I’m driving a ’57 Chevy through Brooklyn at four o’clock in the afternoon. The sun beats bullets on the asphalt that pool into mini metal ponds on the horizon. I smell coconut toasting, probably from a sweaty vendor on Flatbush, and I hear a sermon in Spanish coming from a loudspeaker on the sidewalk.
Suddenly, Al Pacino steps into the street. He’s wearing a plaid trench coat, which he opens to remove two machine guns.
He aims at me, so I gun the Chevy. It roars like a steel-toed boot.
I have no choice but to run him over.
So I do.
I can feel the snap of his neck as it smashes into the windshield, then the tha-thud thud thud of his body as it rolls over the roof of my car.
Air deflates somewhere.
I look back. He’s dead. So I drive off.
I go home and burn my robe.
I wake up crying. Diane Keaton is on my mind. She loved him so.
Did he love her?
I want to know.
So I go back to sleep.