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Talking Story  by Polo

 From The Asian Reporter, V17, #22 (May 29, 2007), page 7.

I was driving my baby. Not going anywhere, really. Just driving.

I feel better sometimes, just driving my quarter-million-mile Toyota. Nights are best. Alone is necessary. My chaotic life, these complex times, seem to settle some when I drive. And drive and drive. A dark freeway does it for me.

I go I-5 north. I signal right then let my baby fly west over our elegant Fremont Bridge, U.S. and Oregon flags’re flup-flupping furious waaay up there. One spider web arc across Portland’s damp dark sky. When we land, I slide her south into that wide slot I-405 cuts into downtown; we weave through that concrete canyon. Then I merge left, back into I-5 northbound, reluctantly onto that dreadful Marquam Bridge. When our daughter Carícia was small, she held her breath and squeezed her eyes for the half-minute it takes to cross.

We curve an easy left along River Willamette’s east shore, along her delicious black. When we pass Oregon Convention Center’s lit-up twin towers, I’m back to where my loop starts.

Driving like that is best done with Carlos Santana real loud, with windows real wide. Winter or summer makes no difference. You’ve got to have your hair blowing back.

I drive that loop an hour at the end of a normal workweek. I do it a lot longer when my juju’s really busuk. I cannot say exactly how long I was out there, looping our city last Friday night. I can say Santana’s Abraxas album just finished. I can say I was poking around in that wonderful dark, feeling for my baby’s tape-eject button, when I noticed I wasn’t alone. This was not good.

This was bad. Bad because I started this drive alone. Because I had not stopped, not once, not during the length of that ecstatic album. Because, except for agitated freeway air and dank river wind whooshing through, nothing should’ve gotten in there. In my Toyota. Not into the front passenger seat.

I smelled her before I saw her. Actually, it’s more than just her scent — it’s more like a presence, more like a warm fullness filling the air. Like a chicken coop. Like duck dander. Like Pets on Broadway’s exotic bird section.

Hawkgirl.

Hawkgirl was in my car. Again.

I hate it. Not her. No-no. Far from it. She’s hot, but the way she shows up is not.

I mean, most people I know, every regular Joe-citizen in America, sends an e-mail in advance. Or calls first. At least, knocks — like, you know: Hel-lo-oh. Hey dude, don’t let me startle you; I know your solitary Friday night ride’s important to you. But, we need to talk.

But not Hawkgirl. Spiked iron club parked between her knees. Jeez.

I said nothing. I kept driving. I blinkered right, we banked gently left, up that long-long ramp that gets you onto our lovely Fremont Bridge. In truth, it was taking every ounce of concentration I own to suppress a monster sneeze. Man, she’s that way. Bird-fluffy. Allergic. Overwhelming. I was working my doggone darnedest not to be impolite. Girls don’t like it when you think they stink.

I got it under control a little south of 405’s Beaverton exit. "Hey Hawkgirl," I said. Upbeat. She said nothing. Naturally.

It’s the way they are. Asian girls, Arab ladies, Mexican chicas, hawk babes, all the same. They hold back. They make you work for it.

I let out a long sigh. A silent one, mind you. Under my breath. You can’t let on you’re really tired or feeling old or simply sick (and tired) of that girl-thing. Oh no. There’d be hellll to pay. Sisters are like that.

I went back to fiddling with my baby’s Sanyo. I found her eject button, I popped Carlos out, flipped him over, slipped him back in. There’s that tape hiss — then there’s those heavenly opening guitar notes of Santana’s "Samba Pa Ti."

Seven notes on Carlos Santana’s Gibson electric and everything’s fine. The world’s so fine. Even Hawkgirl. "Ayoh, Bird-bud," I said. "Fridays’re da bomb, naah?"

She said nothing.

"You hungry, Sister’saya?"

That usually does it. She is, after all, a winged raptor. A bird of prey. Always up for eating.

"Popeye’s is open," I said, signalling left, down-shifting up the Marquam Bridge ramp. "Open late. Aaalways open late. Adduuh, can’t you just smell the chicken grease." She shuddered. Her wings rustled. "Yesterday," I went on, "they had a sign up: Catfish Nuggets. On special. What d’ya say, Sister?"

"Okay," she mumbled. It was a lit-tle "okay." Through pouty lips. Barely moving. Booboo lips just under her Hawkgirl mask.

"Okay," I said, chirpie as a South Salem High rally chick. "O-kay then. To Popeye’s we go."

Northeast Portland has two Popeye’s. Both on MLK. Both hopping on Friday nights. Lots jammed with mid-80s Oldsmobiles and Pontiacs, most of them throbbing with bad rap.

I pulled up my baby’s park brake. I hopped out and nipped around to Hawkgirl’s door. I opened our umbrella. I urged her out by her elbow. Très gallant. You see, I was raised on Cary Grant, on Gregory Peck Saturday matinee movies, back home. All in English, but it didn’t matter. It was the moves. It’s aaall about the moves. The chicas love it.

The cops don’t. A blue and white cruiser stalked by us, slow, by me and Hawkgirl; by me in my sneer, by her in her tight yellow tube top, in her red French panties and long-long black boots. Her gnarly mace too.