Hear me read the audio version above. The other night after dinner, Paris and I drove to the West End to Cannon Bakery. They have the best desserts, including GF options. After we got our cookies and basque cheesecake, we decided to walk around a bit. Our first real date was in West End so we have a soft spot for the area. One woman, a small creature with a cute blonde bob, weathered skin, and a leopard minidress stooped to sit on some steps and rest her sandaled feet. Lit cigarette in her hand, she smiled. “How are you love birds doing tonight?” Just before, I had said to Paris that everyone in Dallas is your friend. “Good, sugar. How are you?” I offered back. We exchanged have a good night’s then walked down to John Steely Dan’s cabin.
John Neely Bryan - okay whatever. We took photos of the neon buildings and enjoyed the relative desolation of that area at night. A lone man cradling an English bulldog in his arms like a baby appeared nearby. He took a seat on a park bench as we headed back to the car.
But rather than walk the way we came, I marched, eyes fixed, toward The Grassy Knoll™️. “Where are you going?” Paris asked. “JFK,” I said. He laughed, “Do you want to see JFK?” I said I did. I always do. At the Grassy Knoll, I think of motorcades and book depositories and triple overpasses. I think of 8mm film and tramps and trains and the place where neighbors set up their folding tables of truth. From now on though, I’ll think of head injuries. Okay, fair to say I should probably have also already been thinking of head injuries, but hear me out. As we walked by the GK, Paris pointed out the X on the street. If you’re not from around here, someone goes and paints two X’s on the pavement where President John F. Kennedy was shot while his motorcade drove through Dallas on November 22, 1963. “What if someone JFK’ed people?” I asked, my intrusive thoughts aflutter. “What’s that?” “A person sets up on the triple overpass with a rifle, waits till someone passes the X, then shoots at them to show it could be done.” I didn’t clarify because Paris is my husband, but just in case we have any government-connected threat detection AIs reading this, I mean like a “someone” from a fucked up short story I would write (dibs). “That would be murder,” he said. We offered a polite nod and hello to an older Black man who passed us, walking toward the school book depository. Seconds later, without warning, a dark SUV rocketed past the second X and from out its window, a full, sealed water bottle whooshed past our heads and thunked to the pavement. “We’ve been reverse-JFK’ed!” I hollered. Paris was not feeling humorous about it. Enraged at them for endangering me (and my moneymaker - the head!), he jogged in their direction and shot two birds at the disappeared outline. “Oh my god - the milkshake prophecy,” I said. “I’m really pissed,” he said, in that way a parent would be if a speeding car narrowly missed their kid, or how a husband sounds when someone tries to bean his wife with a full 16.9 ounces going about 40 miles per hour. I repeated myself. *The milkshake prophecy*. A year or so ago, we were out for a walk after dinner at Goodfriend off Peavy Road in East Dallas. It’s the best burger in Dallas - their Bourdain burger - and I’d endure all manner of abuse in exchange for one. Luckily, they’re sold not far from me, so I just have to watch for violence according to my husband. Less than a block into our walk, he moved me from the street side of the sidewalk to the lawn side. “I just had a thought,” he said. “Like what if someone drove by and threw a milkshake at you.” “Why would somebody throw a milkshake at me?” I asked. I’ve wanted to throw milkshakes at plenty of people, more times than I can count, but it’s always for just cause. “I don’t know,” Paris said. “People are mean.” They are mean, and sometimes it’s not a milkshake. It’s a water bottle. At the knoll, we approached the weapon, sealed in shiny plastic on the ground. It wasn’t even a name brand. Kill me with Essentia at the very least. This was like bottled tap water with a label slapped on it. “Maybe,” I guessed, “they saw that guy pass us and they indelicately offered him something to drink?” “That’s very generous of you,” Paris said. We still had a few blocks to walk back to our car. “Did we get hate crimed?” I wondered out loud. My back had been turned, but Paris had been facing oncoming traffic. We agreed it was dark (the GK has no lights), so they probably didn’t see us well enough to tell who we were. It wasn’t personal, or even political. They were throwing just to throw. I was glad neither of us were hit. “Should we at least take the water and drink it?” I asked. He said no. We both agreed we didn’t want the cursed liquid inside us. Paris wished that he’d had a camera to catch their license plate. I wished their car would explode, safely though, so no one else would be hurt. Now, when I go to the Grass Knoll™️, I’ll still think of folding tables and X’s on pavement and how the word “allegedly” is underlined on the sign saying who shot the president. I’ll think of engagement photos and school books and milkshakes. Oh yeah, I’ll think of head injuries, too. But thankfully, not mine. Thanks to my brother-in-law and niece for the outro music.
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The Milkshake Prophecy
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