Rain and Regret

  • I'm driving my car in a downpour, trying to make it to who knows where. Pot holes, the size of swimming pools, open up along the shoulder of the crowded street. After spending half an hour navigating around them and gaining a hundred feet, I pull over and get out. I spot some wooden barrier placards and put them up around the huge pits. Afterwards I go back to my car. My perspective then becomes a third person aerial view, as from a traffic helicopter. I watch a sports car driving recklessly, suddenly coming up to a pit too late to brake. It squashes itself in the wet hole of torn black asphault. Then I see my own car, driving in the opposite direction than before, likewise speeding towards certain doom. It jack-knifes into a vat of mud and flips upside-down. Suddenly I'm back in my car so I take a deep breath and frantically escape the death trap.

  • I meet my mother for lunch at a store I've heard about but never been to. As I walk through the rooms, however, it appears to be a clothing store for middle aged women, not a restaurant. But here's my mom, seated at a restaurant counter with a man waiting to take her order. I peruse the menu but there don't appear to be any vegetarian options. After explaining my predicament, the waiter says he can arrange something. I'm looking away from my mother when she makes two comments in other peoples' voices: I hear my grandmother say she regrets giving away some childhood clothing of my mom's; I hear my friend Allen say that this is the store he smoked pot in with one of the employees.