In Which I Save a Little Girl, and then the Same Little Girl Saves Me

“The most important thing is doing, is the action, rather than the accomplishment itself.” That's what I said to Jared, I man I hardly knew, sitting at a bus stop in Pittsburgh. Or was it at a frat party in Chicago? Or a socialist worker's rally in South America? No, it was at a bus stop on a busy street in Pittsburgh. I find it much easier to start deep philosophical discussions with people I've only just met.

“You're telling me,” he said, drawling slightly and turning to look me in the eye, “that it doesn't matter what it is I'm doing, as long as I'm doing something?” He had a tiny nervous tic in his left upper cheek.

I thought for a second. “No, that's not what I'm saying.”

“Well what are you saying, then?” He was probably ten years my senior, which put him at about thirty. He was scruffy. He was wearing a thin but heavy-looking navy blue coat with quite a few scuffs and stains.

“I'm saying that it doesn't matter whether what you're doing really goes any place in the end, as long as you're doing the right thing in the first place.”

He cocked his head slightly and thought about this. Finally he asked, “And why's that?”

“Because,” I replied, but then I stopped. I was feeling a bit wild that day – a bit off. It was one of those days when I really desperately wanted to remind myself of my own fragility. I needed to jab my ego with something sharp, to tide me over until the next time I got that kind of sick, kind of mellow-sad unease in my stomach.

“But this is stupid,” I said suddenly. He looked surprised. “We're going about it all wrong.”

“Whaddya mean?” he asked, “I was just starting to get it.”

“No, Jared.” I had just met Jared. He was sitting at the bus stop, waiting for a bus bound to be late, but he looked much more peaceful than I imagined myself looking, waiting at a bus stop. I had sat down next to him, upon which he had commented that the weather was nice. That, in fact, the weather was actually much colder than it should have been for April was inconsequential - I had to admit that the slight nip in the air mixed with the smell of new life was invigorating.

“No, talking about it is just what I mean.” Now he looked confused. I, too, was confused. “If it's all about action, than we can't just sit and talk.”

“But talking is action too,” he said a bit gruffly. He did have a point. I looked down at the ground, and at my feet. I thought back to my summer in South America – it was still a weird feeling to see only sidewalk and pavement and grass without a hint of dry, packed dirt and garbage in between. I looked at my shoes – Adidas, black and white indoor soccer trainers, the same ones I'd worn that summer. They were caked with the dust of another continent. Then I looked back up, attracted by a strange sight in front of me, because suddenly a small girl was crossing the street, a child obviously only just beginning to walk, oblivious to traffic. Before I knew I had even moved, I was up into the street, legs pumping, and the sound of a deep and angry horn filled the air. In that moment I was acting, and in the next moment I was out.

The day before had been one of the worst of my life. It's a weird thing to think about that, because overall I really enjoy my life. My friends and family think I'm a pretty well-adjusted guy, and if I sometimes seem a little introverted, like the time in 10^th grade when I refused to come out of my bedroom for four days, well, everybody has a few quirks. And I'm not really introverted - I spent the summer after my first year of college in South America, on my own, after all. But the day before the bus hit me was a bad day.

I'd been home after South America for a few weeks before school started. My parents had already begun to get on my nerves. There were no big issues, just lots of little things. Pittsburgh is a city full of little things, to which my family had moved only a few years before. When I got back from South America and my dad picked me up from the airport, he brought the family dog – Camel. I don't know why it was called Camel; they got that name from the former owner. It didn't look like a Camel. Anyway, walking into the house after three months in Chile, the first person my mom greeted coming in the door? Not me, not my father, but the dog: “Camel!” And then me: “E!” As I said, it's the little things. But getting back to the day before the bus hit me:

What is there to do at the end of a long summer at home? That day I took the bus to Oakland where the University of Pittsburgh and CMU campuses are and I sat in an air conditioned coffee shop. I read a bit of Mikhail Bulgakov's “The Master and Margarita” and I struck up a conversation with a fairly cute girl, who in addition to being fairly vapid turned out on closer view to have a front tooth missing. Then I got the idea in my head that to cure my boredom I should create something, only I didn't feel like sitting around with my guitar - I wanted to try something new. There was an Office Depot around the corner, so I walked in and cast my eyes around the store. I ended up buying a pack of 12 Sharpie pens (I only really wanted one, but they were 150% cheaper per Sharpie in bulk). Out on the street I decided to call an old Pittsburgh friend who I knew had already gone back to school. I don't know why I did it.

“E?”

“Hi, Liz, how's it going?”

“Hi E, how are you? You know I'm already back at school.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess I just wanted to talk.”

“That's cool, man. So, like, what's up?” I always told Liz she sounded like a hippie on the phone.

“Nothing. I just bought a bunch of Sharpies. I'm sweating.”

“Ok... what did you want to talk about?”

“Well, what's going on at school? Do you have a lot of work?”

“No, not really.” She wasn't a very talkative person in general. I was standing on the street corner, sweating, holding my Sharpies, and wishing I hadn't called at all.

“That's good, I guess.” A pause.

“Everything good with you, man?”

“Yeah, just bored is all.”

“Well, I really have to go, so I'll talk to you later, ok?”

“Yeah.” Click. I felt like an idiot but I was glad that the conversation was over.

I was standing in the middle of the University of Pittsburgh campus, and I was feeling irrational, desperate even. I needed companionship; I needed to be social. There were kids my age all around me, but I felt a barrier between us. I didn't know them. I was hungry.

I walked down the street to a CVS. As I did so, I thought about our culture and how strange it was to find the same stores all over the country, on every street corner – everything you need, all the time, and always the same. I wondered if I liked the fact that I could walk into any Starbucks and know exactly what the menu was like. I thought about how dumb it was to take the personal element out of commercial ventures and hide behind a faceless corporation like CVS. I resolved to steal something to eat.

After ten seconds I'd located the part of the CVS where they had the wonderful pre-made food – little sandwiches sure to be filled with a ton of mayonnaise, spring rolls wrapped in tight plastic, rice pudding in those little clear containers, even some carrot cake in tiny individual slices. It all looked so delicious. I glanced around and, seeing no one, stuffed a thing of spring rolls in my right pocket and a carrot cake in my back pocket. Then, unphased, I proceeded to walk around the rest of the store for a bit, browsing nonchalantly, before heading for the exit. Predictably, it was at this moment that I felt a hand on my shoulder. Predictably for the context of the story that is, since I've already said it was a terrible day, though not so predictably in general – since when does a CVS have security cameras with actual security guards watching? It was just a freak occurrence.

“Hi there.” The guard was in plain clothes. He was young – maybe not quite 30 – and fat. He didn't even give me a chance.

“I saw you,” he said. “I saw you stuff the food in your pockets. You know we prosecute to the full extent of the law here?”

I was shocked. In considering the whole petty theft proposal, I'd never considered the possibility of getting caught. At first I kept my mouth shut, although more out of surprise than a coherent strategy. I'd never felt bad about these kinds of things, breaking the law, that is – when the victim was a billion dollar corporation, it was hard not to feel a sort of entitlement. But this guard, he was different. He led me into an office, hand on the back of my neck. He had a thin red mustache with a speck of green in it, maybe something he ate. There was a desk in the office, which he sat behind after closing the door, and told me to take a seat in the metal chair in front. I sat with an almost audible squish; that was the carrot cake.

“What are we going to do?” he asked me, looking up suddenly. I didn't answer.

“That's right,” he said, “you don't have to say anything. I know you didn't steal a lot, but you stole, and I can call the cops right now. Should we get them involved?”

I still didn't say anything. I was getting mad. My left butt-cheek felt a little wet from the cake. That same old sad unease was distracting me from the current situation, which I could see was a bad thing, but I just couldn't bring myself to care about this authority figure sitting in front of me. Sure, a part of me was devastated at getting caught – in a way, this was as if society as a whole had chastised me for wrong-doing – but part of me just didn't care, as if something had broken.

“Listen,” he was saying. “If you give me twenty bucks, I'll forget the whole thing.”

I could not believe what I had just heard. He was looking at me intently. I spoke for the first time; I had to be sure of what he'd just said.

“Twenty bucks?”

“That's right.” I could see he thought he was going to get the money. This was ridiculous. Let him call the cops, I thought, there was no way I would put up with his extortion. I stood up and, in a smooth motion, opened the door of the office. I walked out. I was halfway across the store before I heard “You! stop!” behind me. It would have been no problem though. I would have made it across the floor and out in three seconds flat. Then there was a police officer in front of me, a real one this time – a fit black man with the uniform and everything. I stopped.

It turns out that when you're twenty years old, your parents don't actually need to be informed that you've been taken to the police station, which was my chief worry. In fact, I didn't even make it all the way there. After conferring with the cop about my “attempt to flee the scene,” I was forced into the back of the car, which was then locked against me. It was hot. Strangely, the policeman didn't get in the car with me. He just walked out of sight around the corner, leaving me there. There was a grill in the middle, and the doors definitely didn't open, and I had no idea what to do. I just slouched down and waited. When the cop still didn't show up, I started laughing, because I realized that I still had the food in my pockets. Eating the egg rolls kept me busy for a few minutes; the cake was messy. Then I was bored once more.

I found the Sharpie pens in my left pocket. Of course! I started to draw. I'd completely forgotten about my previous yearning to be creative, but now it was back in force. I didn't have any paper, but I drew up and down my left forearm. I drew squiggly patterns in the top; I drew faces and stick figures; I wrote lines of beat poetry like “Hark, thou angel-haired toaster” and “it feels so great to be YOU!”. On the inside of my left arm I traced my veins, squinting to make sure I could see even the smallest ones. I drew a little mustache on the outside of my index finger so I could hold it up under my nose as an instant disguise. Eventually my left arm was covered; it looked great – it was a tattoo, a mural, a work of art – so I switched to the right. This was more difficult, but I managed. I drew a little maze on the back of my hand, but I made it impossible to get to the exit. I drew some bars like a jail going down my arm. I was about to start on my upper arms when the cop came back and opened the door.

“Hey kid,” he said. “Get out.” I didn't have to be told twice.

“You've been sitting in the heat enough,” he said, “and that security guard was overreacting. I've had complaints about him before, too. Just think twice before you do something stupid next time, alright?” I told him I'd learned a lesson. In my head I knew that was true, although I wasn't sure if I'd learned what he thought I had. Then he drove away, and I walked to a nearby park. I laid down on my back, hand blocking the sun from my eyes, but I couldn't sleep. I took off my shirt and started to draw on my chest, but even that got boring. I sighed, and between that instant and the next the whole world got older.

Hospital smell and hospital colors – mauve, peach, robin's egg blue. Flowers, soap, beeping. Soft lights, tiled floors. A weight on my leg – this is all I took in before I passed out again.

A weight on my leg – I was awake once more, but this time consciousness took hold. Yes, there was a weight on my leg. There was a small girl on the bed, curled up by my feet, her head resting on my knee. She had brown, tangled hair. I passed out again.

When I awoke the girl was gone, and a great-looking nurse was standing next to me, busy with something out of my field of vision. I must have moved, because she looked at me. I tried my voice, but she shushed me and asked if I was really awake. I smiled a little. She told me to wait right there, and bustled out. About thirty seconds later my whole family came through the door – that is, my mom and dad, who at the time were both 52 years old. In that moment they looked tired, haggard, in desperate need of a shower.

They rushed to my side, overjoyed to see me but cautious. I was still feeling tired but I didn't want to pass out, so I laid my head back and relaxed. My mom put her hand on my cheek, through my hair. That was a tender moment. We all looked at each other, and I thought I saw something else in their eyes now, something sad, and only then did I realize that I must be hurt. I opened my mouth, cleared my throat a few times.

“Hi guys.”

“Hi E,” said my dad.

“What happened?”

“You don't remember?” my mom asked worriedly.

“I'm not sure.”

“You saved a little girl's life,” my dad said eagerly. “You rushed out in front of a bus and pushed her away.”

“Is she OK?”

“OK?” he asked. “She's been waiting here for you to wake up for the last 48 hours.”

This was a surprise.

“What was I doing for 48 hours?”

“You were unconscious, E. The doctors kept you in an induced coma for a little bit – they wanted to diagnose any brain damage.”

“Well, I feel good.”

“The danger is over,” said my mom, “but don't try to move too soon.”

I had gradually realized that my body felt different, and now I noticed that although I felt no pain, there was a dull ache in my right side. I was scared.

“What's the damage?”

My dad looked pained. “Your right leg,” he said. “And your right arm. Your shoulder is in terrible shape. And you broke four ribs. They think you'll recover fully, but it won't be any time soon.”

There was a noise outside the door. A plump, short woman came in – she might have been in her late 20s – and clinging to her jeans, a little girl with stringy brown hair. Everything was quiet for a moment, and then my mom introduced us.

“E, this is Lucinda, and her daughter Maria.”

“Hi,” said Lucinda, with a strong Mexican accent. “Thank you. Gracias. You saved my daughter's life.”

I smiled at her. It was touching. She smiled back, walked to the bed and took my hand. Her daughter hid behind her and wouldn't meet my eye.

“Thank you,” the mother said softly, again. “I can't do anything to repay you.”

“Don't even think of it,” I said. “Not another word.”

That night I had a disturbing dream. I won't put it down here, though, because I don't put much stock in dreams. The next day, unable to move, I was bored almost the moment I woke up. I couldn't get up, I couldn't do very much, I had no one to talk to. My parents had told me they'd be in first thing in the morning, and they weren't around. There was a big button on the side of the bed for the nurse that I thought about pressing, but something stopped me. And this time I no longer felt numb – the right side of my body was becoming less comfortable by the minute.

I also really needed to pee. I realized that I was attached to a catheter – this is a little plastic tube that attaches to the penis so that invalids don't have to get out of bed just to urinate. At first I couldn't imagine using one. The idea of just letting it out under the covers was too strange.

It reminded me of an experience I'd had a few years before, at the Jersey beach with my family. I had wanted to pee in the water, having heard that this was a natural thing to do. It certainly didn't seem natural. I tried to just let it out, but years of toilet-training stopped me. In the end I managed, but only after I pulled down my shorts there in the ocean and closed my eyes. If I wanted to be comfortable here, I would have to relax.

I was itchy all over, too. I pulled my hospital gown over the top of my head and arms (very carefully and slowly with the right arm) and pushed it under the covers. I turned on the TV, turned it off, looked at the window – the shades were drawn, and I couldn't quite reach them. There was no clock in the room, and through some mysterious insight, my cell phone, laptop, and some books that my parents had brought had all been left in a backpack against the opposite wall the night before. I decided that it must be very early in the morning, but I couldn't go back to sleep. I was just about to try to pee when I heard a slight tapping on my door.

“Come in?” I half-said, half-asked. It was too late: I was naked and peeing as the door opened, although at least I had a blanket on up to my waist.

In walked a girl I'd never seen before, which surprised me very much. She was wearing a hospital gown with a blanket wrapped around her on top of it. She had almost completely straight red hair that fell in a shower around her head and just a few freckles on her cheeks. She was smiling a little, shyly. She said,

“I'm not supposed to be here,” but I didn't respond - I was still taking her in, bit by bit. She looked to be about 20 or maybe slightly older, and she was holding a book in her left hand, although I couldn't see the title. She had these brown eyes, but they weren't a standard, flat brown, or even a deep, dreamy brown – they were a dancing, flashing, red-yellow brown. Her thin red lips seemed to be set permanently on “bemused,” and that's when I realized she was waiting for some sort of response from me.

“Uh,” I stalled for time. “Hi?”

“I'm Mary,” she said, straight-forwardly, “Mary Povich.”

“I'm, uh, E,” I managed to get out, “E W—.”

“E?”

“Well, it's really Ekins. Everybody always asks me what Ekins is, so – wait, why are you here?”

I realized this question didn't sound so inviting, and that I really didn't want her to leave, and I was dismayed to see her smile disappear for a second.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “I just walked in, I-”

“No, no, it's alright,” I hastened to tell her. “Hi.”

By now I had finished peeing, which was a relief in more ways than one. Luckily the tube ran off to the other side of the bed.

“It's just that I get so bored in my room,” she said, “sometimes I like to check out who's around. I've been here for a long time.” She paused.

“How long?”

“Weeks!” she said. That word came out of her mouth with a mixture of mirth and sadness. As if she regretted the entire situation, but at the same time could not see a point in fighting it. I was infatuated from the start.

“I'm glad you're here,” I said. “I was starting to get kind of bored myself.”

She seemed truly pleased that I didn't mind her intrusion, and took the light-green armchair next to my bed of her own accord.

“Tell me,” she said, “are you creative?”

This was a surprising opening, and I gave it some thought. I decided that a reasonable answer would be yes, if not in my artistic output, than at least in my actions. I told her as much.

“I like your drawings,” she said. This came as a surprise. What drawings? I furrowed my brows and took in her expression, which seemed to show that she could see I didn't understand. Then it dawned on me, and the day before the accident came back to me. I looked down – yes, I'd gotten used to them, but I was covered in my Sharpie scribbles all along both arms and some of my chest and stomach. I thought back to the terrible desperation I'd felt that day, the sad boredom. Instantly it all came back, like a wave, only now I was also stuck in a hospital bed. I tried to think about Mary, and mostly succeeded.

And that is why when my parents walked into the room an hour later they found Mary lying on the bed (but chastely, on top of the covers) continuing the drawings on my chest with a Sharpie of her own (this one in red), while I read the book that she'd brought with her – Timothy Leary's The Psychedelic Experience. She promptly stood up, slightly embarrassed, although it was interesting to note, on second thought, that it was less embarrassment and more a mix of annoyance at being interrupted and at the same time an eagerness to meet new people. My parents had an expression I'd seen before – they didn't want to do anything, because they didn't know what the right thing to do was and they didn't want to upset me. I always used to wish that they would do something, rather than just stand around in situations like that. Mary took the initiative and, after explaining who she was to my parents in a very demure fashion, left the room. It was a little awkward for a few moments after that while I pulled the blanket up a little and we talked about logistical stuff, but I was too pleased with myself to really bother worrying. It took the parents a half hour before they regained their poise.

All I could think about was Mary, what we'd talked about, how she looked. I think my parents could tell that I had other things on my mind, and they may have even gotten a little annoyed. On the other hand, they couldn't really show it, because I was, after all, a hero. The only thing worse than visiting a close relative in the hospital must be visiting that relative when he doesn't even want to see you. My parents left on some flimsy pretext, leaving me to read the book she'd left behind (she'd left it behind!) and dream. Mary and I had talked about my injury.

“Why are you here?” she'd said. I went over the conversation in my head, line for line.

“You mean here, in the hospital, right?”

“I don't go in for that existential crap.”

“Right... well, I got hit by a bus.”

“Oh!” She looked pained.

“Yeah, I don't really remember that part of it.”

“How did it happen?”

I thought for a second. I did not want to go into how I'd saved the girl. It had been two days, but I was already tired of the praise and good feelings. I myself did not feel so good about the whole thing. On the other hand, I didn't want to lie.

“I pushed this little girl out of the way.” Her eyes went wide, and her hand involuntarily moved to my shoulder.

“Did you save her?”

“I – yeah, I saved her.” She could tell that I wasn't as ecstatic about the whole arrangement as I might have been, and thankfully she didn't press. Then we started talking about other things. We seemingly had an unlimited amount of stuff to talk about – books and movies, stories and experiences, ideas, philosophies and art – talking with Mary was nice. I didn't ask her about why she was in the hospital though. I could sense a certain hesitation on her part, so I let that be. And just like that, being in the hospital wasn't so bad.

She came back early the next morning. I had already finished her book. This time I was a little more composed and she sat genially in the armchair next to me.

“Mary,” I said, “I feel like I already know you.”

“E, you do know me.”

“How can that be, though?”

“Sometimes people connect.”

Mary gave me a delicious feeling. Infatuation is a delicate, delicate game. I had already learned the hard way that rushing into things, forcing your hand, was the way to fail here. We were obviously attracted to each other, but it was a strange attraction. I was stuck in my bed for all intents and purposes, and I'd only known her for one day. Sometimes things work out that way.

We chatted for a while. I tried not to think about her hair.

“Do you play any music?” she asked me.

“I play bass,” I told her, “in a jazz band.” She grimaced, and then I realized that I probably wouldn't be playing bass any time soon.

“True,” I said, “but that just means I'll have to learn something new.”

“What can you do with one hand? How about the drums?”

“I think drums are usually two-handed.”

“You could be a one-handed drummer!”

“You know, I've broken my right arm twice before?”

“Really?” She was impressed.

“Yep. The first time I was 12, climbing a tree. That's a pretty standard way to do it, I guess. No big deal. The second time was only a few years ago - I was mountain biking with some friends, even though I wasn't riding a mountain bike and even though I'd never done it before. We were on what I swear to this day was a hiking trail, although they claim that they do it all the time.”

“So what happened?”

“Oh, well my brakes actually stopped working.”

“No!” Her eyes got wide and her mouth made a little circle.

“Yeah, I hadn't tried the bike for a while, and I was riding the brake down a hill and something snapped. I hit a root and flew over the handlebars.”

“And now your arm is broken once more.”

“Shattered, actually. I'm set to have some reconstructive surgery in a few days.”

“Do you think it'll ever be back to normal again?”

“It's hard to say.”

“Wow.” She looked pensive.

“So do you regret it? I mean, you saved this little girl, but do you wish you hadn't jumped in front of the bus, even a little?”

Her whole body was moving, always moving, feet tapping, hands tapping, hair bouncing. Her eyes were locked onto mine in a very personal, confrontational way.

“I haven't thought about it,” I said. “I moved on pure instinct when I saved her. I had to move – if I hadn't moved, it wouldn't be me sitting there - I would be someone else.” We thought about that for a second.

“And anyway,” I added, “being in the hospital isn't so bad.” We smiled at each other, and I foresaw the moment turning pretty awkward, but she didn't flinch, so neither did I.

“Mary, why are you in the hospital?”

“That, my friend,” she said as my gut twisted, “is a very long and very personal story.”

I waited, wondering what to do. Somehow I got the message.

“But you're going to tell me.”

“Of course.”

Mary went to a terrific little all girls liberal arts college in Massachusetts. She studied art and art history. She lived in a dorm with four floors and forty rooms. Each hallway had two bathrooms, one on either end. All of the walls were pale blue. When Mary started college at age 18 she was optimistic. She was in a safe, fun and conductive environment, surrounded by similarly motivated and smart young women. There was a large state college only a few miles down the road.

Mary started out well. She did her homework and learned her lessons. She fell in with a group of friends that supported her and kept her busy, first when she got mono in her first year of school, and then when she had a small emotional breakdown at the end of that year. They were faithful, caring friends, but they weren't very exciting. By the beginning of her second year of school she started to feel a little stifled. One day she realized, quite suddenly, that she hadn't painted anything in two months. Previously she had been a prolific artist – she'd even sold a few abstract, colorful pieces – but now, as she thought back, she realized that her artist output had been in steady decline for the last year, and that recently she'd only been painting when she had to for school.

That night was a Friday and she ditched her friends, who had planned a Scrabble night. She took a sketchpad and a pencil and climbed the hill behind the school. It was a chilly day in October, so she brought a sweater. She sat on a rock overlooking the school and put pencil to paper, and then lifted it off again. She thought a bit more. She sighed, and tried again with the pencil, but her hand wouldn't move. She lifted it off again.

Mary laid back on the rock and looked up at the sky. The Massachusetts sky was quite clear, but she found no inspiration there. In fact, she felt utterly uninspired. She started to draw anyway, just to break through her mental block and start something. However, her hand did not copy the image in her mind the way it usually did. She didn't feel off, or deficient – she just felt empty. A breeze blew through her thin sweater and she shivered, and felt goosebumps on her arm. It all seemed so futile. She realized she was being ridiculous and stood up. She sat down again. No – she wanted to draw something, anything. She felt as if the most important thing about her – her art – was suddenly missing. She started to sketch a line, a curve, a smile, a cheek. She put in some hair, a short curvy nose. She sketched a bit more, trying to just let her hand move of its own accord, but she knew, even as she sketched, that this was not art. There was no inspiration and no motivation behind this drawing. When she lifted up her pencil and took a look at her creation, she was disgusted at what she saw. What had happened to her? She threw her supplies down the other side of the rock and half stumbled home.

Her friends were relieved to see her when she burst back into the dorm and into the room where she knew they'd be. Her hair was blown back and her face was wet.

“Mary!” one said. “Where were you? Are you alright?”

Suddenly their concerns seemed so petty. She didn't know what to do, what to say – these people who had been her family for the last year at college did not seem at all important. She smiled. She hoped they wouldn't notice how fake she looked and felt.

“I'm fine,” she said. “I just took a walk, but I got a little farther from the school then I meant to.”

They seemed mollified. One admonished her not to go so far alone at night. She sat down to play scrabble with them, but left only a few minutes later. She told them she didn't feel so well and wanted to go to bed. She stayed up all night.

I watched Mary throughout the telling of her story. I watched the way her hands moved excitedly. She was still wearing a hospital gown with a blanket wrapped on top. I thought about how much nicer she would look in jeans and a tee shirt. I thought about the way her hair brushed her shoulders. To be sure, I also payed attention to the story - I thought I could see where it was going.

At that moment we heard yelling outside in the hallway. There were two Spanish voices, one male and loud, the other female and even. Mary moved to take a look, because the voices were getting closer, but at that moment a man burst into the room.

“Hijo de puta!” he yelled. He was holding Maria, the little girl I'd saved, in his arms, but roughly. She was crying.

“You. Kid.” He was talking to me in a heavy accent, made heavier still by a drunk slur. Just then Lucinda came up behind him, smacked him upside the head and grabbed his ear. I heard her muttering something about a drunk fool of a husband as she forcibly removed him from the room.

Mary and I shared a gaze for a moment and then both of us turned to Maria, who had struggled out of her father's arms and stayed in the room. We were all quiet for a bit. I realized I had a lack of experience in communicating to little girls. Finally she looked up at me with this wide open, innocent-child kind of expression that just melted my heart. Strangely, I saw at once two little girls. One was mangled and bloody, her body ruined and useless on the road. The other was before me now, alive and fairly aching with vitality. It isn't to say that I had a sudden epiphany about life or anything. It's just that I looked into Maria's big blue eyes and do you know? I saved her life. This is what I realized. I saved a life, and that's a powerful thing.

Maria came over and gave me a hug that lasted for a long time. I was still laid out on the bed, and she barely reached up to my side, but she held on to my left arm for all it was worth. Then her mom came back and, with an embarrassed smile, they left.

Where was my ennui now? Where was that mellow-sad unease? Mary was back in her armchair, watching me with an inscrutable gaze. I ignored it for a second and took stock of my body and mind. I felt light and relaxed. I felt like I could do something great, which was a wonderful contrast compared to the way I'd been feeling. Was Mary and my infatuation going to get awkward and fizzle? No – not anymore.

“Hark!” I said. Mary looked confused. We were alone in the room.

“Hark! Thou angel-haired toaster goddess! Through the dark nights I have traveled.”

“Have you?” she asked.

“Indeed I have. Through the dark nights I have traveled on the moon-rays of a thousand lost thoughts, and with me true my electric boogaloo has traveled too.” It started out conversational, but the end was a chant.

“Hey,” she said and smiled, “that was groovy.”

“It's a long cold trip to the sea of sheep, but if you'll mount my Bloody Mary it won't be steep.”

She banged out a rhythm on the night table to back me up.

“Groove, yeah? move, groove, duck, suck, can we feel the electric muck?”

“Cow a pang a boo man slam! I sing the queen bee too!” That last one was Mary. Suddenly she froze, and I cut back my next line of beat poetry. I was about to ask what was wrong when she moved again and grabbed the pad of paper and the pen that were on my night table next to her hands.

“Keep going,” she said in a small voice. I didn't have to be told twice.

“We are the voyage. We come in the dusk of your purple morass. Mmmm, morass. Yeah. If you slip on my hair you might float to the bottom, but you'll indubitably end up on top. Indubi-double-triple word score!” I was triumphant.

“Man on a mission. That's my name. I come from a land of candy-corn uni-hand fame, where multiple Christmas-light power-trip energite lame play the shellular game.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mary sketching with a fierce intensity. I didn't slow down. I didn't know if what I was spouting was interesting or artistic or just blithering nonsense, but it felt good. Actually, it felt great. It was a fantastic release. I wasn't thinking about what I was saying; it was just streaming out unbidden. Mary was in the same place. Her hand was moving with a dreadful purpose and she was squinting her eyes until they were shut almost completely. Her legs were shaking.

“Cockroaches of the world, unite! Unbuckle your antennae and prepare for the light! Mmm, yeah, the shiny all-dancing kingdom of what? – of might! Array yourselves around my shiny carapace of love, for I, and you, and you, and all of you – We are the lizard queen!”

With that I was done, and so was Mary. She looked at her paper, and then up at me, and back at her paper, and up at me, and then she rose out of the chair and met my lips with her own as I rose up in my bed.

“I've been in some pretty bad places,” she said to me an indeterminate amount of time later.

“Is that the part of your story you didn't get to?”

“It is.” She paused. “I feel really good with you.” She showed me her sketch. There I was, and it was me and nobody else, and there was the beat poetry, because you could see that too. You could see it all. I looked up at her in astonishment.

“You're going to be just fine,” I told her.

“I know,” she said. “So are you.” And once again, between that moment and the next, my world got a little older.