I am driving around town in a very fancy white car top down. Think I’m in Chelsea, because of the tall brown town houses in courtyards with gated parks.
In my hand I have a broken golf ball, a tiny stone poking from one end that I can push back into the ball with my thumb. And when I squeeze the ball from the other side, the stone pokes back out. I play with it, pushing, squeezing. It could cause some damage, but the stone doesn’t want to propel from the ball no matter how hard I squeeze.
I could try to throw it.
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I drive over red tiles that are broken. They are spread across the road, and even across the bridge, it is coverered with tiles. All kinds of tile, curved Mediterranean roof tiles, garden pot tiles in different colors, piled high so I have to navigate the car between each pile. I could bounce the golf ball from the bridge and could cause even further damage.
Instead I drive into a warehouse where I see tiles piled up even more, and see now that this is where they come from. Workers are pilling them up and I have to manoevre my car carefully between the piles stacked at the entrance, in order not to scratch the sides.
I remember that I have the golf ball, that I wanted to throw it. I think about the damage I could cause, but also that I do not want to hurt any one. Then just as I am driving out I throw the ball back through the warehouse entrance. One of the workers calls out to another.
“What the hell was that?” as the golf ball pings around the warehouse bay. “Was it a ball?” The other spurts out as he ducks down. Luckily it doesn’t hurt anyone.
I like my car, it’s fancy enough that I can press a dashboard button and it will shift its looks. I press the button for show, and there is a whirr as it flicks its blonde hair across the bonnet and over the headlamps which grow long fluttering black eyelashes.
Photo by Boston Bill via Flickr
