VII. The Chariot. [Reversed]

The City—MORNING

But the post-hurricane fortune ended here. As Spike and I drive my Impala, loaded with junk, back into my ruined apartment building, we find the neighborhood blocked off. Maggie the landlord along with two uniformed policemen are inspecting each car on the street. The cops bark for us to park and wait our turn and I leave the engine running for fear that it will not start up again due to water in the engine from the storm.

Meanwhile, to the general displeasure and suspicion of the cops, we get out and demand answers from Maggie about what the cops are up to. She says she is trying to deter the undesirables out of the building. Afraid squatters would move in quickly. I am outraged but Spike says to stay calm because we have nothing illegal. He misses my point.

At our turn the cops wave us on and I gently press the gas peddle. The car sputters in the growing mud, and after fishtailing violently, frees itself and creeps forward. This annoys the impatient policemen who wave us in eagerly. I press the gas a little more and the car fishtails again. The cops dive out of the way and I hit a fence.

While they attempt to search it. Spike and I begin to push the broken Impala into a nearby garage so we can put it on a lift. The garage to is deserted but the machinery is easy enough to noodle out. Spike insists the car is fine, but as we push it unto the lift and hoist it, it looks like the whole front end is about to fall off.

As the situation sinks in, I spy Maggie walking down the street. Still irritated about the cops blocking me from my own place, we decide to follow her. She now goes into the neighboring grocery store. There, from the bushes I can overhear her and the shopkeep discussing plans to raze and expand the Rooming House. We realize that the Maggie is trying to clear the tenants so that she can sell the place to the grocery store owner.

Spike and I go inside. I sarcastically as a guilty-looking Maggie “What’s up?” Spike stops at the counter where over-zealous shopkeep try to sell him something. He gets a free mug instead. It’s got a realty logo on the side. He hands me over one, too, along with what looks like a $9.99 invoice for carpet cleaning service for the apartment I am being forced out of.

“No, thanks” I hand the mug back and barely save myself from collapsing. I had been keeping an ugly, bloody chest wound a secret under my jacket since the storm.