She is sitting in her kitchen, reading about herself in the newspaper, wondering what to do. “Local Dispute Stirs Up Old Memories.” The article concludes what she already knows. She was wrong, dead wrong, grindingly wrong. Her final day in the old house, she was starting to get an inkling of her fundamental lack of rightness, but that didn’t stop her from walking over to Felton’s house, standing firm on her accusation and, when he questioned her integrity, spitting in his face. He stopped talking and just stood there. She could see in his eyes that he had gone too far. Now what? Should she publicly apologize? Send money? Write (for profit) about the complicated nature of truth and memory and then send that money? She designs her own solution. Drive across town, windows down, listening to the radio, songs of her youth, top volume, ragged singalong, bags in the backseat with items central to her survival in this new world, books, pills, a rabbit, a gun, and it works, not like a charm but like an efficient evasion—the further she gets from home, the less she sees his face in her mind. She pulls into a drive-thru, orders large of everything, texts a friend while waiting, proceeds accordingly, drastically overpays, tells the dreadlocked teenager to keep the change, tells him that he too should have a very nice day. She’s not sure if there’s karma but she sure that she’s not sure enough to risk it.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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