where that woman usually sits and see her leaning outside at me and shaking her head. Iâm driven down the block. I see that black man or black woman made up to look like a white woman peering into the ambulance as we go through the red light. I hear the street band play. I pass out. I wake up. Iâm in a hospital. Iâm in a hospital bed. A tubeâs in my arm. Another tube takes my pee. Several machines and monitors are at the foot of my bed. One doctor says to another that Iâve third degree burns over fifty percent of my body and Iâm not expected to live. A hospital aide says âSomeone by the name of Grace called.â A nurse says âYou really in great pain?â She gives me something to sleep. I fall asleep. I dream of my parents and my dog Red. My mother says âRedâs been taken away.â I say âWhere away?â My father says âNo use lying to you. Big Redâs been run over.â I say âWhere over?â My mother says âShe was run over by a steamroller and wonât be coming back.â I cry. The dream ends. I wake up. That incident never happened in real life. I once did have a dog named Red. She got old and bit me in the face. They had to kill her. I remember when they took her away. They came to our house and put her in a cage. I remember hoping Red would bite them. There was something about her viciousness so late in life that I really liked. But Red was put away. âWhere away?â I said. âYou still donât know what we mean when we say sheâs been put away?â my mother said. âNo,â I said. âNot in a trunk or chest of drawers,â my father said. I cried then. Iâm lying on my back now in the hospital bed. The food and antibiotic tubeâs been taken out of my left arm and put in my right. The catheterâs still taking my pee. With all the painkillers the nurse says theyâre giving me, Iâm still in great pain. The doctor says âYouâre improving.â The aide says âThat person named Grace called just before. What message you want me to give should she call again?â But I can see by their faces that itâs hopeless and I fall asleep.
The Village
The man crashed through the second-story window and landed on the sidewalk. He was lucky he wasnât impaled on the iron gate spikes in front of the building. I was tying my shoes at the time. Squatting near the curb and watching my hands deal with the laces, when I heard the crash and glanced up to see the man and glass. I covered my head thinking they were going to hit me. The glass did. I actually thought that about the man and glass. Things happened so fast. My thought processes, man and glass, screams from the street, screeching car tires whose driver didnât see the glass but thought the man was going to land on his roof. The glass riddled his hood and doors. Some glass landed on my head and clothes. One piece slit my cheek but didnât stay in it, and later a policeman said I should have the cut stitched, but I didnât think it was that bad. He said itâll make a scar if I donât get it stitched, and I said I donât think so and if itâs stitched theyâll be little scar holes where the needle went in with the thread. I held a handkerchief to my cheek till it was soaked and then someone elseâs handkerchief till the bleeding stopped. The driverâs handkerchief. I offered to give it back or pay for it, but he said it only cost fifty-nine cents plus tax. Then a policeman told him to get his car out of the middle of the street, and I never saw the driver again. The policeman was right. There is a scar. Not one I mind, though. People say it gives me character on what they donât say is a rather bland face. Maybe three people have said it since I got the scar a year ago. One person said âYou originally German?â âNo.â âNot educated there at least?â