Crystal’s car broke down in the middle of Broadway. When I got there the cops were also arriving. Two Asian cops and a big fat white cop. There’s always a fat white cop.
Crystal’s broken car caused a little traffic jam. Cars were honking, drivers waving their hands in disgust that someone had the nerve to break their car in the middle of a public road.
The cops were pretty jolly.
“Let’s push it!” they said.
“Fuck yeah!” I replied.
We started pushing down Broadway, across 21st, toward a service station that was closed because it’s Sunday.
Halfway through the effort, one of cops said, “Aw, she can coast that shit the rest of the way.” With that, the cops let go of the car and ran away.
But there was still a little ways to push, including an uphill that would land us safely into a driveway. The car started to lose its momentum, so I pushed harder. Sensing my distress, a tweaker–a real tweaker who looked like Popeye with white hair and scabs on his face–mumbled, “Mnnbbunblurblr” and pointed at the car.
“Yes!” I said. “Exactly!”
He knew precisely what was happening and was ready to spring into action.
Together, we pushed the car safely into the service station’s driveway. Without a word, the tweaker shuffled back down the exact path from which he came, the incident rerouting the course of his entire day, and maybe his entire life. If he had a destination, he is still probably trying to find it at this very moment.
“How did I get here?” he might have thought to himself in a brief eclipse of existential darkness.
There is no moral here, except perhaps to offer a quiet thank you to the world’s meth heads — the agendaless dregs of society with superhuman strength who show up like irrational, smelly ninjas to do some wacky and unexpected shit.