A woman is face down in the street.
And I think she is a bundle of rags. Or a rolled up carpet – maybe even an old soft radiator that jumped from the back of some Mexican’s rattling Ford, sagging under a teetering pyramid of flea market booty.
But I now notice she is moving, her head rolling and jerking and bobbing as she tries to get to one knee, and she doesn’t look THAT homeless, so I feel slightly bothered just driving by, wondering if the cops, buzzing near their new home on Temple Street in a swarm of midnight blue and patent leather, badges on high beam, notice me as I hazily notice her.
They are burying Chief Gates today.
And I have to get home. The ice cream is melting.