This is not a dream.

Tonight, two hours ago. I’m driving home in a car. Market street, rain, desperate cutting cold outside, and traffic picks back up so I begin to roll forward. A slide sound, on my left side, like the sound of skateboards racing down a hill, and I see a flash of shiny and black, low to the ground next to me, that keeps sliding slower, slower, and stops. Maybe 15 feet ahead of me, and as the car bump-bumps over an object — I see it’s a motorcycle.

Have you ever hurt someone?

I’ve been in fistfights. Many. Once, I was with another female friend, back when I lived on the streets; bleach-blonde Sugar and I stuck together, protected each other, begged for food together. I was 15. Three girls, punk chicks from Chicago, decided they were going to beat us up. There were no words when it happened. Lisa, their ringleader, quickly and quietly punched Sugar in the face. Sugar hit back, and another girl cold-cocked Sugar from the side; it sounded like an exhale. Instantly auto-focused, I slammed this girl in the face with my fist, hard, and quickly turned to the third girl right as she punched me in the cheek, and I hit her back in the face fast, and grabbed her by the jacket, lifted her up over a railing. We were on a bridge. I wanted nothing more than to hurt her, I wanted nothing more at the moment than anything else up to that point. I felt sharp, like a thing that cuts. She looked down over her shoulder, then right into my eyes and said in a hysterical whisper, No. Please. I slowly slid her down, to the ground. The fight was over.

I’ve hurt hearts, too. But usually my own.

My living nightmare was the minute tonight I rolled over a bump in the road, realizing that it was the person who should have been on the motorcycle. The bike should have been upright, he should have been on it, and I should have seen it all happen. But I didn’t. His bike slipped silently on the Muni rails and went down like a whisper. The sliding motorcycle was louder than a man hitting the ground. My focus went from blurry to clear, to ultra clarity.

He was pinned to the ground by his backpack — under my front left tire. Listening carefully to Hacker Boy, who’d jumped from the car to help, I reversed slowly, freeing the rider. The smell was of gas, on pavement, in rain.

Have you ever run over a human being?

I never, ever want to. The rider got up and I worried he was in shock. Rudely, cars drove by us, honking as if we were just hanging out double parked, blocking traffic. I was shaking — the rider came over to me and reached in the car window, held my hand, and we looked at each other. He said, “We’re cool. I’m okay. It’s not your fault.” I told him, I ride too. This is my nightmare.

With the help of a (very rude) gay biker bystander, Hacker Boy and the rider got the bike off the road. In a twist of historical irony, Hacker Boy, who remained calm and sweet, is the survivor of one of the worst motorcycle accidents I’ve known — his femur is metal. (And yes, as a Crash/SRL fetishist, I find his extensive scars irresistible.) I hung out in traffic for a bit, and exchanged info with the rider, who joked, “Oh, and this is my business card… if you want to open an account at Wells Fargo…” and we laughed.

I’m going to give him a call in a little bit, and see how he’s doing.

I thought of the worst thing first. I don’t need to tell you what that was.

Update: Had a nice chat today with the rider, who is quite sore but had a pretty lucky fall. His knee is bruised, he has some road rash, and his thumb is swollen and won’t quite bend all the way but he tells me he doesn’t think it’s anything more than “a basketball sprain”. The bike is in the shop getting an estimate — it left a fat pool of oil on the road, sigh. I told him to call me if he needs anything, of course. He’s a sweetheart.