Back in L.A.

The belching buses were gone. The whirl wind of dust in my hair as the subway lights flashed toward me, gone. The train crawling up and down the city, each car jerking left and right, gone too. They didn't exist for me. At least not here.

The trolleys...wait, the last time I was on a trolley I was five years old visiting on vacation. Sitting there watching the hills roll up and down, my knees sticking out and gathering goose bumps from the fog. That is until a gray-haired man in a gray suite with a black suit case stood up before me on the ledge of the car. I was not imagining it, I soon realized. And with every bump and sway of the trolley he'd push his dick harder into my knees, looking out into the street, then down at me again. His compulsion lay big and wet shame over my tiny frame, shrinking me into nothing. That's the first time I went numb and I never looked up again. I fantasized kicking him off me onto a busy intersection, cars running over him like a speed bump.

They'd arrest me for sure.
I imagined the court room at my trial,
"Ms. Lockman-Soto, why did you kick him off the trolley?
Why did you kill him?"
I knew I'd never be able to repeat what he did to me. I'd go to jail for sure. Where ever they take five year-old girls, that's definitely where they'd send me. So I sat there, trying to scoot to the right then to the left. He would casually adjust himself back onto my little nubby knees.
Yeah, fuck those trolleys.

I cried in the airport. The man who checked me in was so sweet and accommodating. "Here you go Miss. Gate 21 Miss. I can help you with the bag, be careful Miss." He would smile but his cheeks would quickly let go of it when my blood shot eyes met his. I hardly noticed security or how much clothes they made me take off, but suddenly I was upstairs plugging in my computer and burning my lips on some muddy coffee. This is a good time to work, I thought, and began my round of phone calls.

I hardly noticed any one around me on the plane as well, I simply stared out the window, like I did on weekends waiting for my father. I made sure however, to acknowledge the flight attendant when she would come by. I did not want nuts. I did not want club soda. I did not even want a cocktail.

I DID NOT EVEN WANT A COCKTAIL.

When I left my heart in San Francisco, it left a gaping hole, dripping black/brown stale menstrual-like blood. No one saw it, but it was in a puddle all oozing near my breast. I watched the world thousands of miles below me. My life went backwards and I knew that at the airport awaited the ghost of young, bruised and abused Alexis.

Would she wait in the car or would the bitch have flowers waiting at the gate? She's so desperate to please I kinda wish I remembered her number so I could tell her to just wait in the car. I didn't bring much baggage with me. I wouldn't have any answers for her. I would tell her what every one else knew; the wizard was a fake and I didn't bring back courage or a heart. But I could take her home.


I was back in L.A., living out of a suit case in which I forgot to pack clothes in. I had a hair dryer, flat iron, tons of hair goo and make up, but no fucking clothes. What the fuck was I thinking when I packed? Luckily for me, I know where every god damn mall in this city is located and it's just a matter of time before I figure out which of these credit cards still has some life in it.

I collected my things and navigated down the narrow air plane stairs with my head still in the clouds. My skin could not feel the bright sun, though I appreciated. Even in December. I walked through the small airport, across the high traffic carpeting and decided a few things.

1. Dry L.A. weather ensures my hair will stay straight.
2. My heart wouldn't drop if I saw any of my mistakes.
3. When I see young, bruised and abused Alexis, I'm gonna kiss her hard on the mouth and tell her not to worry about a god damn thing.

I'm back in town.