Kind of thing made me go, huh, what the fuck's going on there, period. I hope the worst thing I can think of is not the thing that's going on. Check it out. This happened the other day after work, as I was driving to my home from 'my' office, coursing along my work-week commute, having transited the 134 and glided down my exit and continued flatly into the valley, only about a block and a half down from the apartment I shared, where I had been living almost exactly two years now in the county of Los Angeles. And it was somewhat unremarkable - not the stuff of different-part-of-town lore - for its close proximity, and with that the vehicle's reduced speed whence the event occurred, the sighting. Viz. <.5 miles of two-lane blacktop, the farther half smooth, sidewalked; the pre-intersection side tar-bruised, total distance between the sighting and my destination not quite a stone's throw, but maybe a pitcher's throw, a professional pitcher's throw, or, even, more accurately, a professional footballer's pass. This is a reference, of course, to American football, the professional game within which the players are not only allowed but also helpless without use of their arms and use of their hands. If the car broke down, right at that geographic spot, I'd not find the walk itself to be troublesome at all, but the car didn't break down; the car that I was driving was a Prius. It was a black Prius, not that that matters; and at the moment, inside the car, I was probably listening to NPR, which means the NPR program, considering the standard time frame of my standard commute within 89.3 KPCC's schedule (which has never changed as long as I've known it), was most certainly "All Things Considered," and the news of that day almost totally most definitely somehow revolved around President Donald Trump saying something confoundingly stupid and consequential, and involved the repetition of those words in various contexts, which might matter. Oh, and it's over 95 degrees outside, summertime. What happened was this: I saw a woman. Behold.
She was, like, romping, roadside. Wore perhaps the wig of a thesbian witch. Dirty grey-white thickly frazzled hair, barely bouncing, heavy in the light. And only a bikini, its color a pink like faded Day-Glo pink. Physical figure fit, attractive, pleasing to the commercial beauty standards of American women in bikinis. And skin black, not that that matters, not considering that contrast between bikini, hair, flesh. Her smile staggered forward uneasily. And then this half-frolicking woman sighted from a whooshing past Prius extended her arms and her fingers sang outward as if her dancing body readied itself to take flight above our hot, blackly heated crackled boulevard runway. She looked shaky. Or joyous. Maybe she really could fly, had the power to, for I felt magic in not knowing whether that fairy godmother's gift would have been granted by virtue of pure personal comic hap or instead karmic escape from some non-imaginable crime. Was she free or had she only just now recently been freed? I wasn't sure; I did not catch a glimpse as to whether or not she wore shoes.