I'm a Nice Sonovabitch

"I'm a nice sonovabitch,"I said to myself as I put the receiver back in its flat black cradle. The scratchy recording encountered when I called her number only raise more questions in my mind.

Like the elderly Chinese woman on BART with the jet-black hair and a voice like a raspily growling dog. Her husband, a dapper dresser, alternately silent-- listening intently, mouth slightly agape-- or barking in an aggressive-sounding Chinese intonation. Were they arguing?

Questions. More and more questions. Someone was trying to puncture my reality.

"Marie": as indecipherable, unreadable even in vibes, as the conversation of the old Chinese couple, suddenly running together through the long-open door of the train. Like a piece of mail, slipped face down under the crack of my door as I lay reading late at night.

"Marie": her name made a sound in my mind like bare feet on a creaking wooden floor. As my mind searched for a file called, "Recently Recorded Females".

"Am I being nice, or just desperately gullible?" I was left thinking as I hit "2" for "SAVE" on the flat black keypad and prepared to walk away.