Member-only story
A Knot That Does Not Exist
A rideshare story about domestic abuse and denial
It was a nondescript night in an unspecific California town like so many others. A suburban Cali-style residential community built in the fifties or sixties consisting of tree-lined avenues populated by single-story ranchers and Sears Craftsman style homes replete with perpendicular driveways — homes constructed in a time when conformity was all the rage. The cul-de-sacs and condo-style duplexes that subsequently sprouted up on the outskirts of town had an even greater aura of anonymity despite their efforts to stand out among the crowd with unique foyers, grand entry ways, curved driveways, and pristinely landscaped yards. It was an ordinary weeknight and business was slow when I received a pick-up request at the 24-hour donut shop anchoring every California main street from San Diego to Eureka.
The name on the awning might differ but the menu is always the same. The beacon can be spotted from afar — usually the only storefront on the block with the lights still on, a large bay window aglow with the silhouette of a baker fitted in apron off-loading hot, sweet dough onto a cooling rack. It looks remarkably the same today as it did in my father’s Lionel train-set he set-up each Christmas throughout my childhood, a carry-over from his own days as a youngster in the fifties when hair was cropped short and only the beatniks…
