Spud, that was her name. It said so in black ink on the strip of
adhesive tape stuck to front of her pink and white checked shirt. Spud. I
had just rolled over a little girl named Spud.
I was backing the car, this old Sportabout wagon. The car picked up
speed, the brakes couldn't slow it down, and the back window was so fogged I
couldn't see anything. The car kept going faster and I did it. I rolled
over something. It felt like squash, something starting to rot. Then the
car stopped.
He came running up to the car, this man with the little girl in his arms.
He looked Japanese, but I wasn't sure. He said nothing, not a word, but he
had this look on his face. He wanted to cry and he wanted to kill me. I
don't blame him.
He brought the girl to the driver's door. But I wouldn't open it. I
reached back to the door behind me, unlocking it. I didn't want him to
place the girl in my lap. No, anything but that.
That's when I saw her name. He placed her on the back seat. And I saw
it. Spud, it said. She was blond, five or six years old. Maybe this man
had adopted her, or maybe he was simply looking out for her today.
In his hand, I could see he held something. Something for the little
girl? No, a can of mace. He sprayed me in the face. I knew he had to.
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The Prose Poem