a blood splattered angel

My order at Taco Bell has been the same since the tenth grade; A beefy 5 layer burrito and an order of loaded nachos if I’m feeling really hungry, and tonight I am. So I waste no time ordering at the drive through window. 

I feel somewhat at one with myself as I wait for my order to be completed. Satisfied. My life may be in shambles but twenty minutes earlier, when I was getting my back blown out, I had a moment of clarity. A moment of pure lucidity, excitement and joy.

I was on my back, a chiseled twenty five year old UCLA graduate deep in my gut, my hands gripping his sheets for comfort, when an epiphany came upon me, coincidentally just as this UCLA graduate came within me. 

I don’t need a man to be happy. 

I just need to be happy with myself to be happy.

I never went to college but maybe this UCLA boy majored in philosophy or something and I got a degree by injection, because I am feeling nuanced as fuck.

As the delivery window boy handed me my bag of knock off Mexican cuisine, I couldn’t help but wonder, are hook ups the take window of love? Sure, I feel satisfied with myself right now, but what about in a week when the cocktail of dopamine, endorphins, serotonin and all those other chemicals have worn off? Will I still like myself so much then?

The answer is probably no. I understand that the answer is probably no. This brings my philosophical high to a well deserved crash. Does this mean that I have to be with someone all the time in order to feel happy? In order to be satisfied with myself I need validation from some gooney faced boy? I have to find some guy to tell me that I’m awesome in order to believe that I’m awesome? 

What is love but the combination of previously mentioned chemicals that are formed in the brain when penetration occurs? Is love simply the addiction to these chemicals? Probably. And if so, then hook ups are just the Taco Bell version of what’s really out there. And I want to be dining at Nobu.

I’m starving and I’m thankful that I’m getting close to home. I hadn’t eaten anything all day in anticipation of my banging tonight. I debate taking out my burrito and taking a bite in the car, but restrain myself because I do believe there’s something special about sitting down with the right television show turned on in front of you when you –

BANG! 

“Oh my god!”

There’s an impact to the rear passenger side of my car that both shatters the window, deploys my side airbags and shakes the entirety of my VW Jetta. Just after the impact I see a figure fly over the hood of my car.

“OH MY GOD! FUCK!” 

Stunned, shocked, freaked. So freaked I almost shit out the college degree I forgot was still in me. 

My hands are shaking as I grip the steering wheel and pull forward out of oncoming traffic. I need to assess the damage and see what the hell happened.

I open my car door to find something I feel like could only be possible in a nightmare:

Broken glass.

Broken motorcycle.

Broken man.

Now I feel like I should explain how this happened. I’m not a terrible driver. I am gay, but not a terrible driver. 

My current apartment falls just below, in my opinion, the worst intersection in Los Angeles. That special spot in LA where Fairfax, San Vicente and Olympic all decide to meet up. An intersection a Reddit user by the name of ranchoparksteve coined as ‘The Clusterflux’. If you’re a Los Angeles resident you too have probably experienced frustration while attempting to cross this hellmouth.

I have come up with a little bit of a trick to doing it though. My apartment is on Genesee, and falls just below San Vicente, which at the point, is going east to west. If I drive south on La Brea, and drive west on Olympic till Genesee, there’s a break in the median on San Vicente I can cross to avoid the entire intersection drama. (I highly suggest taking a peak at Google Maps, and all of this will make more sense.)

The only issue with this move is the angle in which Genesee intersects both Olympic and San Vicente. It comes at both streets at such an awkward angle that you have to turn all the way around in order to notice oncoming traffic. I’m not good at geometry, so I can’t give you an exact angle. And the thing is I’m not going to. Just imagine turning all the way around in your car in order to pass a super heavily trafficked street.

That’s how something like this can happen. Someone, say a motorcyclist, could slip around a corner at the moment that you’re crossing a street and smash into you. It happens.

Standing on the side of the street, I look down at the man that I’ve hit– the man that HIT ME. He’s writhing on the ground in pain. He’s moaning and holding his leg. He’s not okay. As I get closer I get a better look at him. I see him, and he has this beautifully sculpted face, this wispy, wavy blonde hair that falls effortlessly around his face. He looks like a blood splattered angel. 

“Help!” He screams, “Fuck! HELP!” 

Fuck. Whatdoidowhatdoidowhatdoidowhatdoidowhatdoido.

“HELP!” The Angel screams louder.

“Fuck! Okay!” I say, mostly to myself, and partly to calm him down. I rush over to him, and kneel beside him. I look around, we’re on the Genesee side of San Vicente, so we’re not going to hold up any serious traffic, but we’re still in the middle of the road. “We need to get you off the street.” I say, “can you walk?”

“Fuck! Maybe, yeah?” 

With an assist from my shoulder I take The Angel over to the patch of grass lining the street. At this point several of my neighbors have come out of their apartments to see what’s going on. 

“Is he okay?!” I hear a woman asking from the sidelines.

“Should we call the police?” Another concerned citizen asks.

I hold The Angel’s hand, as my heart races and my inner monologue moves even faster.

What should I do? Is this guy okay? What happens if he dies? What’s this going to do to my insurance? How am I going to fix my car? Oh my god he’s hot. Oh my god I hope he doesn’t die. He has the most beautiful face oh my god. He’s so gorgeous. 

Sirens. 

Thank god.

A squad car pulls up and a nice officer asks me if I need an ambulance to which I answer, “well, yeah.”

Officer Nice, takes my place holding The Angel’s hand which gives me time to call my insurance provider. My hands are still shaking while I attempt to navigate the Geico app.

“Is he going to be okay?” Asks the woman from the sidelines.

“I’m not sure, I didn’t go to medical school.” I say in response, like, I’m not in a mood for coddling other people right now. I’m the one who might have just committed vehicular manslaughter, I am the one who should be coddled.

“Hi, this is Jason, how can I assist you?”

“Hi Jason! My name is Sean, how are you?” Why am I wasting time with pleasantries? This man so not does not care.

“I’m well, can you provide me with your account information please?” I give Jason everything I have in the sense of information that might be useful to him, and after a moment of waiting he says; “how may I assist you today?”

“I was just in an accident.”

“Okay, can you describe the accident?” Just as Jason says this, Officer Nice approaches me.

“Hello, do you happen to have your insurance information on you?” Officer Nice asks. I say this because he looks nicer than most police officers I’ve seen. I don’t want you to have this impression of him that he’s acting ‘nice’ for some alternative goal.

“Yeah I do – um –” I say, “sorry, Jason, hold on a second.” I take a moment to look over Officer Nice, he’s mid thirties, latino, sweet face, I don’t get a sense of hostility from him at all, which is a surprise and relief coming from a police officer. 

I hand Officer Nice my phone to show him my insurance policy. While he jots a few things down on a clipboard, I see behind him that a pair of paramedics are loading The Angel, my future husband, into an ambulance while a crowd of about ten neighbors watch and whisper nearby.

“Is he going to be okay?” I ask Officer Nice, genuine concern in my voice. Concern for both my fallen angel, and for myself, I would not fare well in prison.

“Well they’re taking him to the hospital now,” he says without looking up from his clipboard. 

“Yeah, but like, what’s going to happen?” Officer Nice looks up and raises his eyebrows at me.

“If something happens you’ll get a call.” The words sink into me slowly and harshly.

“If something happens?” My jaw is on the floor. “You mean if he dies?”

“Yes. If he dies we will contact you.” Officer Nice is starting to look like the Angel of Death sharpening his scythe.

“Okay well, that can’t happen because-” I catch myself before I say something like ‘because I’m in love with him!’ or ‘because he’s so hot!’ all I’m able to croak out is; “because that would… suck.”

“Yep it would,” says Officer Nice as he hands me a piece of paper from his clipboard, “this is the other driver’s phone number and email address.”  Oh my god. 

I take the piece of paper and read his full name, Nathan Vincent Cohen, his phone number and email address. Could it be that he felt the same as I did when I saw him bleeding out in the street? Maybe this is fate. He hit my car because he’s the one. He’s the one I’m supposed to be with. No more wandering around sleeping with guys that don’t care about me.  I won’t have to worry about that anymore because now I have Nathan. 

“He wanted you to give me this?” 

Officer Nice gives me a skeptical look, “it’s my job to facilitate the exchange of insurance information between any parties involved in an accident.”

Even as Officer Nice planted this seed of doubt in my mind I held my future husband's phone number close and couldn't help but wonder … was this the most adorable ‘meet cute’ ever?