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.

It’s plaid.

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.