Sylvie Hell No
Winslow by the open-air restroom, ripping open
a discarded McDonald’s bag to snarf fries when I finally
clapped hands on him and dragged him back by his collar,
paws akimbo, ketchup on his snout, me so distracted
that when I looked up, I didn’t really process
the crustpunk man looming by my van door
like a guard dog. What that meant. Then I saw him
see me. Saw his eyes widen, him hammer out a warning
on the window and only then did I get
that I was being robbed. Stupid girl. Stupid
sheltered girl, watching herself from above, frozen
as Dawn tumbled out of my van with her arms full
of my things, grinning. If I let Winslow go,
I’d lose him; if I tried to quietly reason with them
I’d be an even bigger fool. Weeks spent wanting
to be invisible and now my only option was to yell
full volume THEY’RE STEALING FROM ME, Dawn passing
my laptop like a football to her boyfriend, Puberty ’Stache Ken,
before slapping me full in the face. She strong-armed me
to the ground and they broke into a full-out run
back to whatever corner of Patchouli Hell they came from
and then I was straight up saved by a Senior Olympian
in a Life Is Good T-shirt, his sturdy wife behind him
blocking the way. Hand it over, he told Dawn. That’s when I saw
the taser. Dawn and Dickface looked at each other
and then he put my laptop on the ground, she emptied
her pockets of my wallet and my iPhone and a tangled
knot of my necklaces. Not snarling, not scowling, for all the world
she looked, like, a little inconvenienced. There was a crowd
now, the whole campground turned out for this cage fight;
some KOA employees marched Dawn and Co. back to their bus
and they threw their stuff in through the open door
fast, ready to flee. It all happened in five minutes
or less. Me the idiot girl holding her dog while Dan
the retired pilot and Jan the paralegal patted my back
and offered me a hot dog dinner at their campsite. Me fragile
again. Me doing it wrong. Me desperate to turn tail and run.