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I see my head bashed into a brick streetwall, graffitied by blood and acne. Blood, pus, and acne.
“Ow!” I shouted out of my ass.
“Cover your mouth while you’re eating,” shouted a policeman, ironically eating a gurgling cauldron of ramen outside Pho 55, in one of those slatted wooden tables with the slatted chairs to match. There was only one table outside the restaurant, which struck me as odd. My blood and pus and acne, painted on that U Street corner building, brick and concrete, nodded in agreement.
“I don’t wanna go to school!” I bellowed, neck hanging limp as a looth tooth from my pancake brain.
“You don’t go to school!” shouted a teacher from across the street, looking quite teacherly on the descending steps of Michael Jackson Elementary.
You didn’t call me out on that just there. I said “descending steps.” What are descending steps? Be sure to call me out next time. I can’t be allowed to get away with stuff like that. If I do, it’ll be ruinous for my eggo.
Good. Yes. That was a test. You passed. Eggos…yum.
Meanwhile the officer stood up––(knocking the ramen onto the sidewalk floor) (it was an accident but he didn’t look down, hoping the dramatic framing might make it look intentional)––and said, “Hold it!”
“Did you just let that ramen drop on the floor?” bellowed the teacher. “You goofy ass.”
“Do you know how fast you were riding?” The policeman ignored her and walked towards me. What was left of me. I mean all of me was left, matter can neither be destroyed nor created, but you know, what was left intact. Namely, my shoulders and below.
“I was on a bike,” I said. “Couldn’t have been more than 30. Tops.”
He coughed.
“Officer,” I amended.
“It was probably…like…35,” he grumbled. “Too fast.”
“Probably?”
“I was eating…I’m off the clock!”
“Then stay there,” I muttered.
“What was that son?”
“I ain’t your son, Daddy.”
He kissed me on the forehead.
Then we made sweet love, right there on U street.
God Bless This Nation.
BREATHE!