, “I’m sure it's some DMV issue,” in the way of an explanation as I hand over my license and registration. 

“I’m scared… I can’t quite catch my breath,” I say breathily, my hand on my heaving chest looking pleadingly into his brown mustached face, his warm eyes. Resting my eyes on him for a moment, I find no comfort. He takes my documents to his vehicle.

My mirror’s busted on the passenger side. That could be enough. Enough for what? I don’t know.  Couldn’t he do anything he wants? They — there are multiple of them. I have no idea what I have done.

In a flash, I feel my wet naked teenage body, purple hair dye dripping down my spine, the aging policeman’s unwavering eyes boring into me as he forcibly removes me from the shower while ordering me to get dressed. Four-point restraints.

Simultaneously, I feel a policeman looming over me in my small kitchen saying that I have been accused of a crime I did not commit. My mind is racing, confused. But maybe I did it? Could I have? I’ve been there before. I can imagine doing it … is it my imagination? I didn’t do it, did I? This large man in his bulky protective gear, gun resting at his side, is sucking all the oxygen out of the world. 

If police are protecting and serving me, why do I feel so afraid of them? 

This police officer returns to my car. “You are free to go. Sorry for the inconvenience,” he says as he passes my documents to me through my window. Still hyperventilating, hands shaking, heart pounding, I drive to the coffee shop just around the corner where I park, sitting in my car trying to catch my breath. As my nervous system begins to settle, I feel tears well up behind my eyes. My knees shake as I get out of my car. 

The man behind the counter is familiar to me. “Kite festival?,” I inquire, glancing towards his sweatshirt. I feel like a kite, blowing around, soaring, exposed, torn on a crosswind, tethered tenuously, coming to the end of my rope. As I acknowledge this to myself, my heart calms down. I can breathe again. I feel my feet on the ground encased in canvas tennis shoes. My heart swells with gratitude for this man in his kite festival sweatshirt, for existing in this place and time together with me. “In St Pete’s”, he replies. “Florida?” “Yeah.” I order my breakfast and a cup of coffee, leaving him a generous tip.