Tracey, the interloper (part 2)

05Jun09

At the police station I called my attorney, who drove downtown to where I’d been drinking the night before. Apparently my Prius was still parked on Vanderbilt, where’d I’d left it.

“We might be able to reach out to the girl and explain to her that you drive the exact same make, model, year and color of car, parked half a block down and that you weren’t trying to rape her. That just might work. But you’re still gonna have to pay about $1500 in back tickets if you want them to take the boot off your hybrid.”

Just when it seemed like my luck had changed, I go and pass out in the wrong car. I had a cracked rib, bruises just about everywhere and 25 stitches in my forehead. Not only that, but even if I could make bail, I was supposed to go to Africa the next week, but most likely wouldn’t be allowed to leave the country.

After my lawyer left, I tried to fall asleep on the floor of my empty cell thinking about the woman whose car I’d fallen asleep in. What kind of flowers do you send to someone as if to say, “Hey, I’m not a rapist. Maybe we can get coffee sometime?”

I awoke to the coarse sound of a bull dyke police officer roaring my name. “Dupree. Wake the fuck up. You got a visitor.” Groggily, I opened my eyes to see Tracey standing opposite my holding cell. She was wearing a jean jacket over a sundress and a pair of Nike high-tops that looked to be about 15 years old. It was a sight.

“Second time I’ve woken up to you today. Feels like a dream within a dream,” I said, standing up to face her through the bars.

“Hello,” she said.

“Did my lawyer tell you about my car?”

“Yeah.” She regarded me, furrowing her brow, biting her lower lip. “Why’d you cover my mouth with your hand? That really scared me.”

“I dunno. It was the only thing I could think to do. I still thought you’d stolen my car, and that gave me a little propriety. I really just wanted to try have a conversation with you.”

“Over a chicken-fried steak?

“Or a vegan Lasagna. Whatever you’re into.”

“What do you do?”

“Oh, this and that. Right now, I’m working on a scheme to import a bunch of carpets from Morocco. I’ve done a couple other things, too. How about you?”

“I’m getting my Master’s in Creative Writing,” she said defiantly, which I thought was pretty neat for someone engaged in such a futile pursuit.

“Ah, so your favorite season is probably the fall.”

She didn’t know how to answer that, so she just stood there for a moment looking.“Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry about scaring you and tackling you after the crash. I’ll pay for any damage to your car. I just feel so dumb about the whole thing.”

She looked me up and down. “Well, I’m sorry you got so beaten up.”

“Yeah. I guess it builds character.”

“I’m going to drop the charges, Mr. Dupree.”

“That’s swell of you. You know, I don’t event know your name.

“”It’s Tracey.”

“Tracey, how about I take you out to dinner to thank you?”

Looking me in the eyes, I could hear her thoughts in my head. She was thinking that she should say yes. That maybe I was someone special. Maybe I could be her muse, and we’d dine for years off the story of how we met, me thinking she was a car thief and her thinking I was a rapist. It was dynamite material, sure.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said.

And then she walked away.

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