Lucinda Grande

Lucinda Grande. When I woke up I wanted to go back to sleep. When I left my house I told my roommate I just wanted to come home after work and watch movies all night. Then I got to work and started e-mailing people and realized that if something fun came up, I would do that instead of renting videos. For lunch I went to La Bumba, a mexican restaurant I frequent. My coworker and I had margaritas and I had chicken chimichangas. I am about to go get coffee which I don't usually drink. I used to be addicted. My coworker told me this ghost story about a sleeping ghost. That's funny. He wasn't even there to haunt her. She thought she heard heavy breathing behind her and turned around and it was just a sleeping irridescent ghost. And when she told her mother about it, her mom said "oh yeah, that's probably uncle so-and-so." I don't know about ghosts. I knew a guy once who said he didn't believe in anything mysterious. Everything can be explained scientifically, he said. But he had a tattoo on his arm that said "Go down believing." I thought, maybe he meant that if you believe, "you're going down." But he said it meant believing in something else. "What?" I said, ever innocent, and he said "like believing in doing good, doing the right thing," in his lilting Swedish accent. Something I noticed on my walk back from the restaurant, passing the WTC site: They have now displayed the iron cross they discovered in the wreckage. It sits in concrete, towering over the site, with a piece of melted metal wrapped around one of its arms like fabric. It is spooky. Then I crossed Church street and realized its not called synogogue street or mosque street. And then a cold finger wiggled up my spine, which may or may not have been a ghost. It also could have been that ever-sneaking suspicion that I am a cog in a very evil, evil machine.