My shadow chased me after I finished watching a live performance of Othello in Orinda. I stopped at a small concrete bump before wheeling slowly past my English professor, Sue, and toward the big parking lot. The night was still young and especially beautiful because it was Friday, the night I used to go out with my friends when I was a teenager. Footsteps moved quickly toward the exit of the Bruns Amphitheater. My classmates waved goodbye, then hurried away to board the white shuttle that would take them to the train to Berkeley. I smiled and waved back to them while pushing my wheelchair. Othello. Why did Othello end his life by committing suicide? His suicide reminded me of Chinese tragedies I used to watch. Othello wrenched the dagger out of his muscular body with blood splotching his twitching body. He shut his darting, glaring eyes and moaned and moaned. His ear-piercing in pain made me watch him die in a sudden chilly breeze. Then two floodlights died. At least Othello didn’t have to deal with his reality anymore.

Wheeling down the little hill, I ran over small rocks and some dead leaves. I felt relaxed, listening to the giggling voices of some passersby. Birds chirped. What a pleasurable night. Should feel grateful to have this kind of opportunity to come up here tonight. Should thank Sue for taking me to watch Othello. Thank her later at the parking lot. Wonder why Sue is walking so slowly behind me. She might be too busy talking to my classmates. Yeah. During the last scene Sue said she loved how the bed was placed on the stage. I remember now. I liked how the lighting behind the white bed made the bed glow. So white and so pure. A very nice background setting. Matches with the bed curtain that fluttered in the light wind once in a while.

Dim golden nightlights placed on each side of the narrow pathway fluttered as feet passed them. As I continued moving freely, steering my two wheels forward, I looked around the place and saw the leaves of some tall trees rustling in the moonless night. My wheelchair sped faster and faster, my gloved palms pressing against the sides of the wheels harder and harder. My gaze shot at the darkness of the hill. My neck sunk down, my head shaking, shoulders pressing against one side of face then the other. What the——Going down a very steep hill. I try to use my leather gloves to slow down my wheelchair, but I can’t: I don’t have enough strength in my wrists.

People pay no attention to me. They just keep walking while I’m going more than ten miles per hour down the hill. I gasp: a strong pull in my heart. My tight elbows poke my ribs; my shoulders tense. Chilly air rushes into my nostrils, blocking my breathing. Sue! She can’t do anything now. Her voice fades. I can’t turn my head around now, but I struggle. Look straight ahead. Focus. Moving forward down the hill is my only option. I try to avoid running over the branch in front of me, but my wheelchair crushes it. Clackclack. My hands are getting tired; the heat intensifies in my leather gloves skidding over the rubber tires of my wheelchair. Going to have bloody palms if I don’t do something. What can I do? Don’t try to shove your hands into the spokes: they’ll cut off your fingers instantly. And don’t even try to pull the mechanical brakes on your wheelchair: you’ll tumble down the hill. What else can I do? Think fast! You have two options now: you can either hit the person in front of you or use all your strength to steer the wheelchair to the side of the hilly road. What should I do? I don’t want to hit or hurt anyone. And definitely don’t want to have another major accident. Why bother to go through the same disaster again? Once was enough.

I love driving in the rain: raindrops thack-thacking, thack-thacking—like someone hammering a nail into a wooden box—thack-thacking, thack-thacking on the car’s rooftop. Rain harder, rain harder. Harder. It’s pouring on this Sunday afternoon. Cool air whizzes and quivering drops of water seep through the gap between the window and weatherstripping. My finger taps at the window switch. I leave the window open just a little bit so I can feel the air circulating inside. But the water is splashing inside. Chill, man. Relaxed, mouthing the hand-carved jade Guanyin pendant knotted by a red cloth cord, I glance at Long, whose foot kicks my umbrella lying under the glove compartment. The vast expanse of storm clouds with flashes of forked lightning comes my way. The rapidly splattering raindrops bounce around on the windows leaving no trace behind them. Cool. Rain taking care of my dusty car today. Long kicks my umbrella again? What the hell did he do that for?

“You must have itchy feet, ain’t you, Long?” I say.

“Not only my feet, my dick too—” He grasps his groin and grins at me, the other hand jerk-shoving into his bulging pocket. “Hey, where are we going?”

“Man, you got a memory problem. You need Vitamin E or something? Didn’t I tell you on the phone before I picked you up? Palm Springs, dude.”

“Oh yeah, we are going to bomb springs.” He flickers his eyebrows up and down.

Spitting the pendant out of my mouth, I step on the gas pedal, downshifting to fourth gear. 888. A fortunate number on my blue license plate. According to Chinese tradition, it brings you a lot of good luck down the road. Do I believe in it? Of course. I believe in luck and I believe in these numbers on the plate. Luck, luck, luck. I love this car. Not an ordinary car for sure: one of a kind. This baby had a blown head gasket in the engine and minor bumper damage when I bought it. I’m not going to let anyone touch my special toy. That is why I replaced the head gasket and fixed the bumper myself. My car is fourteen years old, but it’s still a Porsche 944: my kind of toy. Long wants to play with my toy. Only in his dream, man. My eyes close slightly. I turn the volume up on the Alpine radio so I don’t fall asleep.

Driving in the second lane close to the center divider, I tap on the side of the radio. The radio static sounds like firecrackers. Long looks at me and put his hands around the passenger headrest. The antenna on the right front fender vibrates. Just as I reach to change the station, the rain suddenly starts to pour down harder. My windshield is coated with water and my wipers do nothing to clear my view. The bass from the subwoofer in the trunk vibrates on my back throwing me around. The push of the rain, the boom of the bass and I’m feeling pumped. Then my dashboard creaks and I lower the volume. I take care of this baby. I pull a T-shirt off the floor and carefully wipe the glass. I don’t want to drive my old Celica ever again.

A deep puddle of water pool is on the side of the eastbound 10 Freeway. Water splashes on the windshield, blocking my view, and somehow my four good tires aren’t handling the wet road. The tires jerk violently. The steering wheel rattles and moves from side to side as it tries to slip out of my left hand. My car spins out of control, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I try to let go of the gas pedal to reduce the speed. I hold and pull the steering wheel toward my body. It’s not working.

The car swirls in a counterclockwise direction, spinning faster and faster, the windshield becoming whiter and whiter. I start to sweat; my eyes fixate on the windshield, muscles tense. My breathing rapid, mind blank, I spin in circles. I’m going to die. My car collides with something hard: a very loud noise pops from the hatchback. My entire body plunges forward and my face almost smashes into the steering wheel. Pieces of shattered glass hit the back of my head, scratch the right side of my face and ear and scatter onto the black carpets in front of the passenger’s and driver’s seats. Some shards bounce around here and there and one of them shoots into the ashtray. The seatbelt pulls my stomach and shoulder back tightly. My stomach. I grit my teeth while shaking my head. The car comes to a halt; my hands slap the ceiling then the dashboard. I pat the seatbelt, nodding, and then touch my face, neck, shoulders, arms, forearms, rib cages, stomach, groans, thighs, and legs—making sure I’m not injured. The back of my white T-shirt is wet. Hope it’s not blood. Closing my eyes, I reach back with my right hand, stroking. It’s slimy. Bringing my hand up to my chin, then opening my eyes instantly, I take a deep breath and puff it out. My tense forearms loosen, my back sinks into the seat. It’s only sweat. A few beads of sweat trickle down my temples. I wipe them with my right palm, the back of which is also a little sweaty. Still in one piece: nothing has happened to me after all.

Everything seems to come into focus as my eyes dart around. I peek outside to see where I am. My right hand clutches the stick shift, my left foot still flooring the clutch. The engine purrs. I put the shifter into first gear from neutral and then step on the gas pedal, glancing up at the swiping windshield wipers. The engine roars, but the car is not moving.

Long, face pale, and I eye each other. “You’re okay?” I say.

“Yeah.” Long’s hand on the door handle.

We look out the passenger window. A few cars pass by slowly in the second lane closest to the center divider. It finally stops raining. My car is parked parallel to the center divider. I can still open the door from my side because the distance between the center divider and the door is about one meter. Quickly we step out to see what is going on. My car hasn’t hit any cars on the freeway. Can’t believe this. The rain begins beating on my head as I try to shield it with my right hand. A few raindrops hit my eyes.

Long follows me. I go around my car to see what the damage is and see pieces of glass lying on the ground mixed with wet dirt. The front of the vehicle is perfect; not a single scratch on its body. But the rear is severely damaged. Both rear tires—the left one crooked and slant-sticking out—are flat with bristling chrome wires showing: both rims severely out of shape. Spoiler twisted, lopsided, and still jerking in the wind; the bumper pushed in, tilted down halfway on the left side, like an unbalanced seesaw. I just did some body repair to my car yesterday. I stand still, watching round-faced Long push his left knuckles against his stubbled chin, on the other wrist the jade beaded bracelet sweating with raindrops. My cheeks start tingling.

“Do you anyone who does body repair?” I asked.

“I know someone in Monterey Park who does that kind of work.” He flips up the crinkled collar of his leather jacket, presses it against his blemished neck.

“You do?” I step a little closer to him.

“Maybe he can fix your car.”

“Really? How much?”

“I think it’s going to cost you more than you paid for this car.”

“Damn.” I rub my face hard and then, dropping my hands, tilt my head back as far as I can, letting out a deep sigh. Where the hell can I get the money to fix my baby? Scratching the back of my head with my trembling hands, I kick the gravely wet dirt. Pebbles fly across the freeway almost hitting a passing car. Shit!

I scan around again to see if there is a call box. No call box. A car is across the freeway. There’s still hope. I put my hand above my eyebrows. A beige station wagon is parked on the freeway. The distance between the car and me is approximately two hundred diagonal feet. Inside the car might be a man or a woman. I can’t see. Its windows are foggy. The rain begins pouring a little harder, a few raindrops hitting my face. I stare at the gloomy sky, clutching the pendant, the red cloth cord taut around my neck. Then fling the pendant against my chest. I need to run across the freeway to get help. The cars are coming too fast so I stand still for a couple seconds. As I get ready to run across, I see cars zip past. Can’t make it to that car. You will get stuck here if you wait.

“Let’s run across the freeway,” I urge.

Long says nothing, his head turning left then right, face paler than before, and after rubbing each green bead of his jade bracelet, stuffs both hands in his khaki pant pockets then pulls them out again.

Nobody is going help me now. Waving with both hands I jump up and down to get the person’s attention. Then yell at the person for help: “Hello! Hey there! Over here.”

“No use, Michael.” Long jumps back in the car and comes back out with my umbrella which he opens after standing beside me.

I hear a car braking behind me and then a bang. I turn and blink, just once, a pale-faced woman glowing behind the wheel of a car careening out of control and heading toward us very fast. Bright grey light flashes before my eyes.