« on: July 10, 2014, 03:28:00 am »
In that horrid path of thought the images of GREs never taken and women never courted, jobs never applied for and the more that joined the list the heavier my hand grew, the more I cranked the gas on the little Honda, the faster I sped to Bogota. Kilometers died faster than the sun. I could not save the latter and so I killed the former.
In the outer barrios of the great city huge congregations of commuters waited for buses to bring them home. Behind them people cooked outside tiny spaces once as brightly colored as any Colombian building and now stained and, here or there, collapsed, hills of broken clay tile and cracked poured concrete forgotten backgrounds to families living their lives together in the mountains. And like the mountains themselves they blurred at the corners of my eyes and were gone and were remade ahead, copies of the same image to me, like the old Scooby Doo cartoons, cheap animated hallways looping past as the gang scrambled down. Maybe I would be able to pull off the Debt Collector’s mask and find some petty real estate scammer underneath.
Roads signs started popping up for the museums and I stopped. The traffic still did not move and in the cramped space I dragged my ride to a ninety degree angle and swerved into the little gaps between bumpers to the far side of the highway, and the exit.
I hoped the signs would still lead me to the Museo del Oro and I nearly prayed they would do so but after the Cathedral I could not know what to pray to for that short nightmarish moment where I was a god. I shuddered remembering the guardians again and I shuddered twice for the thought seed and then I banished the idea. I had the very real fear of the ride in me and could afford no room for the Veil.
The ramp was easier to maneuver on than the highway and I skirted to the left of traffic. I remembered Rodri again, back in Cali, our host cheerfully swerving around the mountain on the way up to the Cristo Rey, singing all the way and the motorcyclists fearfully edging around him. I put myself to spotting more Rodris and got ready to steer hard. There were none, and I threw myself in with the throngs of city bikers toward the museum.
My road ended with the sun still in the sky. I didn’t stop to check the time and barely managed to turn off the engine and put up the kickstand. I ran.