“Are you clairvoyant or something?”

I didn’t know how to answer the question, so I just kind of shrugged, smiling halfway.

The funniest part still hasn’t even happened. Wait until he cracks open Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said. Or any of them, really.

We spent a little over an hour in the basement. I unconvincingly smoked Basics and tried to move my hands in response to the imaginary interrogation I was being given. It occurred to me how like show biz police work must be. Get someone in a dark featureless room, throw a spotlight on them and then make them dance. The Strategist had loaned me a book on interrogation techniques, filled with theatrical tips and tricks to convince suspects to give you information which may or may not be real or useful.

“You’re the red herring,” he told me. My character, based on a real person, was supposed to be calmly denying having done it, having killed anybody. So calm, in fact, that the police took that as some kind of indication of guilt. I guess the guy (me) eventually was turned loose though, which is good because I had other places to be.

What I learned that night is how to look cool smoking a cigarette. I don’t know how the rest of the footage went. If it ever airs on Court TV, I will try to track it down and put it up here. I’m glad I didn’t wake up the next day craving Basics. I didn’t inhale.

Today I saw the aftermath of a car accident in the intersection of the Ave and Roland, here in Hampden. I was on my way to get an egg and cheese sandwich and a cup of tomato bisque in an effort to recover from seeing Wu Tang last night. People from town stood all around the intersection, just looking. As I approached, it took me a while to register what it was that I was seeing. I guess it must have looked pretty unbelieveable or unusual to everyone else as well, and that was why they were standing around. It had a weird quality to it: one of tangible excitement. Some people looked concerned, but not really too much. White and red vehicles with sirens and flashing lights flanked the crowd. I don’t know if anybody was hurt. The car looked holy sitting on its side like that, like an altar to some strange god we rarely admit to worshipping. Fire fighters had inserted slats underneath the car, level ingit out so it wouldn’t tip over.

I woke up when I remembered Durga, demon-slayer, destroyer of illusions. I held the woman’s face in both hands. She was hysterical, and had appeared at my door with her boyfriend. No, not my doorstep. Good friends of mine in the Northwest who I was visiting. K. had made brownies and possibly chicken. They weren’t home though. I was there talking to someone else who evidently needed my help as well. I asked him to excuse me for a minute when I heard the frantic knocks at the door. The woman came in and began rambling about horrors she’d endured - real or imagined, it didn’t matter.

“Why did you come to me?” I demanded. In a moment of clarity, she told me a name. The name of a man. She was on the verge of breaking down altogether - and I’m sure not for the first time. I asked her name, and her boyfriend had to respond for her. I remember thinking, “I have to figure something out fast here.” That’s when I thought of Durga and woke up.