I loved directions. “In case of fire, break glass.” So there was a fire. I broke
the glass. I salivated for more directions. But there was none. The fire waltzed
and continued to rage—Xanadu, lies. The laws of flight and fall perceived
rebellion. Its park, so dark. A huge hum of darkness I have never heard,
listened to. Nor welcomed with its promising cryogenic address. So I found
new ways to make a friend. Then a man came out of the sprawl. Himself confused
with the sound of his name, even James Joyce could sprightly not explain,
this man made me rethink directions. “In case of fire,” he said, “break me.”
He might be the glass that I made, then broke open for athletically good reason.
But what do I know about breaking? I just loved directions, and I learned
to break them with tremendous speed. It sounded as though I were coursing
my own roundabout. So I ran after the fire that followed me. I ran fast
without caution, walked without warning. And I lived another day fighting
the roving red on alert on the roadway. Something drove me to stop. I stood
transfixed staring at that something. It was not the fire. It was the night patrol
piercing the dark. Seeing sadness, I shielded my eyes from the police lights.