I lucked out and found a nearby Uber driver who picked me up and rushed me to the station for a nice tip, which I could barely afford. The cop said he wasn’t going to the station, but where else would they have taken the woman? Sadly, the cop car was long gone, so I couldn’t dramatically jump into a cab and say, “Follow that car! Yes, I know it’s a cop car! Drive!” Also, since I didn’t live in New York City in a film noir, none of the right elements lined up. Regardless, I got the driver to take me to the station. I told him to step on it, too. It’s the little victories.
And so I was on my way. It was here I wondered what the hell I was doing.
Rushing to a police station to give a crime statement in the hopes of having a conversation with a victimized woman, if not simply receiving her name, if not simply getting another look at her. Allen Kaminski: romantic. More than that, all the while, in the back of my brain, I knew—oh yes—this would be something to write about.
The anxiety of the writer! The almost sociopathic nature of viewing life as words on a page—yes, truly a black-and-white cosmology. There is no visual component to the world—I look around and see paperwhite, origami-like silhouettes of people, places, and things made 3D by words printed like tattoos over every inch of everything there is. Words, descriptions, similes, metaphors, punctuations, sentence after sentence wrapping around every curve, coiling wordsnakes ribboning, cocooning, blanketing, weaving threads of semantic symbols etched on every eyelash, periods on the tips of blades of grass, yes, EVERYTHING that exists is WORDS, STORIES, only rarely read in full. I’m scooping out whole chunks of existence and pasting them in here in the best order I can think of. It’s all out there waiting to be taken.
And me. Dashing off in pursuit of love. In a life of everydays, I’m spending my last few dollars on a rideshare to a police station just to see a pretty girl. These are memories. Everydays are forgotten. Stories are remembered.
Suddenly I was there. My mind escapes through windows when windows are present. So I scooped out every bill in my wallet and handed it on, the circle of life, and took my leave of the Contemplation Cab.
Day 300(!)’s three random writing prompt categories were, “A Blind Eye Turned,” “The chariot,” and, “The storyteller.”
Somewhere locked in my brain is the entire Blind Eye Turned story. I’ll compile it all together some day.