I woke up this morning dreaming the number 32. Turned over, glanced at the alarm clock – 7:32 AM. I went out, saw a flier for a noise band called 8x4. Counted 32 cockroaches scrambling on the floor of the deli. Looked up at the menu – 32 types of sandwiches. I stood outside, chewing, counting the passing cars before the light changed – 32. Across the street and to the barber’s in 32 steps. Barber looked at me, said – I got to finish this guy off, give me 30 minutes, maybe 32. Sat in the waiting chair, thumbed through the magazine stack. 32 issues. Opened the paper, 32 dead in a bomb-strike in the Mid-East somewhere. $3.2 billion bailout handed to some bank or other. The premier of some place celebrates her 32nd wedding anniversary. Got the haircut, charged $13,25. I roamed midtown, ended up on West 32nd Street, in the midst of a parade. 32 floats went by. I ran to the subway, saw a sign ‘Station #32 closed for maintenance.’ I thought, f*ck it, caught a cab to the track on the edge of town. Through morning rush hour, Cab #32 got me there in 32 minutes flat. $13.25 on the meter. Walked up to the window, counted the pearls on the bookie’s neck. 32. I thought- This must be destiny. I saw the 3rd horse in the 2nd race was called Three-Two-Nil. Sitting at 32-1 odds. So I bet all I had on it, $320. Sat in the 3rd seat from the right of the 2nd row. Crossed my fingers 32 times. The starter dropped the flag. They broke from the gate. My horse gunning, foaming at the mouth. Took 32 strides, broke a leg and fell to the ground, beaten, dead.
