Thunder
Running, pounding, throbbing. My thighs ache as my boots thunder the pavement half past midnight on the darkened streets of downtown Dallas. A bass drum booms a frenzied rhythm inside my chest as my starched, white apron flaps in the wind my speed creates. Cars whiz by in my peripheral vision, and I ignore the brief flutters of embarrassment at how foolish I know I must look. My eyes are locked on a black sedan half a block ahead of me. The one that is racing toward the traffic light, the one that I’m hoping I can reach in time.
Madness, I think to myself. Madness to try, madness not to try. I run harder. The sound of thunder echoes in my ears, giving me strength.
Salty wetness on my tongue, heat across my face. I keep running.
The street is slick with leftover rain and oil stains. The sidewalk is hard and the streetlights low.
Ahead of me, the stoplight turns red, and the cars slow. But I’m a bull and the matador dares me come.
Ten feet, nine feet, eight feet . . . my feet. Lighting strikes; thunder sounds. I caught you!
Rubbing my eyes, I focus and still my breathing. I inhale, exhale––refocus. As my eyes clear I assure myself, You can do this.
I quiet my mind. I see the license plate eight feet ahead of me, but it’s dark. The streetlight isn’t above me. There is another car blocking my view. I crane my head. Focus. I see it; the mud streaked license plate. I begin to chant silently, CSV-8301, CSV-8301, 8301 . . . 301. My shoulders hunch forward, as my body folds in to hold the memory, to hold the apparition . . . CSV-8301. I say it again.
Downcast eyes lock on nothing––CSV-8301. My subconscious kicks in and carries my feet across the path that my thunder created . . . CSV-8301. My lips continue their incantation, and I’m aware I appear a madwoman, but I don’t care––CSV-8301. I wring my hands and continue with determined strides.
Just ahead I see my bruised silver Saturn, beaten and battered from the hit and run, from the shock and awe of a careless driver, but no matter now––CSV-8301.
A freight train races through the canals of my head, and with sweaty palms and pulsating veins, I untie my apron and pitch it into my car before surveying the damage. Damn . . . CSV-8301.
My arms goose pimple from adrenaline and the salty dampness evaporating on my skin.
When the police officer finally arrives, I tell him the tale of my hit-and-run experience. The officer’s head snaps up in surprise, You chased down the car? ––I did. With pencil and notepad in hand, the office writes––CSV-8301. Snapping his book shut, he tells me he’s sorry––sorry for my experience and he leaves.
Exhaustedly, I heave myself into the car and start the engine. It claps to life despite its crumpled exterior. Shaky hands like talons clamp the wheel to steer me home. My quivering legs relax, and I’m aware of how strong they are because tonight they made thunder.
