A Body to die for

Adrenaline pumped ferociously through my veins.
    Outside, we ran along the water’s edge toward the chain-link fence. We were halfway to it when something short and brown came flying at us from the other side of the warehouse. As it hurled toward us, I could see the saliva on its pointy white teeth sparkle and glisten in the sun. I would have stopped to admire this vision, if it didn’t mean my death. I turned toward Alex to tell him to move, but he was already gone. I yelped after him and pounded the pavement.
    The dog wasn’t wearing platforms, nor did it carry a heavy purse. He also had two more legs. But, where he had speed, I had motivation. Plump perhaps, but I liked my ass and planned to keep it well into my dotage. I wasn’t as attached to the dress, which the dog sank his snapping white fangs into only seconds after I hit chain link. Alex was comfortably straddling the top of the fence. He watched in terror as the dog and I played tug-of-war with my sundress. The angle was right, so I kicked the animal in the chest with my platform. Instead of dislodging its jaw, the dog stripped off a nice chunk of my dress and wrestled it to the ground with his claws. Even I preferred a longer hem than this, although I remained mostly covered. I scrambled up the fence.
    I would have hopped off just as easily, but we were distracted by the screech of a blue-and-white minivan. The Jehovah enforcers had arrived. The driver must have seen us (we were pretty hard to miss—a man and tattered woman straddling a ten-foot-high fence on a sunny June afternoon). We were so noticeable, in fact, that the lunch crowd spilled out of the River Cafe to get a load.
    The van slammed into the fence right under where we were straddling it. Alex and I hung on for our lives, and our genitals. Three men in short sleeves, ties and leisure pants dashed out of the vehicle and started to clamber up the fence to take us down. Alex said, “On the count of three, Wanda.”
    I nodded. Alex counted to three. We jumped over the men climbing the fence and onto the top of their van. I burned my butt sliding down to the street. I grabbed the driver’s side before Alex scrambled into the passenger seat. We slammed the doors and locked them. The keys were still in the ignition. We made dust. When we passed the River Cafe, we honked. I thought I heard cheers, but that could have been the roar of exploding blood vessels in my ears.
    “Where to now?” asked Alex. He was grinning broadly—with teeth.
    “The hospital,” I said.
    Fear seeped across his features. “Did that maniac animal break skin? Shit, I knew I should have jumped down to wrestle that hell-beast into submission. Why, I ought to have—”
    “Spare me a quarter, Alex. I’m fine.” He looked puzzled. I shook my head and said, “Hint: I’m glad I’m not the love of your life anymore.”
    “Leeza,” he exhaled. He stuck his head out the window like a dog and yelled, “I’m coming to you, darling.” Shiny brown hair blew off his well-boned face. I had a flashback: Alex and I were making love in the dark. The headlights of a car passed through the window of our bedroom, painting a yellow beam across his face. His eyes were open. He was smiling.
    The Alex of today pulled himself back inside the van and said, “If Leeza dies, could we be named accessories before the fact?”
    Instead of hitting the ceiling, I floored the van. We made it to the hospital in seconds. About five thousand of them. Brooklyn General was located on the corner of Hicks Street and Atlantic Avenue, just down the strip from the Detention Center. If Jack really had had a claustrophobic seizure, he could have twitched and crawled his way to the emergency room on one knee.
    We parked illegally. We also left the van keys in the ignition and the sliding door open. We hit the emergency room entrance. I was expecting bloodied bodies on gurneys lining the walls, but all I got was a few bored-looking hospital administrators sitting at metal desks. The only sounds were their chatter and the blare of a TV hanging from the ceiling. No bloodcurdling screams, no splatter of gore and guts on a concrete floor. Except for the bullet-proof glass that separated us from the administrators, the space looked just like a doctor’s office waiting room. My disappointment must have been obvious.
    I visited the can. It was as much of a relief as not getting ravaged by the pit bull. I came back. Alex was rapping patiently on the glass.