This Little Light

I expected the orange and white glass of the car headlight to explode across the parking lot. I instinctively covered my eyes and turned away, crying out. The actual result of the forceful impact was anti-climactic: the glass was (obviously) tempered. The headlight cracked beneath the force of Rick’s blows, but only a few small chunks of glass came loose from the headlight, tumbling weakly onto the asphalt.

Rick was bashing away at cars in a Phoenix car dealership parking lot using a bat. Rick was bashing away at cars in a Phoenix car dealership using a golf club. Rick was bashing away at cars in a Phoenix car dealership using his bare hands? I cannot remember which it was. The golf club and the baseball bat do not make any sense. It does not seem possible he could have done so much damage with his bare hands.

We had been at the Gay Denny’s in downtown Phoenix having a good time. Rick had loaded up on Cape Cods (cranberry juice mixed with vodka–one of his favorites) at my parents’ house earlier in the evening. I had been driving us around town before we stopped at Denny’s to eat: we had been listening to mix CDs and singing at the top of our lungs. The drunker Rick got the more willing he was to hold my hand, to grab my ass. Evenings like this were pretty standard for us. I knew my role and how to play it to a tee.

But this particular evening we were bound to stray from our standard script a bit. Somehow, our path from the door of Denny’s to my parent’s green Toyota Camry in the parking lot became much longer: something had set Rick off, which had set him walking angrily down 7th Street into the warm Phoenix evening. I trailed behind him, feeling helpless, scared, and dutiful.

The anger was his, but I could feel it wash over me: a sudden unpleasant hotness, emotional heartburn. I can hear my own voice trying to call out reassurances into the night. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen as we rounded the corner to the car dealership, but I knew it was going to be bad.

Whatever Rick was angry about had nothing to do with cars. Whatever Rick was angry about had nothing to do with this dealership. It had nothing to do with Denny’s, likely nothing to do with me. He started to scream at me and hit the cars, hit them with something hard, hitting them over and over again. Punctuating his screams with new assaults on brand new Ford Focuses. I looked up, waiting for cops to arrive. I thought if the cops showed up Rick would (probably) stop hitting the cars. I could not get him to stop hitting the cars.

In retrospect, I am surprised I didn’t want the cops to show up to protect me. Perhaps I already knew there was no protecting me.

This was the night I felt overshadowed by the senseless power of anger: anger so quick, unstoppable, and senseless. I felt like I was trying to shield a very small candle from hurricane. I felt foolish: my reward for holding out hope for this small flame was going to be drowning in black,  dirty water.

Even now, even with the danger long gone,  I sometimes feel that same hotness wash over me. Sometimes I am the one who has summoned the storm. I still feel the water start to seep over the tops of my toes as I reflexively cup my hands to protect the light, which I am so certain remains.