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A Truck Stop Called TRUCK STOP

My fingers are healing. I couldn’t post for awhile, the swelling was too much. The doctor says that only four bones were actually broken, and if I’m careful, typing is allowable. Just use one finger, he says. People type with one finger all over the world.

I had to miss my reading in New York. The pain was too much. And I was afraid.

The woman in the blue Datsun found me at a truck stop outside Pittsburgh. She had a baseball cap and wore a shirt that said Wish You Were Here!

She said: why are you doing this to me?

I said: why are you following me?

She said she was sorry. She said she didn’t want to do anything bad, but I was making her. Couldn’t I just be quiet. Couldn’t I just leave it alone.

Of course I can’t. Don’t be silly. I asked her: don’t you want people to know?

She shook her head. We’ll shut down that site if you don’t start talking about top ten lists of arthouse movies or which Power Ranger you are.

I refused. And she kissed me, hard and soft and toothy and angry, she kissed me and grabbed at me and you know, we do what we do to get where we’re going. We had a kind of fumbling, frantic sex against the bumper of a semi and afterward she cried and crushed my hands in the truck door.

She threw the dog-headed Virgin bobble doll at me as she drove away. I had such dreams that night, in pain and misery and fear and exaltation. Dreams of a place named after a page. I will not stop. I will not.

I have more fingers. And toes, too. And voice recognition software, if it comes to that.


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