The Cloud

23

“Who are you?” The voice is accented, the “r” swallowed.

A hefty man steps forward. He’s half a head taller than me, square cranium that’s a bit too large for his body, short-cropped hair, flat nose consistent with his Asian DNA but squished to the right. The right edge of his upper lip looks crooked, a jigsaw puzzle. Big head, slightly exaggerated nose and mouth. I almost gasp from mild thrill. I’ve never in person seen a case of acromegaly, a chronic disorder caused by too much growth hormone.

“You walk like someone who has fame or money.” He reaches to his mouth, pinches the cigarette with thick fingers and flips it against the wall. “Are you famous? If so, I’d like to know you.”

“Not famous.” I half step backward.

“Then it’s the other option.”

“What?”

“You’ve got money. I like money.”

Before I can react, he grabs my shirt. I pull back sharply, extricating myself. But I slip. I fall backward, bracing my hands beneath me. I land, feeling a pop in my elbow.

I feel hands on both my feet, pulling me into the alley. I can’t resist him. My arms, awkwardly bent behind me, prove no match. I cut my losses and put my hands under my already fragile head, skidding.

Then I see lights. A car appears to our left, bouncing along the uneven, one-way street.

When I look up again, I realize I’m lying just inside the alley entrance, the man having slid up my torso, knee on my chest. He rips at my jeans, going for my wallet?

I say: Take whatever you want. But I’m trying to figure out how to hit his solar plexus or the nerve-rich hollow above his collarbone.

He raises his balled right hand, a beefy flesh hammer. He cocks it. It arches downward. I at once buck against his weight and cover my face with my hands. I picture my concussed brain, like an infant, curled up, vulnerable.

“I have a son,” I mutter, or think.

The car lights get closer. A horn blares. The man’s hand crashes down. A supernova explodes inside my skull, then swallows itself.