Everything was blurry. My heart was thudding in my chest, and my characteristic mustache and soul patch of nervous sweat had popped out on my lip and chin.
I was swearing in both English and Spanish:
“Fuck me!” as a motorcycle buzzed between our car and the one next to us, choosing as its lane the dotted line itself.
And to Juan Pablo, the equivalent of “Fuck your whore of a mother! I’m never going to forgive you for this! Ever.”
But somehow, one by one the cop cars in the side-view mirror melted into the background. Blood started flowing to my extremities once again. My vision cleared. I seized the opportunity to cast scathing looks at my ersatz chauffeur.
We seemed to be driving to no particular destination, so I told him in no uncertain terms that he was to drive me home. “No, güera,” he cooed. “Todo está bien.” He said he would take me home in a while and pulled off the beltline into what was clearly another of the known drag-racing spots. Many of the cars from our last rendezvous point were there already. It dawned on me then that they probably had a circuit that they did every Saturday night, that the police chase was just a part of the routine.
Funny how that epiphany didn’t help squelch my anxiety when, ten minutes later, the sirens wailed and the pack zoomed away again. Now I was pissed. I said in Spanish, “Listen, you piece of shit, turn the car around, and take me back to my place.”
Alas, I had to go through another round-up and flight, and start walking my ass to the metro stop, before he agreed to escort me home.
On the drive, we were quiet, me seething, him humming along to the bachata on the radio. He pulled up in front of my building. I unbuckled my seat belt and started to open the door. Juan Pablo grabbed my hand, and next thing I knew we were in the middle of a hot and desperate kiss, our hands everywhere. I don’t know, something about the adrenaline spike made me lose my mind.
It’s a good thing we were on the street and his mumbling, “I’m coming upstairs,” was enough to remind me that this was a bad move, a stupid move. I needed to get involved with a scofflaw like I needed a hole in the head. I said no, “Basta,” and pushed him away. He looked surprised and then a little hurt, but pretty quickly resigned himself to the circumstance.
I got out of the car, and he at least had the decency to make sure I got into the building before he took off, surely to another drag-race rally point, surely to find a girl who wouldn’t say no, “Basta.”
And I was OK with that. I hadn’t felt that alive in years.
Fin
