EXT. — JOSHUA TREE NATIONAL PARK — DUSK

The fumes catch the last of the golden light as the riders snake the final curve before the park exit. The sun would set soon and I hadn’t gotten that shot. “She said she was going to surf, didn’t she? If she doesn’t do it now, we’ll…”

Right on cue, a pair of knobby white ankles peeks between the handlebars of the bike and gives me a wink. I nod.

The rider spreads her arms out like a statue of Christ and stands to her feet. No way.

[SNAP] [SNAP] [SNAP]

Before I could register what was happening, the front wheel of her Bobber starts doing the cha cha. Not good. Without much she could do to regain control of the bike, she safely tucks and rolls as the uncontrolled machine veers off into a nearby tree.

I wouldn’t discover until weeks later that I had continued shooting throughout the entire ordeal. There’s this one perfectly timed photo in the series of the moment she takes the dive and a lone red shoe is launched into the air.

Incredibly, the women following in tight formation manage to dodge the mess and come to a safe stop on the shoulder. I am relieved to see that Lesley is fine—a little shaken to be sure but all in all fine. One of the first things we learn to do as riders is how to fall and she executes it with textbook precision.

Now how the hell am I supposed to explain this to a nurse?

INT. — HIGH DESERT MEDICAL CENTER — NIGHT

We breeze into the High Desert Medical Center. She’s clutching her ribs like she’s just been stabbed on a cross and I am my best Norma Desmond, begging for an opportunity to speak to a manager. We check in with Tom, Dick, and Harry at the front desk before settling into a nest of repurposed Pizza Hut chairs, every rip telling a story I don’t want to hear.

Lesley groans again — her contractions seem to be getting closer together. I wish I could help but I’m busy fighting the glare on a vending machine I’m having affair with. It’s not till a Christophany begins to appear on a bag of Lay’s that I realize that I’m four quarters away from my own custom printed bracelet.

I’m mid thrust with the snacks when our number is called. I follow Lesley’s hobble across the linoleum, having now developed a limp of my own for attention. She takes this opportunity to enlist me as her spokesperson and is going on about being trans and having had top but not bottom surgery and could I please let the dr. know because she doesn’t have the energy for it. I am tragically unqualified for this which I take to be a fun but challenging prompt.

INT. — EXAMINING ROOM 4 — STILL NIGHT

She takes command of an attractive beige recliner, crinkling onto a stretch of butcher paper that runs the length of the chair. She pulls an unseemly blanket up to her throat and those friendly ankles pop out again to say hello. I notice for the first time the absence of a shoe but decide to save my questions for the end and snap a photo instead.

Our new conditions are a blank canvas for me to workshop some new material. I tear into a box of examining gloves like a selfish pig as I and my bullshit prepare to take center stage. I warm things up with a classic inflated rooster hat (followed of course by an assortment of dicks) before greedily pocketing a few because you never have enough when you need them.

I delight us both by reading the bin labels aloud and saying things like “‘polish remover’? Haven’t they been through enough?” but it isn’t until I’m setting up for my Buster Keaton that she asks me to please stop because her bruised ribs did not find things funny.

There’s a rustle in the hallway and a cheerful nurse breezes in like he didn’t just handcuff someone’s mother-in-law to a bed. “So what’s going on, guys?” I love an open-ended question (and a speaking part) so I begin to blather on about her nuts and bolts like a drunk Republican that plays a doctor on TV. He gives me a “people are people” look which I probably deserve for the Polish jokes.

He scrubbed her road rash, she cried, I almost passed out from excitement, and the rest of the story is is just details and hugs. The point is that we all survived and left with a bond you can only form when one of you is wearing an open-backed hospital gown and missing a shoe.

I don’t remember which side of the hallway the examining room was on or if the front entrance had an overhang for bad weather. I don’t remember if there were any other patients in the lobby or if I parked like a perpendicular asshole who’s just returning some tapes. The sound of her voice is gone from memory and even her face has faded over time. But I’ll never forget the red shoes in examining room 4.

Over the years, those shoes have become a totemic reminder that the story I’m trying to tell may be hiding somewhere in the details. Like light through a prism, those details are the colors that turn events into stories. That’s where the good stuff is.

Lesley ended up being just fine, I had a ball with all of the chaos (write what you know), and a couple of months later I received a long sleeved (obviously free) ski resort t-shirt accompanied by a handwritten rap about our misadventure. Imagine my delight when I pulled a package out of the mailbox addressed to: “The Notorious LGW.”

I have the photos, we both have the memories, and I hope she kept those beautiful red shoes.

CUT TO BLACK

THE END