It was 2 AM in early December.
Bitterly cold. Difficult to remember
a time when inhaling didn’t sting the lungs.
My hands clung to a cup of steaming coffee.
I was on a curb with Salvador Dali
and a two-ton rhinoceros named Betty.
“Just relax,” said the Spaniard. “She’s not deadly.
Not unless she feels threatened.” I froze in place,
thinking her vision might be made based on movement,
but no, the great beast looked me right in the eye.
I was at her mercy. If she decided
to charge, there was nowhere to hide. I was scared
and disgusted with myself for feeling fear.
I had the ear of one of the ballsiest
artists in human history and all I
could think of was being gored by the huge horn
of a modern dinosaur. Over my left
shoulder I heard five gunshots and turned to look.
Suddenly I remembered how cold it was
and started shivering. When I turned around
Dali was on the rhino’s lap quivering.
Just below Betty, a puddle of urine
was forming. “Santa Cecilia!” Dali shrieked.
I groaned. Why must something always derail these…