The Juice

I had a visitor arrive at our cabin, my cousin, who’s being smoked out of her house due to wildfire pollution. I didn’t have time to write; therefore, the writing exercise I did earlier will have to suffice.

Time stops on June 17, 1994. “Girls, get in here.” The authoritative tone shivers me to drop the book I’m holding. Entering the broad-windowed room, I observe the dial on the stereo playing a Spin Doctor’s cd being twisted off as my uncle’s thumb repeatedly presses the volume up button on the JVC remote. “We are looking on now as a chase is underway.”

I slip onto the couch next to the thick-framed glassed, pig-tail-wearing cousin like a programmed robot. The instructions are clear; directions now come from the TV and its bird’s eye angle from a helicopter with reporter’s voices in the background.

“On your screen is the white bronco of football player OJ Simpson. Thirty police cars trail behind, heading opposite on an LA freeway. He is wanted on suspicion of two counts of murder.”

Good night. Love, Jaclynn

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