My hands are hovering above my face, flitting to and fro like peach colored butterflies in sunlight, fending off blows to my head. I can’t feel anything, just soft, peach, butterfly kisses against my skin. Numbed, blessedly, by the blur of the butterflies in the sunlight streaming through the windshield.
I manage to wrench a knee beneath his groin but he flies out of the car faster than the momentum I am capable of and I struggle to reconcile what has just happened with the rush of the butterflies that left the car at that exact moment, squinting into the sunshine.
He is sucked backward, away from me, a man pulled suddenly into a vortex, until he lands squarely in the dirt where we are parked. A familiar face looms into view, widening and filling the space of the open car door. It is Mudd, one half of a duo of young boys fresh off the bus from Minnesota, out to make Seattle the capital of their American Dream. Mystic, his lover, is hunched over Patrick in the background.
“What the fuck! Are you okay?” Mudd reaches out, hesitates, and looks back at Mystic for direction. I struggle to a sitting position and swipe my hand across my nose, looking for blood on my sleeve. I am fine so I straighten my back deliberately, regally, I am in control. “You wanna take him off my hands for a little while?” I ask quietly, not looking at him as I adjust the rearview mirror.
I know exactly what I am asking Mudd. What it will entail. And so does he. A treasure hunt. With the last of our hard earned Labor Ready cash. A treasure he can hide is his veins. I debate whether it is worth it. This afternoon has been so hot. So achingly hot and full of dread. The ocean has that smell of rotten kelp and wasted dreams again, permaeating the park. Permeating everything. I decide that it is worth it.
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Mystic and Mudd have been "treasure hunting" with Patrick for hours now. It is dark, and I am sitting in the car, swollen and stiff, reading under yet another street lamp. People at this park know us now, they leave us alone. We are part of a twisted dirt family. We have brothers and sisters on these streets. There are other Kings and Queens here. Other Butterflies. In the dust we hold each other’s hearts when we cannot hold our own. We preach a street code. I preach it the loudest. It affords me the ability to sit under the streetlamp so I can read.
I hear them before see them. They are jovial, happy, coming across the grass in trio, proud warriors returning from the hunt. They have scored. Mystic and Mudd reach the car first, draping themselves languidly across the hood, rolling over to watch me through the windshield. Patrick leans in through open driver’s window. “Hey.”
“Hi. Have fun”? It is a loaded question and one I stopped trying to get a straight answer to back in California. He grins and cocks his pretty head to the side, contemplating me. I shake my head and turn my attention back to Mystic and Mudd propped up on their elbows acting the innocent boys, the ones who simply can’t believe you would suspect them of stealing the chocolates and how dare you madame! I shake my head at them too, smiling only a little. I owe them the rare peace that was my afternoon, alone with my book, under the shade tree we are parked in front of.
Patrick opens the door and slides in behind the steering wheel. Mystic and Mudd take that as their cue and slide off the hood, waving to us as they disappear toward the U-District. Patrick rolls up the window and turns to face me. I slowly set my book aside, and focus my attention on the moth that has slipped into the car unnoticed. It bounces around the rearview mirror, chasing some reflection of faraway light and as it glints in the haze of the streetlamp, I can see the soft velvet of its wings. Soft, peach colored velvet.
