Blood Month (III)
Everything spun. Hearing was coming back to my right ear – shouting and sirens and fire and water from the hoses, all sounding like I was at the bottom of a swimming pool.
Somehow, during my reverie, a paramedic had dragged me behind an ambulance and I was leaning on the bumper. She had a piece of black gauze. Black with blood and charred skin, my blood, my skin. Her partner was pulling me into the ambulance, and I pushed him – no, I punched him and the woman jumped away from me and said something that sounded like, “mwarwmarmwar!” God only knows.
I ran into the heat, dodging firemen, behind the burning club. (My bomb would have taken all four walls down.) Leaned against the club’s dumpster to catch my breath, and noticed a pair of Sandro Moscolonis like Bram Morgan’s, sticking out from a pair of Ralph Lauren khakis like the ones he’d been wearing when I gave him two hundred dollars. I looked inside the dumpster, guessing I would see Bram’s body inside, a hole in his head-