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there.”
    â€œYou tha mother-fucking LAPD.”
    â€œNawwww,” she hissed, her husky voice the same level, the same tone, the same slow dripping pace as when she had come, “I’m the mammy-fuckin’ FBI.”
    The wrench of the knot returned and made itself at home.

The El Rey Bar
    Andrea Gibbons
    The sun fell from the sky today, about fucking time too. Weeks it had been loose, wavering, drunkenly unsteady across the sky. I watched its thread snap, though no one else saw. It hit the city, bounced once and disappeared to sink into the ocean’s swallowing. It gave itself without struggle.
    I wondered about that in the sudden darkness and the mad falling of stars.
    We were all strangers then, all strangers, though my fingers still achingly sought the warmth of a hand that had never known mine. They found rubble’s chill weight and I sat my eyes stone, dark and unbelieving, from nothing to nothing they turned as the earth slowly slowed its spinning. Everything collapsed to its center and I collapsed to mine. I was not afraid of death but of struggling with no one to hear me. I was not afraid of life but of living with no one to love me. I was not afraid of my fears but their small nature shamed me, and their unmastered strength left a trail of ashes in my stomach that I pursued, fury in hand. Fury in shards of hope ripped from a broken bottle, demanding accountability. Was it Isaac who wrestled with god in the darkness and held? Jacob? I could not remember, but I sought god out even as Los Angeles unforgivably opened her legs one last time with a no and a whimper, and screaming came in through the windows.
    I was at the bar. It was not on my list of things to do, and I had so many things to do. There was just too much; everything was fucking breaking. It forced you to realize you couldn’t do all of it. And then relief came, because some things just weren’t going to get done. Fact. And you just had to say fuck it, and figure out your priorities. I looked with pity on the people still running around squeaking over the wrong things, wringing their hands. And then felt ashamed of myself, but you can always tell those driven by love and fury from those running on six cylinders of guilt. Of course, most of the guilty ones had already run to the places they commuted from and now counted on to keep them safe, so I couldn’t talk shit about anyone still here. But my
comadres
were still out hunting down supplies or dealing with today’s emergencies, and they were the only ones I wanted to talk to when I got back to our office turned community center turned emergency shelter, muscles aching from the weight of the food and the water.
    I washed the soot and grime off my face, cleaned the blood from the new and jagged scratch down my arm. Stared at it between all the bruises and thought it was a good thing I wouldn’t be dressing to impress anytime soon. If ever. My throat hurt, my eyes hurt, my heart fucking hurt. My nostrils were still full of burning.
    Children were screaming, laughing, fighting. I just couldn’t handle the noise, the people, the stress and the smell. So I texted Caro and Evie, and then headed towards a quiet beer. I spent the trip wondering how much longer our cell phones would actually keep working. But then I stopped thinking at all, just sat there in the El Rey with exhausted content as that first cold swallow went down smooth. Thanked fucking Christ this spot was still open for business, a little room to breathe. Glad they had the right protection. One of my favorite dives, more full up, more nervous, serving more tequila than usual. But the hipsters had cleared out, maybe for good, and Chente was on the jukebox. Some of us sang. Only then did I think about my priorities. I rolled the word around in my mouth stretching out its syllables, wanting to spit out the anger and sweat, the futility of it. Or let the beer wash it down. But half the world was on fire; we