A Dream

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I’m trying to get to the east bay. In run-down SF I borrow my mom’s old white Honda. I find it in a parking lot parked behind another car. I have to explain to the parking attendant that I didn’t know we couldn’t park there. (Those spaces reserved for someone else.)

I promise that next time, I will park upstairs. Now that I know. I get in the car, which is new to me. The dashboard is covered in rubber. The seats are covered too, in cloth. I picture my mom caring for this used car. Wrapping up its cracks. Driving from the lot, I understand I’ve underestimated the time. I thought it was plentiful but it was based on having my own car, my usual routine.

I decide it would be faster to ride a bike. I get on it and start towards the bay bridge. I am biking as fast as I can. I am smoking, too. I realize this when i see a tower of ash on a cigarette in my hand on the handlebars. I take a deep drag of its nastiness. In the same moment- this is under an overpass, like on Division by Bryant – I realize there’s no way to bike across the bridge.

Now I am trying to figure out the nearest BART station. I’m depressed. I realize when I get there, to the other side of the bay, I’ll have so far still to go on the bike. It’s impossible. I’m impossibly late. I pull over on the bike, still smoking that nasty stick, a disappointment, to study a map.

About Post Author

Margot

I wrote my first novel "Richland" in cafés in San Francisco’s Mission District, after working during the day as a producer at design firms. I graduated with honors from U.C. Berkeley, with a degree in Political Science, and lived in San Francisco for more than 14 years. The siren song of the East Bay lured us after our son Alejandro was born. We're now adjusting to life in the weirdly idyllic neighborhood of Rockridge, Oakland.
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