Tiger Woods

I am shaving. I have lathered my face and am staring into the mirror in the bathroom of my current home. I begin to shave but it strikes me that I am using a straight razor to shave. I start at my neck, shaving upwards, slowly, deliberately, with emphasis on detail. I am going out, to revel, and want to look my best.

Sometime later, after the revelry, I am in a car. There are others with me and they are celebrities. It is the end of the evening and we decide to stop at an after hours club. One of the faceless famous ducks into to the club to see who is there. After half a minute he bolts back out. "Tiger Woods is here," he says. At that moment everyone scatters. We know instinctively and communally that Tiger Woods is a narc. We scatter and I get back in the car I came in. I have a passenger. He is a combination of all the old friends that I have had.

We leave the parking lot of the after hours club, which I can now see has been built in my childhood neighborhood in West Park. As I turn left onto Puritas, I have trouble seeing oncoming traffic in both directions because of hills. I make the left and a gray car drives into the ditch next to me, on the left. It is not my fault and the car is one of the after hours celebrities. I know that I best move along, and as I do, I see that my friend doesn't know what to do and that the gray car is old, beat up and the new damage will total the vehicle.