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The Dime
As and I were walking to my bus stop last night, after several hours of good, solid conversation, we were accosted by a woman with several bags, several missing teeth, and a story. She had been brutally attacked by the 'black security guard at the McDonald's on University'. She had 'stood up to him' after three years of him staring at her breasts, her crotch, and her butt when she went to buy her hamburgers. He flew into a 'bulldog's rage', screaming at her, threatening to kick her ass, telling her never to come back to that McDonald's again. She was almost killed, like Nicole Simpson. Walking into that McDonald's was like a white person walking into Harlem. Like into the ghetto, with all those people with knives. If you walk away from something, and you're glad you're alive, that means it was a crime. Or an accident. Nicole Simpson's body looked like ground hamburger when they found it. When a bunch of black men want to hurt you, that's violence, and that's not right. Did you know most of the death's in the world are from violence? Just violence.

She got on the bus with me and continued this line of thought all the way from Snelling to the Uptown Station. The thing of it was, she was probably mentally unstable, what with some of the comments, especially the racial ones that made me really uncomfortable to be on the 21 with her. Yet I couldn't help but feel that there was maybe something to what she was saying. Clearly something had happened to her to start her on this strange train of thought. She probably did have a run in with a security guard that night, or a night previous. But how much more was true? Where was the line between her reality, and the reality I could share with her?

I dreamt last night I was some sort of detective. A woman had been murdered in her apartment. I remember arresting someone. And woman's large dog leading us to a storage closet were another, smaller dog had been trapped, along with some evidence, the caretaker still alive and stuffed into a very small box, and a door to an even more mysterious room. As the evidence mounted (a huge stack of disturbing, torturous pictures, a self-made torture video, a list of friends) a small, strange story emerged. It was about a group of nine doctors, all consumate professionals, who were very close friends. They vacationed together, they drank together, they even played video games together. Most surprising, though, was that they were all hard-core Sado-masochists with each other. The pictures and videos were of what they did to each other, all within this closed little circle. One day, they learned that one of the doctors was dying: a lovely, 40-something Japanese woman. Her picture among the group always stood out to me, because I knew her from somewhere. (I never figured out where) In response, the group had gone someplace, some dark and forgotten altar to a secret idol. They had each asked for blessings, specific gifts that they could use to celebrate the woman's last few years alive. The woman passed away. They had all gone for their gifts again. Except that this time, something failed for another of the women doctors. The idol rejected her, or she simple drew the card of death that had been for her friend previously. She was doomed to die, though not by anything magical. Fate had merely twisted, and an infatuated former-lover had come to her apartment and killed her.

I woke up this morning, and the world was orange. I can still picture the first woman doctor to die, and wonder how much of that came from Rick's talk of Japan, and the crazy woman on the bus.