So I glance away to the rest of this screaming cylinder’s inhabitants. Shaded faces all around. It looks like a Chris Cunningham video in here. Where am I anyway? Then I see her. Holy shit, do I see her; in fact, I do more than see her, I conquer her with my singular fucking vision. But she doesn’t see me. We have to change that. We must get her attention. But how? You see people changing seats in these things all the time, but that might be too obvious. Where’s the map? Alright, it’s across from her. I’ll just get up calmly and walk over there to consult the map, as if not sure where we are, which is true. Maybe she’ll think I’m a tourist (not far from the truth) and she’ll want to show me around. We could go to a movie, play chess in the park, climb on those Alice in Wonderland statues and take pictures. Then I would confess that I don’t have a place to stay (also not untrue) and was planning to sleep in the park tonight, so she should just head on home. And of course she’ll invite us to her apartment in the city where we’ll have some drinks and cocaine and fuck like wild bonobos let loose from years in exhibition, thus strangely familiar to the scopophilic gaze of onlookers behind the screen. When she wakes, I’ll be gone, as will the sensation of my penis violating every orifice her father gave her and clearly—to his chagrin—was unable to keep for himself. Also, she’s not going to be able to resist my skinny ass directly across from her adorable little head. Do black girls like slender asses?—I wonder. But I’ve seen my fair share of interracial porn, so I de-
cide to assume that probably some do. After allowing an ample stint for my derrière to shimmy with the shake of this dubious iron horse, I turned around to greet my madoiselle de jour, but she was gone. To my right, I saw her traverse the howling doors to the next car. I couldn’t follow that; she was good this one. Sit down, she humiliated you. iPod time. Shuffle. No Age. Sudden darkness. Creepy. No electricity. Oh, it’s back. No, we shot out a tunnel. My stop. Out and...down? To the street. I knew that. Blood on the Wall. “I don’t want any.” No money for that, unfortunately. “I’m good, thanks.” Where is this fucking place? “Excuse me, where’s 168th?” Next block. Shit, I think they close at 7:00. There’s the street. Blonde Redhead, blah. Clinic. Ha, there it is. I walk through the doors into a fucking enormous, empty waiting room. And I wonder, Am I in the right place? I looked around and before I can plan my exit, a figure hidden behind dark glass mumbles something, she motions for me to approach. I do so with timidity across the ceramic expanse to the window. It gives me the clipboard but no instructions. O.K. Umm...I guess I’ll just fill this out then. Let’s just sit down here. Name. O.K. Date. Check my cell. Sexual orientation? That’s so cliché. Doctor’s name? I don’t have a doctor; that’s why I’m here. Insurance company? What is this? I’m getting out of here. Wait, I think she’s saying something. “Whatever lady.” Throw the clipboard in her general direction. God damn it was cold in there.