Asleep & Dreaming In Watsonville

I was getting too old for this. I fought for my gray beard, and now that I have it, cough out my lungs in prayer for the color back. I fought a gangster for a pack of cigarettes behind the overflowing dumpster of this old mini-mart. He pulled his ski mask lower with each grunt, heave, and breath. He swung hard, though docile, and kept hooking his wrists around my neck. I wanted to smoke and I wanted to smoke tonight. I swung hard too, though fragile, and only pushed his nose like a button–squeezed like a clown’s–and popped the blush hidden under his sports cloth. Finally, he backed off to pull up his sagging pants, and when I threw my left, he ducked, pushed me, and I stumbled into the stinky pile of shit. I think I broke my knuckle.

He ran up and kicked my ribs as I wadded from the gunk like a flipped turtle. Then stomped down on my broken face, cut open–felt the iron taste of blood in my mouth. Again, again, I almost got comfortable against the tearing bags. Fluffy like pillows. Eyelids got heavy, wished for a drink more than anything now. My fingers digging in, feeling the sharp blade of glass rub against my forefinger–caressing, sliding, soft, smooth, and delicate. Felt the slice, flap of skin hook over the broken bottle, or whatever it was. Running down, down, down, the smooth body of a woman–a real woman. Feeling the neck, avoid the windpipe, around the sides, cut the blood flow, and, finally, squeeze. I gripped the bottle. His sneaker went down again with a grunt, swatted away with my wrist: man topples over, right beside me, hits his head, closes his eyes, opens his eyes, says something quick, slide the sharp end along his neck, up into the throat, he chokes, we see blood, out, and in again. Harder, longer, push it deeper, he fights my fingers, I don’t let go. It’s over for you. I am going to kill you. You are going to die. And so I push deeper. Your arms grow limper. Your cries turn to whimpers. Your soft moans to gurgles. Your breath turns to ice. Your eyes turn to mama. And your body turns to God. And now you float away to her. Still. I wrestle with a corpse.

“Jesus Christ.” 

He existed. He hid away when I reached for the cigarettes. And stayed under the covers as I lit one and smoked it next to the body of one of his sons. I have just killed a man. That is the truth.

Wrapping around the corner, I fumbled for my keys. The Indian counter clerk stood outside his store, eyes following me as I reached my truck. Though, I hesitated.

“What?” I said.

“Your wrist is bloody. Why is your wrist bloody?”

I looked down. The pale white of my veiny arms were stained dark with blood, and streams of it ran up my elbow, cut deep like lava into Earth’s crust. And the store door shut and the clunky keys to the phone were pressed. Three numbers: 911.

Inside the truck, door slammed, heavy breaths, one turn, truck on, and off the lot. Onto the road, through the little fart of their downtown , and into the woodsy highway of a new day. A nude dawn.

The miners I met during my stay were all slumped into the same category–somewhat grumpy, a little overweight, and all great and tired, serious workers. They had offered me a job but that wasn’t the reason I came down. Just leaving the motel, I had caught one I’d been having somewhat deep conversations with. He was eating a sandwich in the deli next door and nodded as I stumbled inside.

“There he is,” he said gruffly. “Find a way to make rent?”

“No,” I said. “Whatcha eating?”

“BLT. Best BLT I ever had.”

“Then let me get one of those too,” I told the counter lady, placing a five.

“Anything new?” I asked my friend.

“Just workin’ like I always workin’. What about you? Get yourself that lady last night?”

“No,” I said. “That's not why I’m here.”

“Ain’t workin’, ain’t playin’ around. Whatta man like you come down to Watsonville for?”

Then my eyes flashed and I was back behind the steering wheel, barreling down the road. Short, hard breaths. Cold pale skin. My face was melting off, dripping all over my lap. I just killed a man. That was the truth. I just killed a man but that wasn’t what I came here for.

Back in the dream:

“I just killed a man.”

“You just killed a man?”

“Yes.” 

But I never said that–this happened after–I just killed a man right now, today. None of this is real. I can’t believe any of this.

A big white bird flew over my windshield. It looked like a seagull. The bay was a pretty place, but I was going the opposite direction. I coughed a black lung. Lit another cigarette and stepped on the gas. Soon the police would be after me. Screaming their sirens and howling my name. I didn’t come here to get chased by no police. That was after the fact.

A single stoplight came fast. And its red glaring beam caught my eye before a chance to step on the brakes. But when I did catch it, I didn’t let up, zipped right on by–and, thankfully, no one sideswiped my vehicle. At once I was free and let go. Nothing behind me but trees and road, nothing in front of me but more of the same. I cracked the window, then a gnat somehow swooped in and caught my gritted teeth. Car swerved a bit as I picked his little legs from my gums. That was when I heard sirens. That was when I saw flashing lights.

Coming up the hill behind me I saw the grimacing grill of a giant sheriff truck, its green panels showing off a sleek body, as it caught up to mine. It roared and roared. I pressed down. I let up. Blinker on. Blinker off. Sweat on my brow. Sweat on my back. And cold. I turned off. Heavy forecast for a summer day–bit chilly too.

Knock at the window–startling–I rolled it the rest of the way down.

“Hello, how are you doing, mister?” He said. He smelled like coffee.

“Yes. Good, officer.”

“Whatcha got planned today? Anything special?”

“No.” I had wiped away the blood as best as I could, smeared it to a light tint. “Heavy forecast for a summer day–bit chilly too.”

“Sure. I seen you ran that stoplight,” he said. “And then you over here swerving about. You have much to drink today? A beer or two? Little margarita with your lunch?”

“No, sir.”

“You don’t look drunk.” He squinted, examining. “You look just fine to me.”

“A bug caught my teeth. I was just tryna’ get it off.”

“I see that. I was gonna write you a citation but you’ve been cool so–and you don’t seem to wanna cause any trouble. Just be careful.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Yep–but, um, hey. You think you could help me with one more thing?”

“Sure.”

“You smell like a smoker,” he laughed. “Wouldn’t mind if I stole one from you, would ya?”

“Um, not at all.” My rattling fingers dug for the box and pulled it to the window. The white was stained, smeared, and almost dripping red.

He reached and stalled, studying the box just as I. Slowly, he slid the cancer stick back in.

“Say,” he went. “Whatta you doing out here in Watsonville, mister?”

“I just killed a man,” I said. “That is the truth.”

He stared at me. His hand seemed to float subconsciously to the grip of his pistol.

“You just killed a man?” He asked.

“Yes. That is the truth. As far as I know.”

“That's what you’re doing out here?”

“No. I don’t remember what I’m out here for.”

He studied my expression, the highlighted red that ran along my white arm. Then he choked and chuckled.

“What am I talking about?” He said. “You one of them miners, one of them loggers, aintcha’? Them fellas got the scariest scars I ever saw! ‘What’re you doing out here?’ How silly!” He ripped out a smoke and stuck it in his teeth. “Old truck all muddy too. You guys are characters I tell ya. Alright, mister, you have a great rest of your day.” And then he left.

By evening we got a sprinkle of rain. It let up almost as instantly as it started but smelt nice. I pulled into a small lot with two gas pumps and a closed liquor store. By the door was a box of free kittens, and some strays stirred around it, circling like a shiver of sharks. 

All I know is that I am in a surrounded-by-mountains-and-two-mini-gas-pumps-city-ville and that I just killed a man, which is the truth. I had a cat once. I went and started picking at the litter as my tank filled up. They were cute and quiet and a little bit scared, I’m sure. I didn’t go to no Watsonville for a pet. And although I was smoking them, neither for no smokes either. My hands shook as they purred about. I was never no person for reason. When I was homeless the last five years I wandered about the city for as long as my feet would allow–in the end, I would turn this corner or that and make my home. When surrounded by dense trees and wet forest, I felt in the natural New York City’s or San Francisco's of civilization. It's why I made a left at this stop sign and decided to climb up this muddy hill in the cold and the darkness. When nighttime came the rain was steady, the road was cruddy, and the pressure was on. Some clouds obscured the moon but she was out bright, nice and purdy as she shoulda been. A perfect blue to interrupt my straining headlights. 

Soon my tires squished into soil. In the mud I swerved and swerved but kept the thing straight enough to move forward. When finally I fixed it to a steady hum and the steering wheel stopped jerking. I was buried in the forest. I’d been awake for days–or so it seemed. And ghosts and apparitions were sticking their thumbs up on the sides of the road, so many hitchhikers, so afraid. I was lost. They wouldn't be doing that if they knew what I had done, what I’d become. No one would.

The motor whirred, it jerked. A bedtime melody. A nighttime song. And my lids grew heavy. Before I realized what was happening I awoke. Sunlight out, off the edge of a white freeway. Some cars zipped by. Hood was smoking and there was another car, a small black sedan, a few yards away, up against some brush. I was out of the forest and the Earth was clear, but we stood at her doorstep. Truck wouldn’t start. I crawled out, fell limp to the floor. My legs were shaky, or else the ground was moving.

Trudged like a zombie to their window and knocked. Nothing. I opened the door: no one. It smelled like takeout and chemically like–like fucking meth. I knew it well. Climbed in. Keys still in the ignition, low on gas. My truck didn’t feel like working any longer, so I closed the door, got back on the road, adjusting the mirror. No one behind me and nothing in front of me. Think I’ll make it to Oregon? Wherever Oregon was. It looked green enough to be going this direction, ‘nother 400 miles or so, but this was all coming out of my ass.

Orange cones appeared rapidly at my sides. They funneled me in and off the lane, and up ahead, flashing lights, and scary vests. A lady in a highlighter flipped her sign to STOP and I eased into the breaks. Then an officer started toward me.

Glasses, ponytail. One shit-eating grin. Thumbs in her kevlar, hacking a loogie. Oh, the nerve. My hands gripped tighter, a crab refusing off the line. Small spikes attacking my back, a million of them, fine, sharp, and pointy. I scratched at it, dug my nails in, and the heart pain thumped around my ribs and along my whole body. I moaned, against all better practices, I moaned, and cried out. Energy. Energy negative and holding still like a ball of electricity. If I didn’t act now, my head would explode. No, I can’t, not here. No. But my head ached, oh my head! I pulled at my hair, it ripped out effortlessly! Head fell against the steering wheel. It honked:

HONK! HONK! HONK!

Three times. Then three more times:

HONK! HONK! HONK!

“Augh! I can’t stop it!” I yelped. “I can’t help it!”

Knock at my window. With gritted teeth, it went all the way down.

“Is everything alright–”

“What!?”

“Excuse me?”

“I just killed a man!”

“You what?”

“I just killed a man, okay!? That is the truth!”

“We’re looking for a–”

“It was me!” And I stepped on the gas. Blew through the lady's stop sign, saw more and more blue-coated villains. Turned my ride around, back on the road, back toward the bay. I need to rest my head in the ocean! That was the plan! That was the new way! I am lost no longer!

The siren wails started picking up. Two, three, all of them in conjunction.

“You will not take away from me!” I yelled to the wind and felt the color of my hair return. “You will not keep away from me any longer destiny! I know I have found you!”

There was some talk on a loudspeaker but it was all a blur. Two cruisers were opposite mine. I saw a man come out of his window holding a shotgun. I turned to him and screamed at his face. At death. At all the precautionary tales of the old.

“You will not take me! I know my fate!” And my mission was acquired.

I turned back, the steel teeth and bright eyes of a bull bar and its LEDs were headed my direction, ready to eat me up. And we collided.

“There he is!”

“Get his ass out of the car!”

“No, no, wait! He’s moving!”

Sprinkles of glass, my ribs hurt, but no headache.

“Get out of the fucking car!”

You hit me. I’m moving. I’m moving. Heading north, toward the ocean, with the seagull, so I can rest my toes in the sand, and whistle with the wind.

“Hands up! Hands up!”

A woman. Woman from the checkpoint? Yeah, yeah it was. She was a fine woman for a police officer. Not with her gun out like that and her face red like that. And her group of friends. In their black and green and blue coats. Oh, give me a break. Blood was running down both my legs and arms. I thought I had wiped it off fine a long time ago. I even spit out a tooth.

“Yep, that’s him!’ The woman screamed. “He’s the one that robbed the liquor store –left a box of kittens!”

“Ah! Vehicle matches the description.”

I was shocked. “What? No!” And my voice gruff, “No! No! I just killed a man–down–down in Watsonville.” And I coughed and coughed again.

“Don’t move!”

“I killed a man–down in Watsonville. Yep. Yep–that is the truth.” And it hurt to breathe.

“He’s armed! Back up! Back up! Back the fuck up!”

“What? No, no I’m not armed. I just killed a man–with a–with a bottle, yeah, yeah, that’s right. That is the truth.”

“Move again and I will blow your fucking brains out!”

“Okay. I’m going to the beach.” And slowly I turned around, hunched over, and holding my chest. My car upside down, police cruiser smoking, facing me.

“Don’t move!”

I kept whispering, muttering, almost like a crazy person. “No, no, I’m fine, I’m leaving. I just killed a person–I just killed a man–that’s fine–that’s okay–that is the truth.” And I trudged along. Then a sharp pain took over, a knife prodding my insides. A broken rib loose and stabbing. I heaved, it deepened. So sharp and white and unbearable. I yelped as I fell forward. I can’t take it any longer. I can’t take it anymore. I was gonna vomit. I threw up.

“I’m going to the bay!” I cried. “I just killed a man!” Then my eyes closed and I collapsed. A single white bang as my face touched pavement. Followed by three bubbly pops, then four, then five, then more, and more. Sharper streams of heat racing through, if my ears weren’t ringing, I swear I would’ve heard gunshots. But that’s not fair. I didn’t rob a liquor store–leave no kittens.

I was going to the bay, the sand, the ocean. To rest my head along the water, dig my feet in the shells. All of this was fate! I just found it!--realized it on my trip out of Watsonville. That’s why I had come, that’s why I stayed, that’s why I left. It was all planned, I’d just forgotten it. But now, I felt I was going away. And all because of some mishap, a misunderstanding with the cops. It wasn’t me, it was never me, I would never do that. This isn’t fair!

I had just killed a man! That was it!

That was the truth.