“There’s no time to be idle,” he said.
At least that’s what I wish he’d say. It didn’t even have to be him, but someone, and with a great, feverish urgency.
“Now!” he/she would yell, turning a corner. Or better yet, under the guise of a coffee meeting, at some indiscriminate cafe.
Better. At a Starbucks, on Market Street, during the morning rush. Hiding in plain sight, the patrons none the wiser.
…Because things are out of hand! Or, things are getting out of hand?
I hadn’t come to that part yet. Either way, shit was going down and we had to act. We had to act fast and use our God-given sensibilities to fend for our Lives, save The City, protect The Children and the unborn. It was 2012, a Facebook virus was infiltrating the system,
Which system? Doesn’t matter.
The system, and unknowingly po–
the reverie ends abruptly, when a tiny assailant repels from its invisible bungee cord and hangs suspended between my eyes. Meanwhile, on this bright, sunny day, I’m pushing way past the requisite mph in the suicide lane on the Golden Gate Bridge.
I struggle to focus on my carpool companion, this aggressive stowaway. Come in and out of focus, it checks out to be a thick, brown, unhairy spider.
My breath recoils faster than a freshly salted snail.
Somehow, I’ve managed to keep steady; I have not crossed head on into traffic, or let my foot off the pedal for a moment. So all I can do is have a closer look.
It appears to be a tween-age specimen, nimble with pirouettes and back flips, and in a slow motion descend. It’s heading for a soft landing at the bend in my body, my tickle zone. The area notably reserved for hipster bikini bottoms and foreplay.
My eyes grow wide in horror and disbelief, and then I can’t help but think, ‘this is one of those “wide-eyed” moments.’ Like in both good and bad movies, or during The Real Housewives, (say, when one trashy hooker has disrespected another trashy hooker). A reaction reserved for truly shocking moment often told over drinks, read in a book or in a blog, not unlike this one.
In this moment, I feel this rush of authenticity; nothing that I am doing is feigned from social script or dramatic acting, but I am really. living. this. moment. A slice of life that is continually imitated in art. Not only do I feel authentic at this time, but also watched. The curtains have been lifted and its time for my close-up, or my soliloquy, I hadn’t decided yet.
An involuntary recognition of irony and a James Joyce-esque epiphany grabs hold.
The crazed urgency my daydream was trying to manufacture, and so poorly, was magically unfolding before me. It was not a he or she pulling me into life threatening peril, but a solitary spider, this arachnid assassin coaxing to crush me by the force of my own velocity and twisted steel.
I’ve somehow managed to make it worse. The octagonal ninja is now swaying in and out like a pendulum from my sudden outburst, causing it to quicken for the P zone. Oh yeah, I’m wearing short shorts.
By now I am halfway on the Bridge and this bastard has infiltrated past an unacceptable distance in the human to blood-sucking-Stephen-King-villian-insect ratio, and there wasn’t a good goddamn thing I could do about it.
If my fellow drivers only knew the potential disaster unfolding inside the cockpit of this little, grey Honda and the expert negotiation tactics of its pilot, all the prejudice of mundane Hondas and their equally mundane owners would be eradicated from collective consciousness. For all they knew, I was Sully Goddamn Sullenberger.
Without due process, I snap the driver side window down and expend a mighty phhhuffffffffffttttttt right at the guy. He alley- oops out the window and into oblivion, flying high above traffic and into the cocktail of exhaust and salted ether wafting off the coast line.