Bump Car Quotes

No homework. I got suspended,” Blue replied. “Get the fuck out,” Ronan said, but with admiration. “Sargent, you asshole.” Blue reluctantly allowed him to bump fists with her as Gansey eyed her meaningfully in the rearview mirror. Adam swivelled the other way in his seat – to the right, instead of to the left, so that he was peering around the far side of the headrest. It made him look as if he were hiding, but Blue knew it was just because it turned his hearing ear instead of his deaf ear towards them. “For what?” “Emptying another student’s backpack over his car. I don’t really want to talk about it.” “I do,” Ronan said. “Well, I don’t. I’m not proud of it.” Ronan patted her leg. “I’ll be proud for you.

If hitting an unexpected speed bump with your car equates to the best sex you've had lately, you know your hormones are sending you a signal.

Nice car, asshat!" one of them shouted before they did some kind of fist-bumping move that made me want to bump my fist, too. Right into their faces.

You see," he continued, beginning to feel better, "once there was no time at all, and people found it very inconvenient. They never knew wether they were eating lunch or dinner, and they were always missing trains. So time was invented to help them keep track of the day and get to places where they should. When they began to count all the time that was available, what with 60 seconds in a minute and 60 minutes in an hour and 24 hours in a day and 365 days in a year, it seemed as if there was much more than could ever be used. 'If there's so much of it, it couldn't be very valuable,' was the general opinion, and it soon fell into dispute. People wasted it and even gave it away. Then we were giving the job of seeing that no one wasted time again," he said, sitting up proudly. "It's hard work but a noble calling. For you see"- and now he was standing on the seat, one foot on the windshield, shouting with his ams outstretched- "it is our most valuable possession, more precious than diamonds. It marches on, it and tide wait for no man, and-" At that point in the speech the car hit a bump in the road and the watchdog collapsed in a heap on the front seat with his alarm ringing furiously.

An ideological movement is a collection of people many of whom could hardly bake a cake, fix a car, sustain a friendship or a marriage, or even do a quadratic equation, yet they believe they know how to rule the world. The university, in which it is possible to combine theoretical pretension with comprehensive ineptitude, has become the natural habitat of the ideological enthusiast. A kind of adventure playground, carefully insulated from reality in order to prevent absent-minded professors from bumping into things as they explore transcendental realms, has become the institutional base for civilizational self-hatred.

The way Misha tells it, he drove like a blind man, giving the car almost full independence to feel its way along, bumping off things, only giving the wheel a spin with the tips of this fingers when the situation verged on life threatening.

If he puts his hand on your head to keep you from bumping it when he helps you in the car. -You might be a police wife

Max didn't take his hands off her. As they walked to where he'd parked the hired car, he kept his arm round her shoulders, even though he was carrying her cases in his other hand and they kept bumping him.

Usually when you’re steering a boat, it’s like steering a car – you aim yourself in the right direction and move the tiller a little this way or that way on keep on course. Occasionally a stronger puff of wind or a sudden wave pushes you off – like a bump in the road or a car that swings too far into your lane. But you correct. You get back on course. And you start again with the little movements. It’s easy. Anyone can do it.

I grew up back and forth between the British Isles: England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales. I spent short periods of time in France, Italy, and South Africa. This is my first time in the States. I was disappointed by Atlanta at first — I'd wanted to live in New York-but it's grown on me.” Everything about Kaidan was exciting and exotic. This was my first time traveling away from home, and he'd already seen so much. I ate my apple, glad it was crisp and not soft. “Which was your favorite place?” I asked. “I've never been terribly attached to any place. I guess it would have to be...here.” I stopped midchew and examined his face. He wouldn't look at me. He was clenching his jaw, tense. Was he serious or was he teasing me? I swallowed my bite. “The Texas panhandle?” I asked. “No.” He seemed to choose each word with deliberate care. “I mean here in this car. With you.” Covered in goose bumps, I looked away from him and stared straight ahead at the road, letting my hand with the apple fall to my lap. He cleared his throat and tried to explain. “I've not talked like this with anyone, not since I started working, not even to the only four people in the world who I call friends. You have Patti, and even that boyfriend of yours. So this has been a relief of sort. Kind of...nice.” He cleared his throat again. Oh, my gosh. Did we just have a moment? I proceeded with caution, hoping not to ruin it. “It's been nice for me, too,” I said. “I've never told Jay anything. He has no idea. You're the only one I've talked to about it all, except Patti, but it's not the same. She learned the basics from the nun at the convent where I was born.” “You were born in a convent,” he stated. “Yes.” “Naturally.

Mace,' I said struck by a thought, 'did you ever think that all those people in those cars have a whole separate story to them, that it's just as important to them as our stuff is to us, and we don't know anything about it. Maybe sometime we'll run across somebody and two years ago they were driving past us on the highway and we never knew it. Like sometimes we meet people and bump off of them and never see them again and we never know why paths cross.

He turned her ninety degrees. "To get back to the ranger station and your car, you want to go southwest," he said. Right. She knew that, and she stalked off in the correct direction. "Watch out for bears," Matt called after her. "Yeah, okay," she muttered, "and I'll also keep an eye out for the Tooth Fairy." "Three o'clock." Amy craned her neck and froze. Oh sweet baby Jesus, there really was a bear at three o'clock. Enjoying the last of the sun, he was big, brown and shaggy, and big. He lay flat on his back, his huge paws in the air as he stretched, confident that he sat at the top of the food chain. "Holy shit," she whispered, every Discovery Channel bear mauling she'd ever seen flashing in her mind. She backed up a step, and then another, until she bumped into a brick wall and nearly screamed. "Just a brown bear," said the brick wall that was Matt.

She returned to numbness and despair. Life as it really was. A shrinking world of waiting terrors followed by nameless oblivion. The animate life of the Palms left her encumbered with the fact that she’d have to return to the crack house in the morning. Everything gnarled and black in her heart. Clara turned down seventh street. She heard the sounds of Joe snorting a bump of meth and the terrible rattling tick from deep in the car’s engine. She hoped for a message or warning in the tableau but was left wanting, as always.

Ah, the suburbs: that slice of America where we name subdivisions after the trees we've cut down to build them, where we've zoned out any hope of a bookstore or a restaurant within walking distance, where we slave over lawns that we seldom use, where our front porches are too shallow for a porch swing, where we walk the dogs but can't walk to lunch, where we don't really get to know the neighbors because nobody's planning to stick around for more than a few years, where the dominant feature of every house is the two-car garage door, where getting to know people is tougher than it needs to be because there's no village pub, no local bakery, no farmer's market—in other words, no casual gathering point where it's possible to bump into neighbors in an organic way.

Speed Bump Q. How fast can you hit a speed bump while driving and live? —Myrlin Barber A. Surprisingly fast. First, a disclaimer. After reading this answer, don’t try to drive over speed bumps at high speeds. Here are some reasons: You could hit and kill someone. It can destroy your tires, suspension, and potentially your entire car. Have you read any of the other answers in this book?

Passersby looked at us curiously. In the porch, Mr. Whitman held the church door open for us. “Hurry up, please,” he said. “We don’t want to attract attention.” No, sure, there was nothing likely to attract attention in two black limousines parking in North Audley Street in broad daylight so that men in suits could carry the Lost Ark out of the trunk of one of the cars, over the sidewalk, and into the church. Although from a distance the chest carrying it could have been a small coffin . . . The thought gave me goose bumps. “I hope at least you remembered your pistol,” I whispered to Gideon. “You have a funny idea of what goes on at a soiree,” he said, in a normal tone of voice, arranging the scarf around my shoulders. “Did anyone check what’s in your bag? We don’t want your mobile ringing in the middle of a musical performance.” I couldn’t keep from laughing at the idea, because just then my ringtone was a croaking frog. “There won’t be anyone there who could call me except you,” I pointed out. “And I don’t even know your number. Please may I take a look inside your bag?” “It’s called a reticule,” I said, shrugging and handing him the little bag. “Smelling salts, handkerchief, perfume, powder . . . excellent,” said Gideon. “All just as it should be. Come along.” He gave me the reticule back, took my hand, and led me through the church porch. Mr. Whitman bolted the door again behind us. Gideon forgot to let go of my hand once we were inside the church, which was just as well, because otherwise I’d have panicked at the last moment and run away.

So here we are, in the family planning aisle with a cart full of sports drinks and our hands full of . . . “Trojans, Ramses, Magnum . . . Jeez, these are worse than names for muscle cars,” Jase observes, sliding his finger along the display. “They do sound sorta, well, forceful.” I flip over the box I’m holding to read the instructions. Jase glances up to smile at me. “Don’t worry, Sam. It’s just us.” “I don’t get what half these descriptions mean . . . What’s a vibrating ring?” “Sounds like the part that breaks on the washing machine. What’s extra-sensitive? That sounds like how we describe George.” I’m giggling. “Okay, would that be better or worse than ‘ultimate feeling’—and look—there’s ‘shared pleasure’ condoms and ‘her pleasure’ condoms. But there’s no ‘his pleasure.’” “I’m pretty sure that comes with the territory,” Jase says dryly. “Put down those Technicolor ones. No freaking way.” “But blue’s my favorite color,” I say, batting my eyelashes at him. “Put them down. The glow-in-the-dark ones too. Jesus. Why do they even make those?” “For the visually impaired?” I ask, reshelving the boxes. We move to the checkout line. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” the clerk calls as we leave. “Do you think he knew?” I ask. “You’re blushing again,” Jase mutters absently. “Did who know what?” “The sales guy. Why we were buying these?” A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Of course not. I’m sure it never occurred to him that we were actually buying birth control for ourselves. I bet he thought it was a . . . a . . . housewarming gift.” Okay, I’m ridiculous. “Or party favors,” I laugh. “Or”—he scrutinized the receipt—“supplies for a really expensive water balloon fight.” “Visual aids for health class?” I slip my hand into the back pocket of Jase’s jeans. “Or little raincoats for . . .” He pauses, stumped. “Barbie dolls,” I suggest. “G.I. Joes,” he corrects, and slips his free hand into the back pocket of my jeans, bumping his hip against mine as we head back to the car.

Look what can happen in this country, they'd say. A girl lives in some out-of-the-way town for 19 years, so poor she can't afford a magazine, and then she gets a scholarship to college and wins a prize here and a prize there and ends up steering New York like her own private car. Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself. I bumped from my hotel to work and to parties and from parties to my hotel and back to work like a numb trolley-bus.

As I speak, his fingers trail down my arm. I’m just so relieved he’s willing to touch me after I’ve told him this. He turns my hand over and traces the fine lines on my palm. “And?” He looks up beneath heavy lids. “What else should I know about you?” “My skin—” I stop, swallow. He leans down, presses his lips to my wrist in a feathery kiss. “What about your skin?” “You know. You’ve seen it,” I rasp. “It changes. The color becomes—” “Like fire.” His gaze lifts from my wrist and he says that word he said so long ago surrounded in cold mists, tucked on a ledge above a whispering pool of water. “Beautiful.” “You said that before. In the mountains.” “I meant it. Still do.” I laugh weakly. “I guess this means you’re not mad at me.” “I would be mad, if I could.” He frowns. “I should be.” He inches closer to me on the couch. We sink deeper into the tired cushions. “This is impossible.” “This what?” I clutch the collar of his shirt in my fingers. His face is so close I study the varying color of his eyes. For a long time, he says nothing. Stares at me in that way that makes me want to squirm. For a moment, it seems that his irises glow and the pupils shrink to slits. Then, he mutters, “A hunter in love with his prey.” My chest squeezes. I suck in a breath. Pretty wonderful, I think, but am too embarrassed to say it. Even after what he just admitted. He loves me? Studying him, I let myself consider this and whether he can possibly mean it. But what else could it be? What else could drive him to this moment with me? To turn his back on his family’s way of life? As he looks at me in that desperate, devouring way, I’m reminded of those moments in his car when he tended the cut on my palm and ran his hand over my leg. My belly twists. I glance around, see how seriously, dangerously alone we are. More alone than in the stairwell. Or even the first time together, on that ledge. I lick my lips. Now we’re alone with no school bell ready to rip us apart. Even more alarming, no more secrets stand between us. No barriers. Nothing to stop us at all. I hold my breath until I feel the first press of his lips, certain I’ve never been this close to another soul, this vulnerable. We kiss until we’re both breathless, warm and flushed, twisting against each other on the couch. His hands brush my bare back beneath my shirt, trace every bump of my spine. My back tingles, wings vibrating just beneath the surface. I drink the cooler air from his lips, drawing it into my fiery lungs. I don’t even mind when he stops and watches my skin change colors, or touches my face as it blurs in and out. He kisses my changing face. Cheeks, nose, the corners of my eyes, sighing my name it like a benediction between each caress. His lips slide to my neck and I moan, arch, lost to everything but him. In this, with him . . . I’m as close to the sky as I’ve ever been.

On the crowded subway car back to Brooklyn afterwards, the youngest of my three female companions had her bottom groped by a man about Strauss-Kahn’s age. At first, she thought he had simply bumped into her. That was before she felt her buttock being cupped and said something to me, as young women often do, tentatively, quietly, as though it were perhaps not happening or perhaps not quite a problem. Finally, she glared at him and told him to stop. I was reminded of a moment when I was an impoverished seventeen-year-old living in Paris and some geezer grabbed my ass. It was perhaps my most American moment in France, then the land of a thousand disdainful gropers; American because I was carrying three grapefruits, a precious purchase from my small collection of funds, and I threw those grapefruits, one after another, like baseballs at the creep and had the satisfaction of watching him scuttle into the night. His action, like so much sexual violence against women, was undoubtedly meant to be a reminder that this world was not mine, that my rights -- my liberté, egalité, sororité, if you will -- didn’t matter. Except that I had sent him running in a barrage of fruit.

One of the rooms in the castle had a creature in it,” Curran said. “What kind of creature?” “A large cat,” Curran said. “It glowed.” “What happened to the large glowing cat?” Why did I have a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer? “I killed it,” Curran said. “Aha.” First, I broke Mishmar, then Curran stole Saiman back and killed my father’s glowing cat. Maybe Roland’s head would explode. “It was a saber-toothed tiger,” Julie said. “It glowed silver.” Silver meant divine magic. There was no telling what that saber-toothed tiger was or where my dad had gotten him. “Snitch,” Derek said. She waved him off. “He killed it and then he ate it.” I looked at Curran. “You killed an animal god and then you ate him?” “Maybe,” Curran said. “What do you mean maybe?” “I doubt it was a god.” “It glowed silver,” Julie said. “It was definitely worshipped.” Oh boy. Curran swerved to avoid a speed bump formed by tree roots raising the asphalt. “I could worship a lamp. That doesn’t make it a god.” “Why did you eat it?” I asked in a small voice. “It felt right at the time.” “He devoured it,” Julie said. “Completely. With bones.” If it was some sort of divine animal and he ate it, there was no telling what the flesh or the magic would do to him. There would be consequences. There were always consequences. “Do you feel any side effects?” “Not any I want to talk about with them in the car.

He raises his hand to my face again and I allow the touch. His fingers slide along my jawline and the warmth of his caresses radiates past my skin and into my bloodstream. Pleasing goose bumps rise on my neck. “Do you think you’ll come back sometime?” he asks. “And let me help you with your car?” My ears ring with the staccato thrum, thrum, thrum of my heart. Holy crap, I can’t believe this is happening to me. “I’ll make it work. I swear.” The words tumble out of my mouth without thought. That’s not true. Actually, they tumble out with a lot of thought of how my parents won’t approve, of how my brothers will kill Isaiah, then possibly kill me. But in this moment, I don’t care what any of them think.

Bumps in the road help in awakening the bird sleeping inside the car.

up in a different car. Or I could have been in the right car but picked another seat. We could have missed each other.” “Maybe on that day,” I would say, running the tips of my fingers along her fascinating curls. “But I would have found you eventually.” I said this because I knew it was what Celeste wanted to hear, this warm girl in my arms who smelled like Ivory soap, but I believed it too, if not romantically then at least statistically: two kids from Jenkintown and Rydal going to college in New York City were likely to bump into one another somewhere along the way. “The only reason I picked that seat was because I saw the chemistry book. You weren’t even sitting there.” “That’s right,” I said. Celeste smiled.

Inly dying, inly moaning, I glimpsed a reasonably wide shoulder of road ahead, and bumped and wobbled into the weeds. Remember she is only a child, remember she is only— Hardly had the car come

He said later it was propinquity. Propinquity in the desert. It does that here, he said. He loved the word--the propinquity of water, the propinquity of two or three bodies in a car driving the Sand Sea for six hours. Her sweating knee beside the gearbox of the truck, the knee swerving, rising with the bumps. In the desert you have time to look everywhere, to theorize on the choreography of all things around you.

For instance, I never wrote to my MP to express my displeasure at the widespread deployment of sleeping policemen around the capital. It never occurred to me to do so: Mo and I don’t own a car, and speed bumps

Gansey asked, "Do you have time to run an errand with us? Do you have work? Homework?" "No homework. I got suspended," Blue replied. "Get the fuck out," Ronan said, but with admiration. "Sargent, you asshole." Blue reluctantly allowed him to bump fists with her as Gansey eyed her meaningfully in the rearview mirror. Adam swivelled the other way in his seat - to the right, instead of to the left, so that he was peering around the far side of the headrest. It made him look as if he were hiding, but Blue knew it was just because it turned his hearing ear instead of his deaf ear towards them. "For what?" "Emptying another student's backpack over his car. I don't really want to talk about it." "I do," Ronan said. "Well, I don't. I'm not proud of it." Ronan patted her leg. "I'll be proud for you." Blue cast a withering look in his direction, but she felt grounded for the first time that day.

Carly heard the click of Shadowfax’s hooves as she came over to them. She snorted in Carly’s face and bumped her nose against her shoulder. As Carly petted her, Shadowfax hooked a foreleg over Carly’s hip as though to draw her closer for a hug and laid her head over Carly’s shoulder with a soft rumble. “Good horse. Thank you for biting that awful man.” “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Justin, said with wonder in his voice. “I swear to God, you’re like a video game Druid, sending animals to do your bidding.

No choice. No coincidence. Pah! We take this train on purpose." Fabbio waved his long arms dismissively. "And what about htis bump in the road?" Fabbio looked out the window. "I see no bump." Pumpkin let out a loud sigh. "'Bump in the road' is an expression." He was wearing a toga he'd found in an abandoned suitcase, tied with a curtain tie. He flounced one tassel around dramatically as he talked, smiling haughtily at Kitty from the corner of his eye. "It doesn't mean a real bump. It means-" Bump "Meay!" Somber Kitty, hissing, bounced against one of the closed windows, then landed on all fours. Pumpkin flew across the table under a cascade of dards; Beatrice and May hurtled off their bench onto the ground; Fabbio tumbled flat against the wall behind him. Scccccccccccccccrrrrrrrrrrrrrrcccccccccccccccchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! The train came to a dead halt. A bone-chilling stillness followed. The Bogey. Pumpkin whimpered and zipped under the table. Somber Kitty positioned himself between May and the rear car door. And they all readied themselves for whatever might come through it.

The car is hopping over bumps, jumping, tearing, screeching. The green car in sight, out of sight, vanishing around a corner only to appear when I skate around, behind three or four cars. God, I hope he’s not trying to lose me. I almost said “give me the slip.” I could feel it coming but I didn’t.

Oh I could be out, rollicking in the ripeness of my flesh and others’, could be drinking things and eating things and rubbing mine against theirs, speculating about this person or that, waving, indicating hello with a sudden upward jutting of my chin, sitting in the backseat of someone else’s car, bumping up and down the San Francisco hills, south of Market, seeing people attacking their instruments, afterward stopping at a bodega, parking, carrying the bottles in a paper bag, the glass clinking, all our faces bright, glowing under streetlamps, down the sidewalk to this or that apartment party, hi, hi, putting the bottles in the fridge, removing one for now, hating the apartment, checking the view, sitting on the arm of a couch and being told not to, and then waiting for the bathroom, staring idly at that ubiquitous Ansel Adams print, Yosemite, talking to a short-haired girl while waiting in the hallway, talking about teeth, no reason really, the train of thought unclear, asking to see her fillings, no, really, I’ll show you mine first, ha ha, then no, you go ahead, I’ll go after you, then, after using the bathroom she is still there, still in the hallway, she was waiting not just for the bathroom but for me, and so eventually we’ll go home together, her apartment, where she lives alone, in a wide, immaculate railroad type place, newly painted, decorated with her mother, then sleeping in her oversized, oversoft white bed, eating breakfast in her light-filled nook, then maybe to the beach for a few hours with the Sunday paper, then wandering home whenever, never- Fuck. We don't even have a baby-sitter.

With that in mind, I pull the door shut and look for a seat belt to buckle. I find only the frayed end of a seat belt and a broken buckle. “Where did you find this piece of junk?” says Christina. “I stole it from the factionless. They fix them up. It wasn’t easy to get it to start. Better ditch those jackets, girls.” I ball up our jackets and toss them out the half-open window. Marcus shifts the truck into drive, and it groans. I half expect it to stay still when he presses the gas pedal, but it moves. From what I remember, it takes about an hour to drive from the Abnegation sector to Amity headquarters, and the trip requires a skilled driver. Marcus pulls onto one of the main thoroughfares and pushes his foot into the gas pedal. We lurch forward, narrowly avoiding a gaping hole in the road. I grab the dashboard to steady myself. “Relax, Beatrice,” says Marcus. “I’ve driven a car before.” “I’ve done a lot of things before, but that doesn’t mean I’m any good at them!” Marcus smiles and jerks the truck to the left so that we don’t hit a fallen stoplight. Christina whoops as we bump over another piece of debris, like she’s having the time of her life. “A different kind of stupid, right?” she says, her voice loud enough to be heard over the rush of wind through the cab. I clutch the seat beneath me and try not to think of what I ate for dinner.

Something was in her mouth. Sami's tongue slid along the edges of something plastic. Flat, low ridges, holes-an adjustable strap. A baseball cap? Another taste. Hair spray. Gross. Someone had stuffed her baseball cap in her mouth, and from the feel of it they had taped it in place. Her arms were tied behind her and she lay face down on the floor-of what? Her car. The carpeting scraped her cheek every time they hit a bump. Panic flooded Sami's senses. She came instantly awake. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she willed herself to calm down. Her working motto flashed through her brain, panic never accomplished anything. Of course she had never been kidnapped and tied up before. In the dim light of passing cars, she glimpsed things-paper gum wrappers, an old straw, one whopper wrapper, a CD cover. That's where Sting went. Been looking for that for days. Man did she need to vacuum this car out. A metallic scent hit her nose. She'd recognize that smell until the day she died. Blood. And by the odor, someone had lost a great deal of it.

I pictured the world. I pictured the world millions of years ago, with crazy clouds of gas everywhere, and volcanoes, and the continents bumping into each other and then drifting apart. Okay. Now life begins. … There are animals, then humans, looking almost all alike. There are tiny differences in color, the shape of the face, the tone of the skin. But basically they are the same. They create shelters, grow food, experiment. They talk; they write things down. Now fast-forward. The earth is still making loops around the sun. There are humans all over the place, driving in cars and flying in airplanes. And then one day one human tells another human that he doesn’t want to walk to school with her anymore. 'Does it really matter?' I asked myself. It did.

He hasn’t been back long before a tall black guy in a lacrosse uniform comes jogging over to the car. He calls out, “McClaren!” He bends down and puts his face up close to the window, and he and John bump fists. “Are you coming to Danica’s after this?” he asks. John glances over at me and then says, “Nah, I can’t.” His friend notices me then; his eyes widen. “Who’s this?” “I’m Lara Jean, I don’t go here,” I say, which is dumb, because he probably knows that already. “You’re Lara Jean?” He nods enthusiastically. “I’ve heard about you. You’re why McClaren’s hanging around a nursing home, am I right?” I blush and John laughs an easy sort of laugh. “Get outta here, Avery.” Avery reaches over John and shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you, Lara Jean. See you around.

Hospital. I was knocked down by a taxi while crossing Gray’s Inn Road. I was sober as a judge, I’d just like to point out, although I was in a bit of a state, distracted, panicky almost. I’m having an inch-long cut above my right eye stitched up by an extremely handsome junior doctor who is disappointingly brusque and businesslike. When he’s finished stitching, he notices the bump on my head. “It’s not new,” I tell him. “It looks pretty new,” he says. “Well, not new today.” “Been in the wars, have we?” “I bumped it getting into a car.” He examines my head for a good few seconds and then says, “Is that so?” He stands back and looks me in the eye. “It doesn’t look like it. It looks more like someone’s hit you with something,” he says, and I go cold. I have a memory

It had been obvious to me from a young age that my parents didn’t like one another. Couples in films and on television performed household tasks together and talked fondly about their shared memories. I couldn’t remember seeing my mother and father in the same room unless they were eating. My father had “moods.” Sometimes during his moods my mother would take me to stay with her sister Bernie in Clontarf, and they would sit in the kitchen talking and shaking their heads while I watched my cousin Alan play Ocarina of Time. I was aware that alcohol played a role in these incidents, but its precise workings remained mysterious to me. I enjoyed our visits to Bernie’s house. While we were there I was allowed to eat as many digestive biscuits as I wanted, and when we returned, my father was either gone out or else feeling very contrite. I liked it when he was gone out. During his periods of contrition he tried to make conversation with me about school and I had to choose between humoring and ignoring him. Humoring him made me feel dishonest and weak, a soft target. Ignoring him made my heart beat very hard and afterward I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. Also it made my mother cry. It was hard to be specific about what my father’s moods consisted of. Sometimes he would go out for a couple of days and when he came back in we’d find him taking money out of my Bank of Ireland savings jar, or our television would be gone. Other times he would bump into a piece of furniture and then lose his temper. He hurled one of my school shoes right at my face once after he tripped on it. It missed and went in the fireplace and I watched it smoldering like it was my own face smoldering. I learned not to display fear, it only provoked him. I was cold like a fish. Afterward my mother said: why didn’t you lift it out of the fire? Can’t you at least make an effort? I shrugged. I would have let my real face burn in the fire too. When he came home from work in the evening I used to freeze entirely still, and after a few seconds I would know with complete certainty if he was in one of the moods or not. Something about the way he closed the door or handled his keys would let me know, as clearly as if he yelled the house down. I’d say to my mother: he’s in a mood now. And she’d say: stop that. But she knew as well as I did. One day, when I was twelve, he turned up unexpectedly after school to pick me up. Instead of going home, we drove away from town, toward Blackrock. The DART went past on our left and I could see the Poolbeg towers out the car window. Your mother wants to break up our family, my father said. Instantly I replied: please let me out of the car. This remark later became evidence in my father’s theory that my mother had poisoned me against him.

I talk about my feeling of living with one foot in madness, the distortions of reality, the fog that descends at certain moments, unsettling as amnesia. (What am I doing in this classroom? Why, in this mirror, does my face look so weird? I wrote that? What could I have meant?) I talk about how, no matter how much I sleep, I’m exhausted. About the number of times I bump into something, or drop something, or trip over my own feet. Stepping off the curb into the path of a car that would have struck me if someone standing by hadn’t jerked me back. The days when I don’t eat, the days when I eat nothing but junk. Absurd fears: What if there’s a gas leak and the building blows up? Losing or misplacing stuff. Forgetting to do my taxes. These are all symptoms of bereavement, the therapist tells me unnecessarily. Doctor Obvious. But you know, Apollo, I say after my fourth or fifth session, I think I really am beginning to feel a little better. •

Once upon a time there is nothing but darkness. You stumble around blindly, so close to the edge that you are sure you'll tumble over it. And if you are to be honest, you must admit that you are so low already you don't necessarily think that would be a bad thing. Then one day you meet someone. He finds you kneeling right at the precipice and instead of telling you to get back up he kneels next to you. He tries to see what you are seeing. He doesn't ask anything of you or beg you to snap out of it or remind you there are people who need you. He just waits until you turn and squint and think to yourself, "oh yes, I remember, this is what light looks like." You don't know how it happens, but you become friends. You find yourself looking in the parking lot to see if his car is there. You see something on tv or read it in a book and think, "I must remember to tell him." You learn how he takes his coffee and what his favorite color is, not by asking but by observation. Then you realize your day speeds up when you see him. The hair stands up on the backs of your forearms when his shoulder bumps yours in the elevator. His presence is so filling the absence of him aches. You begin to reconfigure the puzzle of your life with him in it. You don't want to spend time without him if you can help it. You introduce him to family. You suffer their elbow gabs and raised eyebrows, because later it gives you two something to laugh about. You wish you could introduce him to the family members who aren't here anymore. They would have loved him. You see him around children and you think one day.

Back country people. This is the way cars come, as though the kid knew anything about cars. Zé Dias shifted into first and turned onto the track. There were a couple of small bumps and the pick-up lilted along, its headlights shining directly into the tall palm grass growing between the ruts as high as the hood. The track began to curve to the right, but it was smooth, and the pick-up made a soft swishing sound as it pushed down the grass in front of it—a boat sailing through a grass sea. Sailing quickly—at this rate they’d get there and back in good time.

His manner of dealing with explosives also caused her consternation. On one occasion Helen joined Parsons and Forman on one of their recreational skyrocket launching trips in the desert. Sitting in the back seat of the car, she lifted up a rug covering the floor to find it had been hiding sticks and sticks of dynamite, no doubt taken from Halifax by Parsons. Nervously leaning forward to the front seat where Parsons and Forman were sitting, she asked whether the explosives were safe. As the truck bumped heavily along the desert road, Parsons turned to her with an amused grin and told her not to worry: “The detonator’s in the front seat.

It was Inspector Hewitt. “You’ve got goose-bumps,” he said, looking at me attentively. “Best go sit in the car.” He had already reached the far side of the bridge before he turned back. “There’s a blanket in the boot,” he said, and then vanished in the shadows. I felt my temper rising. Here was this man—a man in an ordinary business suit, without so much as a badge on his shoulder—dismissing me from the scene of a crime that I had come to think of as my very own. After all, hadn’t I been the first to discover it? Had Marie Curie been dismissed after discovering polonium? Or radium? Had someone told her to run along? It simply wasn’t fair.

Look what can happen in this country, they’d say. A girl lives in some out-of-the-way town for nineteen years, so poor she can’t afford a magazine, and then she gets a scholarship to college and wins a prize here and a prize there and ends up steering New York like her own private car. Only I wasn’t steering anything, not even myself. I just bumped from my hotel to work and to parties and from parties to my hotel and back to work like a numb trolleybus. I guess I should have been excited the way most of the other girls were, but I couldn’t get myself to react. I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.

It was dusk when I drove back into downtown Detroit. I was annoyed by how much traffic there was at that hour of the day. Being a guy with two good legs who doesn’t mind ankling, I hadn’t realized the car situation had gotten so bad in the city. I almost had two smack-ups with people who refused to yield to me. Then I bumped someone from behind, intentionally, at the new flashing traffic light on Jefferson. The guy in the car had refused to move—he just sat there waiting because the light was red. After I bumped him (not that hard), the squirt hopped out of his car red in the face, and I must admit the sight of him gave me my first laugh in two days. He said, “Can’t you see it’s a red light?” I told him a red light is just a suggestion. Then I pressed the gas lightly and started pushing his car further out into the intersection whilst he stood there in disbelief. “Better get back in, your car is leaving without you,” I said.

I HAS RITTEN A BOOK AND IT IS SO EXCITING NOBODY CAN PUT IT DOWN. AS SOON AS YOU HAS RED THE FIRST LINE YOU IS SO HOOKED ON IT YOU CANNOT STOP UNTIL THE LAST PAGE. IN ALL THE CITIES PEEPLE IS WALKING IN THE STREETS BUMPING INTO EACH OTHER BECAUSE THEIR FACES IS BURIED IN MY BOOK AND DENTISTS IS READING IT AND TRYING TO FILL TEETHS AT THE SAME TIME BUT NOBODY MINDS BECAUSE THEY IS ALL READING IT TOO IN THE DENTIST’S CHAIR. DRIVERS IS READING IT WHILE DRIVING AND CARS IS CRASHING ALL OVER THE COUNTRY. BRAIN SURGEONS IS READING IT WHILE THEY IS OPERATING ON BRAINS AND AIRLINE PILOTS IS READING IT AND GOING TO TIMBUCTOO INSTEAD OF LONDON. FOOTBALL PLAYERS IS READING IT ON THE FIELD BECAUSE THEY CAN’T PUT IT DOWN AND SO IS OLIMPICK RUNNERS WHILE THEY IS RUNNING. EVERYBODY HAS TO SEE WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT IN MY BOOK AND WHEN I WAKE UP I IS STILL TINGLING WITH EXCITEMENT AT BEING THE GREATEST RITER THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN UNTIL MY MUMMY COMES IN AND SAYS I WAS LOOKING AT YOUR ENGLISH EXERCISE BOOK LAST NITE AND REALLY YOUR SPELLING IS ATROSHUS SO IS YOUR PUNTULASHON.

The dumpkeeper had spawned nine daughters and named them out of an old medical dictionary gleaned from the rubbish he picked. These gangling progeny with black hair hanging from their armpits now sat idle and wide-eyed day after day in chairs and crates about the little yard cleared out of the tips while their harried dam called them one by one to help with chores and one by one they shrugged or blinked their sluggard lids. Uretha, Cerebella, Hernia Sue. They moved like cats and like cats in heat attracted surrounding swains to their midden until the old man used to go out at night and fire a shotgun at random just to clear the air. He couldn't tell which was the oldest or what age and he didn’t know whether they should go out with boys or not. Like cats they sensed his lack of resolution. They were coming and going all hours in all manner of degenerate cars, a dissolute carousel of rotting sedans and niggerized convertibles with bluedot taillamps and chrome horns and foxtails and giant dice or dashboard demons of spurious fur. All patched up out of parts and lowslung and bumping over the ruts. Filled with old lanky country boys with long cocks and big feet.

My father peed like a horse. His urine lowed in one great sweeping dream that started suddenly and stopped just as suddenly, a single, winking arc of shimmering clarity that endured for a prodigious interval and then disappeared in an instant, as though the outflow were a solid object—and arch of glittering ice or a thick band of silver—and not (as it actually approximated) a parabolic, dynamically averaged graph of the interesting functions of gravity, air resistance, and initial velocity on a non-viscous fluid, produced and exhibited by a man who’d just consumed more than a gallon of midwestern beer. The flow was as clear as water. When it struck the edge of the gravel shoulder, the sound was like a bed-sheet being ripped. Beneath this high reverberation, he let out a protracted appreciative whistle that culminated in a tunneled gasp, his lips flapping at the close like a trumpeters. In the tiny topsoil, a gap appeared, a wisp entirely unashamed. Bernie bumped about in the cargo bay. My father moved up close to peer through the windshield, zipping his trousers and smiling through the glass at my mother. I realized that the yellow that should have been in his urine was unmistakable now in his eyes. ‘’Thank goodness,’’ my mother said when the car door closed again. ‘’I was getting a little bored in here.

I’m going to miss all the takeout,” Jason said later, after dinner, when I walked him out to his car. “Coach said his wife cooks their meals every night.” “That’s really why you’re leaving, isn’t it?” I asked. “For real home-cooked meals?” He put his hands on my waist, drew me near. “If you knew how hard I found it to stay on my side of the hall last night after we finished watching the movie…” He shook his head. “Your parents absolutely wouldn’t approve of the direction that my thoughts are going. With or without your mom’s contract, I’d move out.” “I can’t believe she did that.” He grinned. “Yeah, it was that first night, after she came out of your room.” “Weren’t you offended?” “How could I be? I started falling for you as soon as you bumped into me. I knew I could be a goner so easily.” “Really?” “Oh, yeah. And when I pictured you in shoulder pads and a helmet--” I shoved his shoulder. “You did not!” “Oh, yeah, I did. And I thought, of all the girls in this town, she is the one that I absolutely can’t find fascinating.” “Is that the reason you sounded like you really didn’t want to take me home after that first night of pizza?” “Yep. I wanted to limit contact. I was trying so hard not to fall for you.” “Well, that’s why I knocked you over,” I said. He laughed. “Will you still come play ball with Dad?” “Sure. But you have to play, too.” I smiled. “Okay.” It was so, so hard--a dozen kisses later--watching him leave. But at least I knew he’d be back.

On the train I had a lot of time to think. I thought how in the thirty years of my life I had seldom gotten on a train in America without being conscious of my color. In the South, there are Jim Crow cars and Negroes must ride separate from the whites, usually in a filthy antiquated coach next to the engine, getting all the smoke and bumps and dirt. In the South, we cannot buy sleeping car tickets. Such comforts are only for white folks. And in the North where segregated travel is not the law, colored people have, nevertheless, many difficulties. In auto buses they must take the seats in the rear, over the wheels. On the boats they must occupy the worst cabins. The ticket agents always say that all other accommodations are sold. On trains, if one sits down by a white person, the white person will sometimes get up, flinging back an insult at the Negro who has dared to take a seat beside him. Thus it is that in America, if you are yellow, brown, or black, you can never travel anywhere without being reminded of your color, and oft-times suffering great inconveniences. I sat in the comfortable sleeping car on my first day out of Moscow and remembered many things about trips I had taken in America. I remembered how, once as a youngster going alone to see my father who was working in Mexico, I went into the dining car of the train to eat. I sat down at a table with a white man. The man looked at me and said, "You're a nigger, ain't you?" and left the table. It was beneath his dignity to eat with a Negro child. At St. Louis I went onto the station platform to buy a glass of milk. The clerk behind the counter said, “We don't serve niggers," and refused to sell me anything. As I grew older I learned to expect this often when traveling. So when I went South to lecture on my poetry at Negro universities, I carried my own food because I knew I could not go into the dining cars. Once from Washington to New Orleans, I lived all the way on the train on cold food. I remembered this miserable trip as I sat eating a hot dinner on the diner of the Moscow-Tashkent express. Traveling South from New York, at Washington, the capital of our country, the official Jim Crow begins. There the conductor comes through the train and, if you are a Negro, touches you on the shoulder and says, "The last coach forward is the car for colored people." Then you must move your baggage and yourself up near the engine, because when the train crosses the Potomac River into Virginia, and the dome of the Capitol disappears, it is illegal any longer for white people and colored people to ride together. (Or to eat together, or sleep together, or in some places even to work together.) Now I am riding South from Moscow and am not Jim-Crowed, and none of the darker people on the train with me are Jim-Crowed, so I make a happy mental note in the back of my mind to write home to the Negro papers: "There is no Jim Crow on the trains of the Soviet Union.

The walk is over too quickly. Tally tries everything she can think of to make it last longer, suggesting that Rupert needs to be taken all around the park and then play some stick-chasing games. But after twenty minutes, Mum says that it’s time to head home. “He’s an old dog,” she tells Tally. “And he had quite a fright yesterday. He’ll be happiest having a sleep on his bed now, while we pop out for a while.” “Can’t Nell and I stay here?” Tally asks, the second they’re inside the house. Mum shakes her head. “Not today. After yesterday’s escapades I think that I want us all to stick together. And besides, Dad is looking forward to seeing you.” “I can’t wait to see him,” says Nell, and Tally wonders how she can be so brave about going to the hospital but so scared about something as silly as the dark. Just like the dog walk, the drive to the hospital doesn’t take long enough. Mum parks the car and they all get out. Tally stares at the building ahead. It is grey and gloomy and huge and she knows that if she were to get lost in there then she’d never find her way out. “This way,” says Mum, leading them towards the main entrance. They walk past a man sitting in a wheelchair and a woman with her arm in a sling, and Tally lowers her eyes so that the only thing she can see is Mum’s feet in front of her. The ground changes from concrete to tiles and then Mum’s feet stop and Tally has to look up There are people everywhere and the lights are so bright that it hurts her eyes. “Dad is on the fifth floor,” mum says. “So we need to take the lift.” Tally steps back, accidentally bumping into Nell.

Top Dog" If I could, I would take your grief, dig it up out of the horseradish field and grate it into something red and hot to sauce the shellfish. I would take the lock of hair you put in the locket and carry it in my hand, I would make the light strike everything the way it hit the Bay Bridge, turning the ironwork at sunset into waffles. If I could, I would blow your socks off, they would travel far, always in unison, past the dead men running, past the cranes standing in snow, beyond the roads we rode, so small in our little car, it was like riding in a miner's helmet. If I could I would make everyone vote and call their public servants to say, “No one was meant for this.” I would go back to the afternoon we made love in the tall grass under the full sun not far from the ravine where the old owner had flung hundreds of mink cages. I would memorize gateways to the afterworld, the electric third rail, the blond braid our girl has hanging down her back, the black guppy we killed at our friends’ when we unplugged the bubbler and the fish floated to the top, one eye up at the ceiling, the other at the blue gravel on the bottom of the tank. I would beg an audience with Sister Lucia, the last living of the children visited by Our Lady of Fatima, I would ask her about the weight of secrets, if they let her sleep or if she woke at night with a body on her body, if the body said, “Let's play top dog, first I'll lie on you, then you lie on me.” I would ask how she lived with revelation, the normal state of affairs amplified beyond God, bumped up to the Virgin Mother, who no doubt knew a few things, passed them on, quietly, and I would ask Lucia how she lived with knowing, how she could keep it under her hat, under wraps, button up, zip her lip, play it close to the vest, never telling, never using truth as a weapon.

What no one tells you is that there will be a last time you ever carry your child. A last time you tuck them in. A last time they run into your arms off the school bus. All through his infancy, Dylan was attached to me, almost literally. I nursed him, and he was fussy, so I carried him almost constantly, patting his back, humming to him, breathing in his delicious baby scent. He didn’t walk till he was fourteen months old, and I loved that, because I got to carry him that much longer. I took him for hikes in a backpack, his little knees hitting my ribs. I carried him on my shoulders, him clinging to fistfuls of my hair. I loved every minute. He was an affectionate boy full of drooly kisses and cuddles. He was generous with his hugs, from Paul at the post office to Christine, our librarian. And especially with me. Every night when I read him bedtime stories, his sweet little head would rest against my shoulder, and he’d idly stroke my arm, smelling like Dove soap and baby shampoo. Driving in the car was like a tranquilizer dart for Dylan . . . even bumping down our long dirt road wouldn’t wake him up, and I’d park the car, get out and unbuckle him, then lift his sweaty little body into my arms to carry him inside and just sit on the couch with him in my arms, heart against heart. And then one day, he no longer needed that. The bedtime stories stopped when he was about ten and wanted to read to himself. The last time I attempted to carry him from the car, he woke up and said, “It’s okay, Mom. I’m awake.” He never needed that again. Had someone told me “This is the last time you’ll get to carry your son,” I would have paid more attention. I would have held him as long as I could. They don’t tell you that your son will stop kissing you with sweet innocence, and those smooches will be replaced with an obligatory peck. They don’t tell you that he won’t want a piggyback ride ever again. That you can’t hold his hand anymore. That those goofy, physical games of chasing and tickling and mock wrestling will end one day. Permanently. All those natural, easy, physical gestures of love stop when your son hits puberty and is abruptly aware of his body . . . and yours. He doesn’t want to hug you the same way, finding your physicality perhaps a little . . . icky . . . that realization that Mom has boobs, that Mom’s stomach is soft, that Mom and Dad have sex, that Mom gets her period. The snuggles stop. This child, the deepest love of your life, won’t ever stroke your arm again. You’ll never get to lie in bed next to him for a bedtime chat, those little talks he used to beg for. No more tuck-ins. No more comforting after a bad dream. The physical distance between the two of you is vast . . . it’s not just that he’ll only come so close for the briefest second, but also the simple fact that he isn’t that little boy anymore. He’s a young man, a fully grown male with feet that smell like death and razor stubble on his once petal-soft cheeks.

You know what the worst customer service in the world is? I’ll tell you. It’s the weed guys. You just cannot depend on these people. They’ll give you a time, right? And you’re looking forward to it all week and get off work on Friday at five. Of course I personally wouldn’t know, but I’ve heard of people with jobs. And the weed guy never shows up, and he doesn’t answer his phone, and you drive by his house and his car’s gone, and then you’re totally un-stoned at midnight and accidentally bump into the guy at a party and go, ‘Dude, what’s the deal? We had a time,’ and he says, ‘I was doin’ stuff,’ and I say, ‘Like what?’ and he says, ‘Listenin’ to music’ . . .” “Coleman—

There was nothing … and nothing … and then the car bumped up again. There was a muffled pop, the sound of a small pumpkin exploding in a microwave oven. Morris cut the wheel to the left and there was another bump as the Biscayne went back into the parking area. He looked in the mirror and saw that Curtis’s head was gone.

You have no other choice, I tell myself. There is no other way. With that in mind, I pull the door shut and look for a seat belt to buckle. I find only the frayed end of a seat belt and a broken buckle. “Where did you find this piece of junk?” says Christina. “I stole it from the factionless. They fix them up. It wasn’t easy to get it to start. Better ditch those jackets, girls.” I ball up our jackets and toss them out the half-open window. Marcus shifts the truck into drive, and it groans. I half expect it to stay still when he presses the gas pedal, but it moves. From what I remember, it takes about an hour to drive from the Abnegation sector to Amity headquarters, and the trip requires a skilled driver. Marcus pulls onto one of the main thoroughfares and pushes his foot into the gas pedal. We lurch forward, narrowly avoiding a gaping hole in the road. I grab the dashboard to steady myself. “Relax, Beatrice,” says Marcus. “I’ve driven a car before.” “I’ve done a lot of things before, but that doesn’t mean I’m any good at them!” Marcus smiles and jerks the truck to the left so that we don’t hit a fallen stoplight. Christina whoops as we bump over another piece of debris, like she’s having the time of her life. “A different kind of stupid, right?” she says, her voice loud enough to be heard over the rush of wind through the cab. I clutch the seat beneath me and try not to think of what I ate for dinner.

The room was crowded with fans, friends, and dignitaries (where’s your crown, King Jericho?), all waiting to say a few words to the band. I noticed guitarist Kirk Hammett, who I’d kind of met once before in 1994 in Atlanta. I had asked him to sign the cast on my broken arm (I’d broken it trying a shooting star press in Knoxville) and he said he would if “I could use his boner as a speed bump.” I’m still not sure what he was getting at, and he wasn’t either when I asked him about it fourteen years later in Chicago. He said, laughing, “I was really drunk on Frangelico that night.” I could relate, considering I had crashed my car and split open my forehead whilst under the influence of said spirit in Calgary back in 1995. (Full versions of

I got out of the car, shut the door, and took two steps before it hit me. My breath hitched and I staggered back against the car as my heart thumped wildly. Goose bumps rose on my skin, and I wrapped my arms around myself as if I needed . . . something. The cold wind blew an intense gust, sifting through my hair as my eyes darted from side to side. It felt . . . it felt as if someone had run their fingers across

A few minutes later they reached the east side of Bayport. Frank turned into Springdale Avenue. By the time they passed a small stone house numbered fifty-two, they had entered a section where the sidewalks came to an end and buildings were far apart. The car bumped along an uneven dirt road. “We’re practically out in the country,” said Joe. “I’ll bet we’re beyond the city limits.

The Great Questions of Life were things he didn’t much think about. For the most part, life in the Soviet Union was limited to yesterday, today, and tomorrow. The economic facts of life really didn’t allow a person to make long-term plans. There were no country houses to buy, no luxury cars to desire, no elaborate vacations to save for. In committing what it called socialism on the people, the government of his country allowed—forced—everyone to aspire to much the same things, regardless of individual tastes, which meant getting on an endless list and being notified when one’s name came up—and being unknowingly bumped by those with greater Party seniority—or not, because some people had access to better places.

But then life tended to be like that with people you used to work with. You lost touch. Oh, you’d make optimistic promises to meet up — promises for the most part never kept — and then you’d bump into them from time to time, in car parks, in cinema queues and you’d make all those promises all over again.

I have a friend from my graduate school days at The Ohio State University whom we nicknamed Aladdin. Aladdin and I took a number of Arabic classes together. Every now and then, we would play pick-up basketball at the university gym. Aladdin couldn’t shoot, but he was one of the quickest, most intense defenders I have ever seen. One day, he went high up for a layup at 100 mph, bumped a defender, and fell square on his head. Aladdin lay there motionless for a few minutes before gingerly getting up. He had apparently suffered a concussion. We drove him to the ER, before he decided in the reception that he felt okay enough to go home. I’ll never forget, while we were leaving the gym and during the car ride, Aladdin kept asking people to speak Arabic to him. I probably heard the phrase “Speak Arabic to me, Binyamin! [my Arabic name]” at least two dozen times. Aladdin, in his dizzied and confused state, waiting to be seen for a potentially serious injury, was afraid that he had forgotten Arabic. The next day Aladdin texted everyone saying he felt fine. In hindsight, this story is a comical illustration of every language learner’s worst fear: losing the skills they worked so hard to acquire. As it turns out, Aladdin didn’t forget Arabic and currently lives in Dubai.

I hate this city." Veneza laughs. "Yeah, well, you New Yorkers—everybody except the new ones—always say that. It's dirty and there's too many cars and nothing's maintained the way it should be and it's too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter and it stinks like unwashed ass most of the time. But ever notice how none of you ever fucking leave? Yeah, now and then somebody's elderly mom gets sick down in New Mexico or something and you go live with her, or you have kids and you want them to have a real yard so you bump off to Buffalo. But most of you just stay here, hating this city, hating everything, and taking it out on everybody.

I wanted to walk with Lou and not be tortured watching Grandma trying to breathe, but Ken said, Okay man, catch you later bro! Lou put his hair in a ponytail he tied up with his wet shirt. He was wearing flip-flops. Yo Louie, your rosy parker is visible for all the world to see! said Ken. Lou said eat your heart out, cat. Grandma said she wanted to visit Lou later in the evening. He put his head in the car window where Grandma was sitting and said he’d really love that, man. He put his fist in the car to bump but Grandma grabbed it and kissed it. He laughed. He told Grandma he loved her. She loved him too. She said I love you too, Louie, so much, sooooooo much. Oh boy, do I love you boys! Judith, I love you, too! Grandma had taken care of Lou when he was a baby and she was thirteen years old. He was as smart as a whip. She had carried him and carried him when he cried. Why was Lou suffering? He looked naked when he walked away. His hair was piled on top of his head. He only had his shorts and flip-flops on. He had a cool way of walking down the road and nodding at people in their cars. Lou does his thing! said Grandma. Lou does his thing, said Ken. I wondered, What is Lou’s thing? I wanted it to be my thing too.

…After seventeen minutes of panicky crowds destroying everything in their path, Eric could distinguish, despite all the chaos and hellish noise, the slight buzz of a second plane. He started counting to himself, watching the blazing inferno at the North Tower: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… The second Boeing glided into the South Tower, WTC-2, and it seemed to Eric that this plane was flying slowly, that its impact was a soft one… Due to the pandemonium all around, the impact itself seemed not to be as loud as the first hit. Still, in a moment the second twin was also blazing. Both skyscrapers were on fire now. Novack looked up again at what had happened a minute before: the terror attack of the century. Then he started walking fast down Church Street, away from the huge buildings that were now on fire. He knew that in about an hour, the South Tower was to collapse completely, and half an hour after that, the same was to happen to the North Tower, which was also weakened by the impact. He knew there were tons of powerful Thermate in both buildings. Over the course of the previous two months, some fake repairmen had brought loads of it into the towers and put them in designated places around the trusswork. It was meant to make buildings collapse like card towers, which would only happen when the flames reached a certain point. The planes had started an unstoppable countdown as soon as they hit the buildings: these were the last minutes of their existence. Next in line was the third building: 7 WTC, which stood north of the Twin Towers. It counted forty-seven floors, and it too was stuffed with Thermate. Novack started getting concerned, however, that the third plane seemed to be late. Where’s the third plane? Why is it late? It’s already fifty minutes after the first impact, and they were supposed to hit the three targets with a time lag of about twenty minutes. Where are you, birdie number three? You are no less important than the first two, and you were also promised to my clients… People were still running in all directions, shouting and bumping into each other. Sirens wailed loudly, heartrendingly; ambulances were rushing around, giving way only to firefighters and emergency rescue teams. Suddenly hundreds of policemen appeared on the streets, but it seemed that they didn’t really know what they were supposed to do. They mostly ran around, yelling into their walkie-talkies. At Thomas Street, Eric walked into a parking lot: the gate arm was up and the security guy must have left, for the door of his booth stood wide open… …Two shots rang out simultaneously during the fifth and the longest second. They were executed synchronously, creating a single, stinging, deadly sound. The bullet from the sixth floor of the book depository went straight up into the sky, as planned. The second bullet shot out of a sniper rifle, held confidently in the arms of a woman behind the hedge, on the grassy knoll. It was her bullet that struck the head of the 35th US president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. The woman walked quickly down the grassy knoll. Stepping only about five meters away, she put her rifle into a baby pram waiting there, with a real six-month-old baby boy whimpering inside it. She put on thick glasses and started walking away, exhibiting no haste. Only thirty seconds after the second shot, the woman was gone, nowhere to be seen… After the second or, rather, the third shot, the one from the knoll, President Kennedy’s head was tossed back. Jackie somehow managed to crawl onto the back hood of the car. A security agent from the escort car had already reached them. The motorcade picked up speed and disappeared under the overpass. Zapruder’s camera kept whirring for some seconds. He must have filmed the whole operation – that is, the assassination of an acting US president. But now he simply stood there without saying a word, completely dumbfounded...

Our driver bumped the cars in front and behind us to make space, then we crossed on to the other side in our big 4x4 and started driving the wrong way up the motorway, dodging cars coming at us. I thought back to it afterwards and decided it had felt worryingly normal. I realised I’d been munching on a flapjack and Craig had been texting. I wondered if we were becoming just slightly too immune to risk.

Our lives are constantly changing. Every day we deal with disruptions; it is just the extent of the disruption that varies. There are infinite little self-adjustments that we can make, such as shifting our mood or energy, that help us deal with these disruptions. Just like the suspension of a car helps the car weather bumps in the road.

Our lives are constantly changing. Every day we deal with disruptions; it is just the extent of the disruption that varies. There are infinite little self-adjustments that we can make, such as shifting our mood or energy, that help us deal with these disruptions. Just like the suspension of a car helps the car weather bumps in the road.

If the city is a man, a giant sprawled for miles on his back, rough contours of his body smothering the rolling landscape, the rivers and woods, hills and valleys, bumps and gullies, crushing with his weight, his shadow, all the life beneath him, a derelict in a terminal stupor, too exhausted, too wasted to move, rotting in the sun, then Cudjoe is deep within the giant's stomach, in a subway-surface car shuddering through stinking loops of gut, tunnels carved out of decaying flesh, a prisoner of rumbling innards that scream when trolleys pass over rails embedded in flesh.

Ruhn saw why a second later. The guard station. Six guards had been stationed around it: two angels, four wolves. They’d heard the racing car. They hardly had time to notice Baxian at the gunner. They didn’t even manage to raise their rifles or summon a spark of magic before the Helhound unleashed a hundred rounds of bullets. With the angle of the down-ramp, they stood right in his line of fire. Blood sprayed in a mist as Lidia sailed through them—the car bumping over their bodies with sickening thuds. She shattered the barrier.

A black moth was resting on his car's windscreen. Strange, he thought. It hadn't rained in weeks. He flicked on his headlights and turned on the windscreen wipers to scare away the creature. But it did not move and instead of flying away, the moth was squashed, its innards splattering all over the glass. Fuck. Jacob pressed the lever that squirted water onto the windscreen. Just then another moth appeared, flying up to and resting on the glass. He got out of the car and flicked the insect away with his fingers, but as he did that, he felt something brush his left ear. Spinning around, he saw another moth and swatted at it, but it fluttered all the closer. Another landed on his right eye and, cursing, Jacob choked as yet another winged insect bumped against his chin and then flapped its way into his mouth. The feel of powdery wings against his tongue made him gag and he tried to spit, but the creatures seemed to be flying deeper, making for the back of his throat. Soon he was crouched on his knees, coughing, trying to vomit for he was sure the moth and many others had got inside his stomach. Jacob shouted for help, but made no sound, his mouth full of wings.

Q. How fast can you hit a speed bump while driving and live? —Myrlin Barber A. Surprisingly fast. First, a disclaimer. After reading this answer, don’t try to drive over speed bumps at high speeds. Here are some reasons: You could hit and kill someone. It can destroy your tires, suspension, and potentially your entire car. Have you read any of the other answers in this book?

It’s okay. There’s no one to contact or worry.” “No one?” Leigh asked and she could hear the frown in her voice. Valerie shook her head. “I was an only child. My grandparents died one after another of heart attacks and cancer as I was growing up and my parents died three years ago in a car accident. There’s just myself and an aunt who moved to Texas thirty years ago. I’ve only seen her twice since then. At her parents’ funerals.” She shrugged. “Other than Christmas cards, we don’t stay in touch.” “Oh,” Leigh said softly and fell silent. “What about friends?” Anders asked, and Valerie nearly jumped out of her skin. Both at his sudden joining of the conversation and because of his chest brushing her back as he reached around her to set a small Petsmart bag on the counter. “Waste pick-up bags,” he murmured by her ear, his fingers drifting lightly over her bare upper arm as his hand withdrew. “Since Lucian was here to keep you safe, I popped out and picked them up for you.” Valerie stared blankly at the bag, aware that shivers were running down her spine and goose bumps were popping up on her skin where his breath and fingers had passed. She had to wonder how she could be staring at something so unsexy and be so turned on at the same time. A muffled laugh drew Valerie’s confused gaze to Leigh and the other woman grinned at her as she said, “That was sweet of you, Anders.” “Yes, it was,” Valerie said and then paused to clear her throat when it came out froggy. “Thank you.” “Mind you,” Leigh added. “Red roses might have been sweeter than red doggie pooh bags.” “I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Anders responded. Valerie flushed and turned back to the pancakes. What Leigh was suggesting would have been appropriate if they were dating or something, but they weren’t, and she did appreciate his running out to get her the bags. She didn’t want to repay Leigh for allowing her into her home by leaving little Roxy gifts all over their yard . . . And what did his response mean exactly?

When he got out of the car to do his business, my mother stared straight ahead. But I turned to watch. There was always something wild and charismatically uncaring about my father’s demeanor in these moments, some mysterious abandonment of his frowning and cogitative state that already meant a lot to me, even though at that age I understood almost nothing about him. Paulie had long ago stopped whispering 'perv' to me for observing him as he relieved himself. She of course, kept her head n her novels. I remember that it was cold that day, and windy but that the sky had been cut from the crackling blue gem field of a late midwestern April. Outside the car, as other families sped past my father stepped to the leeward side of the open door then leaning back from the waist and at the same time forward the ankles. His penis poked out from his zipper for this part, Bernie always stood up at the rear window. My father paused fo a moment rocking slightly while a few indistinct words played on his lips. Then just before his stream stared he tiled back his head as if there were a code written in the sky that allowed the event to begin. This was the moment I waited for, the movement seemed to be a marker of his own private devotion as though despite his unshakable atheism and despite his sour, entirely analytic approach to every affair of life, he nonetheless felt the need to acknowledge the heavens in the regard to this particular function of the body. I don't know perhaps I sensed that he simply enjoyed it in a deep way that I did. It was possible I already recognized that the eye narrowing depth of his physical delight in that moment was relative to that paucity of other delights in his life. But in any case the prayerful uplifting of his cranium always seemed to democratize him for me, to make him for a few minutes at least, a regular man. Bernie let out a bark. ‘’Is he done?’’ asked my mother. I opened my window. ‘’Almost.’’ In fact he was still in the midst. My father peed like a horse. His urine lowed in one great sweeping dream that started suddenly and stopped just as suddenly, a single, winking arc of shimmering clarity that endured for a prodigious interval and then disappeared in an instant, as though the outflow were a solid object—and arch of glittering ice or a thick band of silver—and not (as it actually approximated) a parabolic, dynamically averaged graph of the interesting functions of gravity, air resistance, and initial velocity on a non-viscous fluid, produced and exhibited by a man who’d just consumed more than a gallon of midwestern beer. The flow was as clear as water. When it struck the edge of the gravel shoulder, the sound was like a bed-sheet being ripped. Beneath this high reverberation, he let out a protracted appreciative whistle that culminated in a tunneled gasp, his lips flapping at the close like a trumpeters. In the tiny topsoil, a gap appeared, a wisp entirely unashamed. Bernie bumped about in the cargo bay. My father moved up close to peer through the windshield, zipping his trousers and smiling through the glass at my mother. I realized that the yellow that should have been in his urine was unmistakable now in his eyes. ‘’Thank goodness,’’ my mother said when the car door closed again. ‘’I was getting a little bored in here.

A bang pounded through the air. Lex jumped, a fresh batch of goose bumps breaking out across her skin as she considered the possibilities of what could have made that noise. Seconds later it rang out again, followed by a series of slightly quieter staccato bursts of sound, like a machine gun. Then, oddly, a dry, wheezing noise, as if the machine gun were having an asthma attack. Lex squinted across the dark field and finally saw it—a tall puff of smoke slowly coming toward them. The worried line of Uncle Mort’s mouth crinkled into a smirk. “That crafty old bag.” “Crafty old what now?” Lex watched the slow-moving cloud, which was now weaving back and forth in wide, erratic curves. “What is that? A car?” “No,” said Uncle Mort, standing up. “That, my friend, is far too fine a contraption to be called a mere car.” “What then, a truck? A tank?” “Is it—” Driggs stopped himself, looking embarrassed. Lex looked at him. “Were you going to say Batmobile?” “I was maybe going to say Batmobile. What of it?” The townspeople didn’t seem to know what to make of the phenomenon either. They scrambled to get out of its way as it plowed toward them, some of them diving into the snow. Yet as the smoke picked up speed, something arose out of the murkiness—a glint of metal, a reflective glass surface—all the pieces eventually coming together to form something that was decidedly not even close to a Batmobile: a giant black hearse. Uncle Mort grinned. “The Stiff

At noon one day Will Hamilton came roaring and bumping up the road in a new Ford. The engine raced in its low gear, and the high top swayed like a storm-driven ship. The brass radiator and the Prestolite tank on the running board were blinding with brass polish. Will pulled up the brake lever, turned the switch straight down, and sat back in the leather seat. The car backfired several times without ignition because it was overheated. “Here she is!” Will called with a false enthusiasm. He hated Fords with a deadly hatred, but they were daily building his fortune. Adam and Lee hung over the exposed insides of the car while Will Hamilton, puffing under the burden of his new fat, explained the workings of a mechanism he did not understand himself. It is hard now to imagine the difficulty of learning to start, drive, and maintain an automobile. Not only was the whole process complicated, but one had to start from scratch. Today’s children breathe in the theory, habits, and idiosyncracies of the internal combustion engine in their cradles, but then you started with the blank belief that it would not run at all, and sometimes you were right. Also, to start the engine of a modern car you do just two things, turn a key and touch the starter. Everything else is automatic. The process used to be more complicated. It required not only a good memory, a strong arm, an angelic temper, and a blind hope, but also a certain amount of practice of magic, so that a man about to turn the crank of a Model T might be seen to spit on the ground and whisper a spell. Will Hamilton explained the car and went back and explained it again. His customers were wide-eyed, interested as terriers, cooperative, and did not interrupt, but as he began for the third time Will saw that he was getting no place. “Tell you what!” he said brightly. “You see, this isn’t my line. I wanted you to see her and listen to her before I made delivery. Now, I’ll go back to town and tomorrow I’ll send out this car with an expert, and he’ll tell you more in a few minutes than I could in a week. But I just wanted you to see her.” Will had forgotten some of his own instructions. He cranked for a while and then borrowed a buggy and a horse from Adam and drove to town, but he promised to have a mechanic out the next day.

Zandra Rhodes Zandra Rhodes is a British fashion designer who specializes in innovative textile design. Internationally recognized for her glamorous and dramatic style, she was honored by Queen Elizabeth II in 1997 and made a Commander of the British Empire. Currently in high demand by the rich and famous worldwide, Zandra designed many garments for Diana during the nineties. Princess Diana married very young. She was a perfect, unspoiled flower with a strong, generous inner spirit, which she was probably unaware of when she married Prince Charles. She was thrust unprepared into the position of future queen of England. She had to grow up and mature in front of the public eye. That public eye was hard, judgmental, and unforgiving. Her strong inner spirit guided her to do things that normally someone in her position would not do--it would have been suppressed. Diana acted in a very genuine, caring, and natural way. I was bicycling to work in London along the leafy Bayswater Road in very casual working clothes when a huge official limousine passed me. Against the rear window were two beautiful hats; the car was obviously going to Ascot. The two young girls in the car were waving at me (very enthusiastically), one with golden corn-colored hair and the other one blond. They looked exactly like Princess Diana and Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York. I thought, “It cannot be them, they would not be so friendly, casual, and outgoing, and anyway, it’s the wrong side of Kensington Palace, and cars going to Ascot do not come along this road.” I pretended I had not seen them and carried on cycling. A few weeks later, I was fitting the Princess in Kensington Palace and she said to me, “Are you still riding your bike?” “Yes,” I replied. It was not until I left and drove my car out of the palace grounds that I realized the route took me exactly to the Bayswater Road, where I had seen the two waving girls! Princess Diana always tried to make me feel at home when I was fitting her. She would talk about the problems of being recognized: how she came out of her gym in Kensington High Street in the pouring rain and bumped into a famous actor. As he entered the street, he hunched his shoulders and put on dark glasses. Princess Diana said to him, “I hope they disguise you more than they do me!

I reached for my purse which I’d hung on the back of the chair.  Desperate, Scott moved to grab my hand.  Clay stood abruptly.  He successfully knocked Scott’s hand out of the way but also bumped the table in the process.  Peter reached out to steady his and Rachel’s drinks, and I hurried to pull a twenty from my purse. The waitress returned with the bill and the wrapped up leftovers.  Since Rachel was still digging in her purse, I just handed the waitress the twenty after a quick glance at the bill.  I was willing to pay for Rachel if it helped us leave faster. “I better drive her home,” Rachel said to Peter.  “You have my number.  Give me a call if you want to do something next weekend.” I stood, and Rachel shadowed me, ready to go.  Clay bumped into me, knocking me off balance so I had to grab Rachel for support.  I looked down at him and noticed Scott stand and hand the waitress his portion of the bill. “Rachel, you can stay with Peter.  I don’t mind taking Gabby home,” Scott said.  Oily enthusiasm dripped with each word, and I didn’t even need to look at Rachel for her to decline. “No, Scott, I think we’re done for tonight.”  She waved to Peter and grabbed my hand. Poor Peter looked at us all, bewildered.  His night out with Rachel had fallen apart fast, and I truly felt bad about it. I went with Rachel, relieved to escape before Scott’s recklessness grew.  An “oof” sounded behind us, and I panicked, realizing I’d forgotten Clay.  I spun around in time to see Scott hit the ground.  He’d tripped over Clay in his hurry to catch me.  I suspected Clay had done it purposely to slow Scott down. Clay wasted no time.  He ran to me and bumped his head against my back to get me moving before Scott could pick himself up again.  There wasn’t yet enough distance between the table and us to mute Peter’s next words. “What the hell is wrong with you, man?  You come on too...”  What he still had to say faded as we quickly walked away. “I’m sorry,” Rachel said.  “You told me, but I didn’t really get it.  Even the men sitting around us were eyeing you.” I’d been too busy keeping an eye on Scott and Clay to notice.  We continued to speed walk to the car. “No big deal.  You should see me in some of my classes.  ‘No’ is the most common word in my vocabulary. Scott’s reaction was worse than most because he already considered me his date.  If you say ‘no’, consistently and to everyone, it doesn’t get so bad.

he had a tattoo that I had never seen before. He showed it to me, and then he showed it to the guy who ran the ride, and that guy gave him a big grin. The tattoo was of a red bumper car with yellow lightning bolts coming off the top of the pole. Underneath the car it said “Born to Bump,” and this was how much Uncle Lenny loved bumper cars, the way his face got all crinkly around the eyes when he showed me his tattoo, and him wanting to have that picture on his arm forever.

The financial crisis of 2008 is illustrated by the following analogy. There is no doubt that the improvements in engineering have made the passenger car safer than it was 50 years ago. But that does not mean that the automobile is safe at any speed. A small bump on the road can flip the most advanced passenger car speeding 120 mph today just as surely as an older model traveling 80 mph. During the Great Moderation, risks were indeed lower, and financial firms rationally leveraged their balance sheets in response. But their leverage became too great, and all that was needed was an unexpected increase in the default rate on subprime mortgages—that “bump on the road”—to catapult the economy into a crisis.

There was something about that cypress-lined track that drew me to it, tempted me further along it, in spite of the rough road surface that strained the car’s suspension to the limit. I began to feel strangely elated, my early tiredness slipping away. I unwound the window to let the dusty air bring the scents of spring woodland to me and I laughed out loud. It was like being on a ride at the fair, bumping over stones and swerving around the torturous bends while breathing in unfamiliar scents and a general air of excitement. I came to a fork in the road and stopped, unsure which direction to take. As I hesitated, an old woman stepped into view, startling me as she emerged from a half-hidden track in the undergrowth. She stared at me piercingly with clear blue eyes set in a maze of sun-baked wrinkles. She looked such a part of the landscape, in her faded brown dress, her white hair shimmering in the sun like fluffy dandelion seed, and I was so taken aback by her sudden appearance, that I just sat and returned her stare. The sound of the engine idling quietly seemed to echo the beat of my heart.

Anxious to defend his adopted city—especially his side of town, the less fashionable west end—Eli considered giving Veronica a condensed lecture on the history of Asheville, North Carolina. 1880: the Western North Carolina Railroad completed a line from Salisbury to Asheville, which later enabled George Washington Vanderbilt to construct the Biltmore Estate, the largest private residence in America. Over time, that 179,000 square foot house transitioned into a multi- million dollar company. Which lured in tourists. Who created thousands of jobs. Which caused the sprawl flashing by Eli’s window at fifty-five miles per hour. But Eli refrained from being the Local Know-It-All, remembering all the times he’d traveled to new cities and some cabbie wanted to play docent, wanted to tell him about the real Cleveland or the hidden Miami. Instead, he let the air conditioner chase away the remnants of his jet lag and thought about Almario “Go Go” Gato. He waited for Veronica to say something about the Blue Ridge Mountains, which stood alongside the highway, hovering over the valley below like stoic parents waiting for their kids to clean up their messy bedrooms. Eli gave her points for her silence. And for ditching the phone, even if she kept glancing anxiously toward the glove compartment every time it buzzed. The car rode smooth, hardly a bump. For a resident of Los Angeles, she drove cautiously, obeying all traffic laws. Eli had a perfect driving record. Well, almost perfect. There was that time he drove the Durham Bulls’ chartered Greyhound into the right field fence during the seventh inning stretch. But that was history. Almost ancient.

Driver Behavior & Safety Proper driving behavior is vital for the safety of drivers, passengers, pedestrians and is a means to achieve fewer road accidents, injuries and damage to vehicles. It plays a role in the cost of managing a fleet as it impacts fuel consumption, insurance rates, car maintenance and fines. It is also important for protecting a firm’s brand and reputation as most company- owned vehicles carry the company’s logo. Ituran’s solution for driver behavior and safety improves organizational driving culture and standards by encouraging safer and more responsible driving. The system which tracks and monitors driver behavior using an innovative multidimensional accelerometer sensor, produces (for each driver) an individual score based on their performance – sudden braking and acceleration, sharp turns, high-speed driving over speed bumps, erratic overtaking, speeding and more. The score allows fleet managers to compare driver performance, set safety benchmarks and hold each driver accountable for their action. Real-time monitoring identifies abnormal behavior mode—aggressive or dangerous—and alerts the driver using buzzer or human voice indication, and detects accidents in real time. When incidents or accidents occurs, a notification sent to a predefined recipient alerts management, and data collected both before and after accidents is automatically saved for future analysis. • Monitoring is provided through a dedicated application which is available to both fleet manager and driver (with different permission levels), allowing both to learn and improve • Improves organizational driving culture and standards and increases safety of drivers and passengers • Web-based reporting gives a birds-eye view of real-time driver data, especially in case of an accident • Detailed reports per individual driver include map references to where incidents have occurred • Comparative evaluation ranks driving according to several factors; the system automatically generates scores and a periodic assessment certificate for each driver and/or department Highlights 1. Measures and scores driver performance and allows to give personal motivational incentives 2. Improves driving culture by encouraging safer and more responsible driving throughout the organization 3. Minimizes the occurrence of accidents and protects the fleet from unnecessary wear & tear 4. Reduces expenses related to unsafe and unlawful driving: insurance, traffic tickets and fines See how it works:

This is the time of my life I have been waiting for, for as long as before I was ever even alive to be here now in this two-seat, no-roof car with bare-chested Trip in the seat at the wheel beside me, calling me “My Amnesia Girl,” doing sixty, sixty-five, seventy down a bent-out-of-whack coastal cliff road, bump-pressed against the belt buckle of the Hitchhiker’s leather pants I have been sitting on since the last gas tank fill-up at the freeway detour off-ramp.

...because when I start reading I'm somewhere completely different, I'm in the text, it's amazing, I have to admit I've been dreaming, dreaming in a land of great beauty, I've been in the very heart of truth. Ten times a day, every day, I wonder at having wandered so far, and then, alienated from myself, a strange to myself, I go home, walking the streets silently and in deep meditation, passing trams and cars and pedestrians in a cloud of books, the books I found that day and am carrying home in my briefcase. Lost in my dreams, I somehow cross at the traffic signals, never bumping into street lamps or people, yet moving onward, exuding fumes of beer and grime, yet smiling, because my briefcase is full of books and that very night I expect them to tell me things about myself I don't know. On I go through the noisy streets, never crossing at the red; I walk subconsciously unconscious, half-asleep, subliminally inspired, with every bale I've compacted that day fading softly and quietly inside me.

Jim Biggers looked down at the puppy playing tug-of-war with one of his bootlaces. “Quit it,” he growled, gently shaking it off. The puppy yapped and scampered away, bumping into Truck’s furry side and bouncing off. The big dog didn’t bat an eye, but he raised his head when he heard a car door slam outside. Another puppy tumbled off his back as he got up. Jim rose too, looking out the window. “She’s here,” he announced, throwing down his pencil. In another minute Kenzie and Linc walked in. One of the puppies ran to her and she squatted down to say hi. “Oh my gosh. You are so cute!” “I can’t compete,” Jim grumbled to Linc. The puppy yapped and ran away. Kenzie went around to the other side of the desk to kiss her boss on the cheek. “Sorry.” Jim grinned. “You’re forgiven. How are you doing, Linc?” He’d noticed that the younger man was still limping. There wasn’t any need to mention it specifically. “Better every day, thanks. How did Truck get stuck with babysitting?” “I promised him half a steak,” Jim said. “He fell for it.” An eager puppy chomped down hard on Truck’s ear, then put his head and paws down in play position, wagging his stubby tail. “Poor Truck,” Kenzie said sympathetically. She looked back to Jim. “Why are they here? I mean, they’re cute but way too young to start with us.” “Merry Jenkins is fostering them for me. But she’s gone for the next two days, so I have them. It’s been fun. I’m seeing plenty of potential.” He glanced at the floor, frowning. “And a few puddles.” He unrolled several sheets from the paper towel dispenser on his desk and let them drift to the floor. A puppy pounced on the white stuff and dragged it away. Jim rolled his eyes. He unrolled more paper towels, and this time he put his boot down on them. “I can’t wait to come back full-time,” Kenzie said. “When you’re ready. Not a minute before,” Jim said sternly. “Everything’s under control. No rush.” Linc looked down. “Am I seeing things?” A tiny kitten was clawing its way up his jeans. Jim harrumphed. “That’s a stray. Buddy and Wells started feeding it, and now it won’t go away.” “Aww,” Kenzie exclaimed. “It’s adorable.” Linc detached the kitten from his front pocket and held it up. The warmth of his hands calmed it, but only for a minute. The kitten stared at him, bug-eyed, then batted at his nose. “Doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything.” “Reminds me of Kenzie. I guess I’ll have to keep it. So where are you two headed?” Linc put the kitten down. Tiny tail waving, it sauntered between Truck’s furry legs. The dog didn’t seem to mind.

Need directions or your car fixed.” “None of the above,” I say. “Trick-or-treatin’ on my side of town?” “No.” “It’s over, mujer. ¿Me oyes? Why do you keep droppin’ into my life and fuckin’ with my head? Besides, aren’t you supposed to be at the Halloween dance with some college guy?” “I blew him off. Can we talk?” “Listen, I’ve got a shitload of work that still needs to get done. What did you come here for? And where’s Enrique?” “He, uh, left,” I say nervously. “I think I scared him away.” “You? I don’t think so.” “I showed him what I was wearing under my coat.” Alex’s eyebrows shoot up. “Let me in before I freeze out here. Please.” I look behind me. The darkness seems inviting right now as my blood pumps harder. Pulling the coat tighter around me, my skin puckers with goose bumps. I shiver. Sighing, he leads me into the body shop and locks the door. There’s a space heater in the middle of the shop, thank goodness. I stand by it and rub my hands together. “Listen, truth is I’m glad you’re here. But didn’t we break up?” “I want to give us another try. Pretending we’re just chemistry partners in class has been torture. I miss you. Don’t you miss me?” He looks skeptical. His head is cocked to the side, as if he’s not quite sure he’s hearing correctly. “You know I’m still in the Blood.” “I know. I’ll take whatever you can give me, Alex.” “I’ll never be able to meet your expectations.” “What if I tell you I won’t have any expectations?” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. I can tell he’s thinking hard about this, because his expression turns serious. “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “You keep me company while I finish my dinner. I won’t even ask you what you have…or don’t have…under that coat. Deal?” I smile tentatively and smooth down my hair. “Deal.

I think, is a tale of what happens when you live your life unconsciously. If you sleepwalk through your days, you will bump into things. If you drive a car blindfolded, you will wreck it.

Here’s my win, born out of the bumps and bruises of sibling conflict: If you have two kids, assign one even, the other odd. Then whenever there’s a question of who gets the “advantage,” it’s decided by what day it is. Who gets their pick of car seat? Odd kid, because today’s the third. Who gets the last hug at drop-off? Even kid, because today’s the sixteenth.

When I rode along the Kinshasa Highway as a boy, it was a dusty, unpaved thread that wandered through the Rift Valley toward Lake Victoria, carrying not much traffic. It was a gravel road engraved with washboard bumps and broken by occasional pitlike ruts that could crack the frame of a Land Rover. As you drove along it, you would see in the distance a plume of dust growing larger, coming toward you: an automobile. You would move to the shoulder and slow down, and as the car approached, you would place both hands upon the windshield to keep it from shattering if a pebble thrown up by the passing car hit the glass. The car would thunder past, leaving you blinded in yellow fog. Now the road was paved and had a stripe painted down the center, and it carried a continual flow of vehicles. The overlanders were mixed up with pickup trucks and vans jammed with people, and the road reeked of diesel smoke. The paving of the Kinshasa Highway affected every person on earth, and turned out to be one of the most important events of the twentieth century. It has already cost at least ten million lives, with the likelihood that the ultimate number of human casualties will vastly exceed the deaths in the Second World War. In effect, I had witnessed a crucial event in the emergence of AIDS, the transformation of a thread of dirt into a ribbon of tar.

It’s weird, though. When someone wants me to meet them somewhere, my first reaction is to get stressed out and think, Fuck, I can’t.” “So what do you do to get over that?” “I just get in the car and drive,” she said, as if the solution had been that simple all along. “But why are you able to do that now when you couldn’t before?” “Because now that I’ve had more practice driving, I’m confident,” she answered as she careened over a speed bump and landed with a thump in the parking lot. “I trust myself now.” Funny, I thought—that’s exactly how I felt after practicing the survival skills I’d learned. Though, hopefully, I was a better survivalist than she was a driver.

A related trap/trick is nudging. Aldert Vrij presents a compelling example in his book Detecting Lies and Deceit: Participants saw a film of a traffic accident and then answered the question, “About how fast were the cars going when they contacted each other?” Other participants received the same question, except that the verb contacted was replaced by either hit, bumped, collided, or smashed. Even though the participants saw the same film, the wording of the question affected their answers. The speed estimates (in miles per hour) were 31, 34, 38, 39, and 41, respectively. You can be nudged in a direction by a subtle word choice or other environmental cues.

Tobias crouches in front of me, his hand on my left shoulder. The train car bumps over the rails, and Marcus, Peter, and Caleb stand by the doorway. I take a deep breath and hold it in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure that is building in my chest.

drove up the road and into the foothills to Huayapam, a simple drive, my car bouncing on the speed bumps, the topes and corrugations.

fairy tale begins: “Once upon a time, he blindfolded me in the back of a car.” No fantasy suite has another woman’s hair clogging the drains. A suitcase full of gowns doesn’t make you a princess. Be careful what you wish for, Cinderella’s house was infested with mice. If a man doesn’t kiss you, he doesn’t want to kiss you. If a man doesn’t kiss you on the mouth, he doesn’t find you attractive. A fist bump is not a kiss. An ass pat is not a kiss. Don’t trust a man who keeps your kisses a secret.