It’s the feeling of a dogs breath panting on your leg, hot and moist, the same feeling you get driving down a cold alleyway in a hot car. The fire of the engine gasping against your soul. Its dark driving down the alleyways and dark corridors of Los Angeles. I’m lost, again, somewhere in Highland Park, searching for an art show I can not find, somewhere deep hidden in the bowels of this city (where all really great art shows happen) I’m driving a 55 Ford, on the phone with my then boyfriend (now husband) telling him “ I don’t know where the hell I am, but I sure as hell know I’m no where near the show.” Some part of me doesn’t care, my friends can wait all night for me, because I am lost in the city of angels, in a ford as old as the streets I’m driving on, a street where the light bulbs have seen hundreds of my kind before, I am nothing new, I am a replay of an old story to these streets. I hang up the phone and listen to the engine growl as I head back on the freeway through the pale orange lights of the Figueroa tunnels where the exhaust hits a note like some echoing song. I drive so fast, I drive until the street feels empty again. Suddenly I become a pale burst of sunlight lighting the road with a dim gleam of half hearted headlights. The sound of Spanish guitar fills my mind and a mad tango begins. I dip in between lanes, brush my hair against the cars I pass, lick my lips for those quick turns and feel the delicate balance of where my heel rests ever so slightly between the floor and the pedal, the quarter of inch, that’s between me and a quarter of a mile. Then the castanets come in right as the engine begins to unwind, and with a deep breathe I am stopped at my exit. I am there.
I pull down my dress, like some wild affair has just taken place, something no one will ever find out about (until now) I re-apply my lipstick as I clack my heels passed countless other hotrods and customs parked out in front. I don’t know what else to say about that night… besides, that was the fun part.