I have to believe that I was. If I am a true supporter of equality—of liberty and justice and all those meaningless words—then I have to believe I was as born with as many Moments available to me as anybody else. We all get them; the rare Moments where we keep our mouth shut and do we what we know we must do, lest suffer the silent consequences of either disappointment or death, and maybe find ourselves rewarded and our deepest wishes fulfilled.
Three hundred and forty one cars crashed in the Twin Cities last night and I was not among them.
I would have maybe never forgiven myself if I had been, for you were there, in the vulnerable passenger’s seat, on the phone, revisiting middle school and other such places where my nosy head isn’t allowed to peek into. Stare ahead, watch the road. See the ice sparkle in splotches on Lyndale avenue. My hands were shaking furiously until they were firm around the wheel; then they fused with the rubber and felt no need to jerk or twist. “Try the brakes,” very helpful that was, “Shit, shit, fuck, stop.”
That car isn’t braking,
Your hand, it’s shaking,
Oh, that.
And it was the scariest ride of my life, oh it was, and I was in charge of it; I just hoped you felt safe, that was the most important thing that you and anybody else I came into contact with on the squealing, sparkly streets could feel. Did we all feel safe? Can anyone feel safe without salt, or without someone else there, someone to hear you say “Fuck, fuck” and look at you worried when the car becomes a little loose and out of control and slipping to the curb and Fuck, fuck, this could be it but it’s never really IT is it?
Was that The Moment. I wonder, or could it have come after the most thrilling theater experience of my entire damn lifetime (complete with all the inside jokes turned inside out that James&I have shared since my birthday of this year, from the chocolate symbols of love to financial tips from Claudette! Eat the apple, sit on the floor, life is complicated & I am fed up with this world! The fat man sitting behind us with the grandest laugh I ever heard, and the football tossers standing around, doing their thing… Yes, I could hear the sex scene from the bathroom where I pissed for the whole song… And you were there to lean into and whisper the best lines no one else would quote to. It was everything I had imagined it to be for six months and more, and I can’t help but wonder if it would have been the same if you were somewhere else, where I expected you to be, instead of just one seat ahead, screaming SPOONS and MEANWHILE, BACK IN SAN FRANCISCO along with the rest of us…)
MEANWHILE, OUTSIDE THE UPTOWN THEATER, there were two ambulances and four police cars gliding on Lake Street trying to take control of the situation, the McDonalds across the street packed with those escaping from the sidewalk and running out of their skidded cars. It was three hours after midnight, though, and considering our state it made more sense to bring you (and your sister) home straightaway. And so maybe My Moment came then, as you both sat in the humming silver chariot as I danced around it, extending my arm to ferociously scrape the thick ice off the windshield, the windows, wave hi, bite down on my rotting teeth and skid back around to the windshield again. So that, too, could have been My Moment, embracing cold to bring you just the opposite, because like all Minnesotans I knew what had to be done on a freezing Saturday night.
But ah, that was nothing, nothing ever happens between us, does it? We’re safer in our beds than we are linking arms, and safer on the sidewalk than on poor wheels, spinning furiously to make it up all sorts of hills. The streetlights stretch for four miles, it seems, and the ice, oh god, the ice—Use Caution—somehow knew that tonight of all nights should have been My Moment, and the ice it outdid even the stars tonight in aligning itself for me to bring a Moment, even a small one, and somehow, despite gritting my teeth and bringing everybody home safe and even curling up on your basement couch to retreat from the cold until the morning melted all opportunity, I ruined the Moment, oh I did, I let it pass by me without touching its face or, well, anything…
I may not know exactly when My Moment came, but whenever or wherever it did, you missed it, staring out the fogged window or with weary eyes watching Nicollet stretch long and gleaming ahead of us, for approximately four miles that seemed to take forever to travel. And I do not know whose fault it was. But I did let it pass by, and though I wanted to rest my trembling hand on yours as we rolled over the reflective bridge, suspended over ice and quite out of control, I never let my hands go from the wheel.
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