in which I save a life | 2002-09-08 - 8:57 p.m.

"�Qu� en demonios hacemos ahora? Pull over? Or try to outrun them?"

Through the rear-view mirror, I saw Concha rolling her eyes. "What do you think this is, Starsky and Hutch? Pull over!"

Sr. Short Sleeves grunted, but whether in agreement or agon�a, I could not say.

I briefly allowed myself the fantas�a of fleeing the polic�a. A queen-sized dose of adrenalina surged through my venas as I envisioned not one, not two, but a fleet of black and whites behind us, hot on our tail. I imagined their lights flashing and their sirens wailing. I heard the voces of the police temblando with impotent fury as they radioed S*m* H*lls for back-up. I played in my head the aerial footage of our white KIA making its stately way down an all-but-empty freeway, seguido at an almost respectful distancia by the entire fleet of the LAPD. Then I reluctantly signalled and began to pull over.

Imagine my shock and incredulidad when the two squad cars, instead of screeching to a stop behind us, hurtled past in hot pursuit of some other quarry.

"Did you see that?" I asked Concha, as soon as the sound of the sirens had died away.

Concha shrugged. "Why do you always expect the worst, Castigada?" she said. "Bad things only happen to buena gente."

Before I could ponder what Concha meant by this, I was reminded by Sr. Short Sleeves' persistent coughing that I had other, urgent asuntos to attend to. Warily, I turned to my moribund pasajero, esperando the worst. I was not disappointed. Sr. Short Sleeves was no longer blue, but he was still spluttering and picking at his collar with weakened dedos, like an hombre on his deathbed.

Call it fate, call it suerte, call it the intervention of Nuestra Se�ora de Guadalupe, but in a flash, it came to me. I knew, de repente, what I had to do. Before Sr. Short Sleeves could protest, I had thrown off my seatbelt and jumped over to his side of the carro. Then, closing my ojos and whispering a ferviente prayer to the sant�sima virgen, I opened his mouth and proceeded to hook my finger into his throat.

And there, almost as if predestined, my dedito came into contact with the culprit for Sr. Short Sleeves' misteriosa affliction. Half-buried in the slippery pink soft tissue of his garganta, glistened a gray, cacahuete-sized wad of chewing gum.

"AJAAAA!" I crowed, as I flicked the offending chicle out of Sr. Short Sleeves' throat.

"AAAAAGGGHHH!" Sr. Short Sleeves gurgled.

"AAAAAGGGHHH!" screamed Concha, as the chicle arced over Sr. Short Sleeves' seatback and landed wetly onto her exposed thigh.

Huelga decir, our test drive ended pretty shortly after that.

pride and prejudice - 2004-09-07
wherein I become a Yahoo! Search Result - 2004-06-23
like 9-11 all over again - 2004-06-20
enough said - 2003-02-05
tirar por la calle de en medio - 2003-01-28

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