Tying My Nerves in Knots

It’s Thursday and I’m watching a gold-toned Suburban head directly toward me at about forty-five miles an hour in my lane, I’m waiting to turn into the college parking lot, I try the lights, it’s daylight, it’s nothing, it’s bright, I slam my hand into the center of the steering wheel right over the horn symbol, no sound, my wrist kills, Suburban on course in my lane, Escort wagon behind me, I can see the drivers concerned look, his HFCC parking tag, the SUV driver paying attention to two not-nearly-head-on-collision-worthy (not even within six sizes of collision worthy) women walking on a sidewalk, my wrist hurts, the horn really doesn’t work, like a noiseless scream dream, I try it again, I say what the fuck?!, and then, finally, the driver looks up, swerves, misses me by about three horn symbols and doesn’t look at me, I glance behind me, the escort driver adjusts his mirror, I pull into the parking lot, pull through a spot so I won’t have to back out later, and I try the horn again, and again, and again. No sound. I rub my wrists and head out to meet a student. There is a glitch in the Matrix and I’m pretty sure the alarm system is broken.

It’s Friday and my phone rings with the college number, several times, I think about the missed collision, the students I met with, the one with the serious ‘tude and obnoxious daytime cleavage, the one with the wizard pendant, and the phone rings again, I answer it and a robot tells me to press one if I am able to listen to an emergency message, I press one and the robot tells me that there are armed officers on campus investigating a shooting, a shooter is still on campus and I need to lock down my classroom. I am glad because I am not on campus, I would not be able to lock down my classroom unless chewing gum and pressed powder could hold a door close. The robot calls me back and I don’t answer, his messages are making me nervous. I’m still sixty miles away from campus when I hear about the girl and the shotgun and the guy. They are dead in the Fine Arts Building and it creeps me out, makes me sad, makes me angry. I want someone to tell the robot I don’t need anymore messages.

It’s Saturday and I’m thinking about how it’s been exactly seven years since I was diagnosed with the big C. I spend the first part of the day thinking about that lunch with J on Thursday and the story she told me about the new girl at the YA group, another Hodgkin’s case, how her chemo didn’t work, how her tumors actually got bigger, J kinda has survivors guilt, I never had it until now, after this story, and it makes me think back to my oncologist saying “well looks like you are responding to the chemotherapy!” and I would say “Well I fucking hope so, that is the fucking point, right?” I’d never considered that it doesn’t always work so I make time for survivors guilt, I look up information online how about how the human body supposedly regenerates entirely after seven years, and I find out it’s not true. Not entirely anyway, but only one part of something needs to be wrong for it to be not right. Just like this quite obvious glitch in the Matrix.

And now it’s Sunday. Easter dinner includes a hand-sculpted lamb-shaped loaf of bread. Lambs, unlike goats, make me nervous.