Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson Page A

street. He runs the next several lights for insurance, then initiates a sequence
of random turns, mimicking Hank’s getaway technique. A few more amps topple out of the rear of the van. None of us has any idea where we’re heading.
    After all the moving violations and falling equipment, it’s no surprise to see the police’s flashing red lights in the rearview mirror. “Keep going,” I shout. Markus floors the accelerator and makes several swerving turns, shunting over sidewalks and mowing down trash cans. All of a sudden he hits the brakes so hard that we bounce off the windshield. We’ve reached the end of a cul-de-sac, one of the many streets that terminates at the canal. We stumble out of the van, dazed and winded, clutching our heads while executing a few looping steps. I hear a siren in the distance but the police aren’t in sight yet.
    Before fleeing the scene, we rifle through the shambling heap of equipment. Markus seizes a scuffed guitar; Lena nabs a snare drum; my fingers find themselves coiled around a microphone cable. We unsteadily hop the guardrail at the end of the road and take off down the concrete bank of the canal. The squeal of braking tires and relayed calls of stern voices let us know the cops have found the van.
    We run single-file along the lip of the canal. Our bodies huff and pant, but the adrenaline courses through our limbs and soon we fall into a steady cadence. We ignore the approaching shouts and roving flashlight beams. The path ahead seems clear. A canopy of intermittent stars provides the main illumination and the glassy surface of the canal throws our reflections back at us. It looks like we’re running upside-down, the soles of our shoes skimming the top of the water.
    I tune in to the snare clanging against Lena’s hips like a tambourine. It suggests the martial pulse of the song we’d hummed earlier. Between breaths, Markus starts to vocalize the main guitar riff. I swallow hard, then launch into the lyrics. I’m out of breath and scared shitless, but that must help because it doesn’t sound half bad. We maintain our pace, repeating the surging
chorus in our halting manner, over and over. Behind us, we can make out the rhythm of running footsteps and jangling handcuffs. There is also the faint but distinct humming of several voices. The police, who are getting closer, have picked up the song.

    He doesn’t seem to realize I’ve been following him for blocks. The man purposefully winds his way through the midday crowds without a backward glance. That’s him up ahead in the mottled gray terrycloth bathrobe, the red scarf, the black canvas high-top sneakers. He obsessively shakes his frizzy blond curls out of his eyes and scratches at his cheeks. The other pedestrians probably write him off as a freak, another psychotic vagrant who wandered into his own head and promptly lost the compass. The city is littered with these sorts of casualties. But I suspect this man is something else.
    Every few paces, I have to break into a jog to keep him in my sights. The man acts like he’s late for an appointment. He speeds past the shuttered laundromats, the half-empty junk shops, the buckling brick apartment buildings with grime-frosted windows. His reflection never pauses long enough to register my stare. I’ve been following him since he first brushed past me on the sidewalk, hanging behind at a watchful distance, afraid to miss anything.
    The man steps off the sidewalk mid-block and bounds across the street, oblivious to the horns of oncoming traffic. A taxi swerves over the dividing line to avoid hitting him. Squealing brakes, shouted curses, a choir of middle-fingers. It’s a choreographed melee of sound and steel that the man absently conducts as he passes through like an apparition. Time seems to stretch, though his journey to the opposite sidewalk probably
only takes a few seconds. Before I can blink twice, he’s