That night, the policeman dreamt of rain. It rained so much, the storm drains overflowed and blasted bookshelves, beds and squatters from every tunnel. They overflowed so much, the bloated streams merged to become a single, monstrous wave. It was unending and fierce. It surged and roared and pulled the entire city of Las Vegas up over the mountains and across the desert to the sea.
The policeman’s bedroom and his mouth filled with water and he was suddenly in uniform and helmeted, pushing through the current, hand over hand from railings to light posts in search of his motorcycle. He found it parked and waiting underwater as if it had been there a thousand years. He took his seat and it started instantly, roaring to the surface like a jet ski. Around him, jeweled women in soggy, sparkling evening gowns clung to uprooted Joshua trees. Silk-shirted men clung to jeweled women, spitting water and jettisoning pocket change.
He rode the torrent like this was the secret chance he had been waiting for—forward to California, forward to the ocean. The waves gushed into a valley and rounded the black, pitted mountains. Their force swung him around in a violent arc. In that moment, an agonizing yearn exploded in his chest, shooting spasms of longing down his legs to his feet. Relentless rain and the flood beneath him merged with salty tears.
He realized he’d been waiting his whole life for this day.
He rose up slightly from his seat and tightened his grip on the throttle. This was right. This was good. He rode the flood as it bore him northwest to meet the ocean.