Joyride

Bruno was too drunk to drive
and I was too married to argue --
another silent joyride.

The thump-click of the one windshield wiper
that worked was a cheap relief, 
the needle of a faulty compass 
pointing at him then me, on and on. 

I imagined lives lived in houses passing
by my side window -- newlyweds in duplexes, 
retired couples in ranch houses by country clubs.
I hated leaving the bar, hated thinking 
about who I wasn't.  I swear
he made me go just to remind me.

It'd been about five years since Nicki 
(my best friend) left him.  He owned 
the Piranha Lounge where me and her 
were topless dancers.  When I told him 
she was gone, he tried to rape me 
(the closest thing to her he could find).  

I was so pissed, so fucking mad 
that I gave him the best head
he ever had, figured we'd be even...

I never felt so dead
honest.  

Nicki taught me well.
I controlled him 
by doing what he wanted,
but doing it so fucking good, 
he'd want only me.  

I drank a lot, started gettin' off 
on making men want me.  
I loved watching Bruno blot sweat 
from his bald head while young men stuffed their hard
earned dollars in my G-string.
But even that got old...

The warm windows of far-away houses
stared welcomes at me -- *the women inside 
brushed their hair a hundred times
before bed.  The brush is soft and lovely
like their husband's watching eyes
while children slept with night lights
quieting their windows.*  Lights blinked 
each time Bruno's car passed a phone pole.
Blink  blink  blink blink blinkblinkblink

moving faster and faster, not 
forward or backward or sideways 
but all ways at once, car spinning 
into a ditch, into the thud of my hip 
against the door handle, my last breath waiting  
for the next impact -- the innocent driver 
I only imagined was headed right at me.

Thump-click thump-click   
the engine dies
with the wiper pointing 
at Bruno.

"All right.  You can drive."
It was the closest he ever came
to an apology and the closest I ever
wanted to come to accepting.

I  walked around front of the stalled 
Delta creaking, tapping,
as I went to open his door,
"Forget it,  I'll drive."

Walking back to the passenger's side, 
I saw snowflakes colliding 
as if the wind was blowing 
a thousand directions at once.  

My fingers couldn't pull the door handle.  
Snow stung the thin skin 
on the back of my hand. 
I begged him to let me drive.
 "Fuck off."

I didn't want to get in, 
but I didn't want to freeze.
"Get in the fucking car.
Get in or I'm leaving."

A breeze of edges tore inside my jacket
and stayed trapped around my stomach.
I opened the door and looked at his dull
head and miserable jaw and remembered *no.*

Frozen.  Snow twinkled and fought
in the headlight's beams.   
Then he pulled away so fast
the door closed itself.

I felt like I'd miss him 
if I never saw him again.
But I wasn't feeling 
that lucky.  

I started walking the wrong way 
wondering if he'd come back.  I jumped 
off the road, down to the railroad tracks 
by the river.  I imagined the headlights 
passing above were him.  
I needed to think he cared.

The river was running high.  As I walked, 
I could hear its voice, spoken only
when it rubbed its shores.
The silver-brown current bent ice-
covered saplings that creaked like my bones 
when daddy spun me like a bottle
in front of his friends 
who called me jail bate,
right after my chest ballooned-out
and my hips tightened their curves.

Where could I go?  I demanded
an answer from everything, hurt
my voice from repeating the question. 
A train approached and I ached 
to hop on board
or under its wheels.  

I was married to the fucking
bar.  Bruno wasn't the first man there
who took whatever he wanted from me.  
But he was the first who cared
if I started giving it to anyone else.
Why else does anyone get married?

And he owned the place, the old Mambo Club
I thought was going to be a fucking palace.
Instead, some steelworker puts a knife
to my throat and starts slapping his hips 
against my pretty ass.  

My mom said to forget about it or men
would smell it on me.  Even in the red stench 
of Pittsburgh, they could smell it on me.
At least Bruno married me.

A passing breeze reminded me
I was soaked.  I shivered and crawled 
back up the hill to the road, thinking 
about how easy it was to crawl --
at least I couldn't fall. 

I hitchhiked back to the bar, and when the kind sir
stopped to let me out, he reached over to
open my door and copped a feel of my soggy titties.   
I hadn't lied about where I wanted left off
so I guess he felt entitled.

Bruno wasn't back yet.
I figured he went out 
for a whore so I fell asleep easy.
He wouldn't be waking me.

The phone panicked in its cradle.  
A voice said "is this the wife of Bruno Pluto?"
I admitted it.  "You should get down here right away."
They never called before, always let him sleep
it off there.  "No ma'am, your husband's had an accident."
I thought he hurt someone. "No ma'am, your husband's dead."  

I thought it was him, 
thought he paid someone
to call me and see what I'd do.
I hung up.

The night broke-out in fists
and deep voices  *boom-boom-boom*
"Open the door, this is the police.  Open up, lady." 

There's always one nice guy
in the bunch.  He told me Bruno
had driven his car into the river.
But there were no skid marks,
and the passenger door
hadn't been closed all the way and 
did I grab the wheel and 
jump out at the last minute?

No. We had a fight and I walked home.  
(dead?) No, no one could have seen me
because I was thinking on the tracks
till I got cold and hitchhiked home.
(Bruno's dead?)  No, I didn't 
get the guy's name because he, well,
when he was letting me out, 
he tried to grab me, my chest.

They could all see why (yuck yuck yuck)
and laughed while someone squeezed
my elbows behind me, all of them staring 
while he cuffed me.

The detective ground a cigarette
under the toe of his shoe, 
looked me up and down, said
"you have the right to remain silent."

*The right?*








copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer