Alyssa was not really hit by a bus.
Saturday night I was harrassed by the Cedar Falls PD. These are the same bastards who, when I returned a wallet found on the street during Homecoming, snatched it away and asked if I'd been drinking (and of course I had. Garrett and Amish and . . . Dave? were there and I had a Dew bottle filled with blueberry liquor, which I shared with some random drunk and then threw away, afraid of his filthy mouth diseases).
Anyway, Saturday night they crossed my path again! Main Street in Cedar Falls has exploded, by the way, if you haven't been there in the past year, is now busy, full of bars, full of police. Sarah and I were dropped off outside some bar—the driver just slowed the car and said "later" and we, confused, stepped out. Thankfully others with cars joined us after a while, and I found my way outside, and thought I'd walk the street a bit and pretend that I was still a student. Sarah's party was costume themed and I was a Hot Topic kid, meaning I had Megaman and Invader Zim wristbands and all black clothes and eyeliner and spikey hair (it was pointed out to me mid-party that Megaman wristbands are not very gothic). And maybe this, mixed with the stumbling, was part of the reason I was asked if I was drunk, if I was vandalizing property.
Damn those police!
Last summer Alyssa and four religiously fanatical girls sublet this mansion of a house just off Main Street in CF. The walls were red and yellow, the godforsaken condiment combination, but there were also some blues and beiges. I had this daydream, before last weekend's party, of knocking on the door of that old house. Strange new girsl would open the door and Goathead and I would smile, grin, look idiotic.
"Hi," I'd say. "Do you mind if we just sort of . . . peek in?"
"Uh…" she'd say, and dial 9 on the cellphone in her pocket, and then 1.
"My girlfriend used to live here," I'd explain. "And I spent a lot of time here last summer."
"You know—" she'd say.
"She's dead," I'd say.
"What?" she'd say.
"Hit by a bus. Greyhound out of nowhere."
"80 miles an hour," Goathead would add. "Through downtown Des Moines."
"Oh my God," the girl would say. "Was she that blonde girl with the Viatnamese friends?"
"No, she was the brunette. Who babysat your cat over the summer."
"No!" the girl would say.
"Yes," I'd say, and would shake my head. "We had to fish her Gir necklace off the roof of a three story building."
Anyway, Saturday night they crossed my path again! Main Street in Cedar Falls has exploded, by the way, if you haven't been there in the past year, is now busy, full of bars, full of police. Sarah and I were dropped off outside some bar—the driver just slowed the car and said "later" and we, confused, stepped out. Thankfully others with cars joined us after a while, and I found my way outside, and thought I'd walk the street a bit and pretend that I was still a student. Sarah's party was costume themed and I was a Hot Topic kid, meaning I had Megaman and Invader Zim wristbands and all black clothes and eyeliner and spikey hair (it was pointed out to me mid-party that Megaman wristbands are not very gothic). And maybe this, mixed with the stumbling, was part of the reason I was asked if I was drunk, if I was vandalizing property.
Damn those police!
Last summer Alyssa and four religiously fanatical girls sublet this mansion of a house just off Main Street in CF. The walls were red and yellow, the godforsaken condiment combination, but there were also some blues and beiges. I had this daydream, before last weekend's party, of knocking on the door of that old house. Strange new girsl would open the door and Goathead and I would smile, grin, look idiotic.
"Hi," I'd say. "Do you mind if we just sort of . . . peek in?"
"Uh…" she'd say, and dial 9 on the cellphone in her pocket, and then 1.
"My girlfriend used to live here," I'd explain. "And I spent a lot of time here last summer."
"You know—" she'd say.
"She's dead," I'd say.
"What?" she'd say.
"Hit by a bus. Greyhound out of nowhere."
"80 miles an hour," Goathead would add. "Through downtown Des Moines."
"Oh my God," the girl would say. "Was she that blonde girl with the Viatnamese friends?"
"No, she was the brunette. Who babysat your cat over the summer."
"No!" the girl would say.
"Yes," I'd say, and would shake my head. "We had to fish her Gir necklace off the roof of a three story building."
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