"222"

you don't even know who he is. just some random guy in super wal-mart at two in the morning, but this time, instead of just flicking your eyes shyly at him, instead of just hesitantly meeting his eyes, his blue eyes, his hazel eyes, his dark brown eyes (ultimately, it doesn't matter) as you pass each other in the cat food aisle, each of you pushing your shopping cart like it's a duty, this time you pause and coyly cock your head to the left and with what you hope is nonchalance, say, "hey. um, do i know you?"

and when he mutters no and hurriedly walks off, you remember why you don't talk to boys in super wal-mart at two in the morning..

sitting in your car, you know you have to think of something to do, somewhere to go, someone to talk to. you turn on the radio. the glowing green numbers stare at you as you drive, a conglomeration of dashes and decimals mock you. fuck you, you mouth to the radio, and you turn it off. but the lcd display still yells the time.

2:22 2:22 2:22 2:22 2:22 2:22 2:22 2:22 2:22

you fumble in the glove compartment for a roll of red electrical tape. you rip a strip off with your teeth and place it over the display. the numbers are gone. you can breathe again.

you drive out of the parking lot of super wal-mart quickly, too quickly. back there, behind you, are more lights, and this time they are swirls of red and blue and sometimes white, dancing in your vision like disco lights. you pull to the shoulder, dust rising past the windows, the lights filter through it like sunlight illuminating all the things you breathe but don't want to think about.

he knocks on your window with stiff cop knuckles, and you open the door. he pushes it shut again and leans on it, and makes a circular, roll-down-the-window motion. you shrug and mouth the words, "it's broken." he pretends he doesn't hear you, so you repeat it, and then he steps away from the door so you can open it.

the cool, wet evening air coming in the opened door gives rise to goosebumps on your arms. you imagine you smell the stench of rotting flesh and honeysuckle in the air. the cop stands in the gap between your door and your seat and says, "no, don't you get up, ma'am. just stay there." you weren't planning on it, dickhead. you haven't even unbuckled your seatblet, you mumble this under your breath. he doesn't even notice. he's too busy shining his big phallic flashlight at your registration sticker.
you stare at your steering wheel and notice a small crack in the grey plastic just under the word hyandai. great, now you have to worry about the airbag bashing in your face you while you're drumming on the wheel to the soulless tunes of top 40 radio.

your brain kind of stutters awake when the cop shines his damned light in your face and says, "ma'am, i'm not going to ask you again. i need to see your license and registration," you fumble your license out of the damned little plastic pocket in your wallet, and as you reach for the glove box, and his thick, hairy hand rests on his nightstick at his waist and he says, "what are you reaching for?"

"my registration, dumb ass" you say. you hope you just added the ending descriptive in your mind. seeing as how he hasn't whipped that stick out of its loop and bashed your face, you're thinking you're safe. you get the crumpled registration papers out of the glove box and hand them to him.
you don't know how long you've been sitting there waiting for the crunch of cop foot steps to return because you've taped over the clock, which you now realize was a stupid thing to do because you'll just have stubborn adhesive residue to deal with after you remove the tape. it figures, you think. it just figures.

the cop comes back, his black boots crunching and his body lurches into your lap as he stumbles over a rock, and he scrambles up and apologizes to you, shuffling dust off of his uniform with those annoyingly ugly hands, and when you look at him and think, "Well, that was interesting." he interprets it as put-outedness, and he hands your license back and your registration back, and after a quick fumble of fingers, a small snow-pile of shredded paper. "your ticket," he says, and he crunches away again, and when he falls and goes, "oof," you close the door and skid away and wonder if you showered him with rocks.

you're on 49, driving with no destination, the stars buried somewhere beneath radioactive clouds and the roars and flashes of planes cutting through the clouds, trailing pink and purple jet streams, and you see a
guy thumbing it. you swing off into the shoulder and he comes to your window and makes the roll-it-down motion, and you open the door instead and say, "it's broken," and the guy starts to ask, where you headed..." and then he sees your face, lit up in the cargo light, and he snorts, and you remember why you never stop for guys on the freeway.