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Kristen Baum DeBeasi


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When she lived in mob country, she used to dream that she—in her little blue Honda—
would capture the attention of a rich and powerful man riding in one of those shiny black

stretch limousines that passed her in her little blue Honda and he would covet her
so ardently that he would kidnap her away from her husband and the little blue Honda

and away to his castle—er, enormous mob house—and she would have her own bedroom
on the second story with a Juliet window and a little balcony but no means of escape. Or

the mob boss would see her in a darkened theater watching Unforgiven with her husband, having
driven there in their little blue Honda from the crappy one-bedroom they rented

while she attended grad school and he worked his way through job after job and she
used to dream that her husband loved her more than anything in the world—the sky, the

universe—and that after she had been kidnapped, he would sit at the end of the long,
gold-paved mob boss’s driveway for hours, watching until the mobsters’ cars would

pass by. Her husband, who loved her more than anything in the world, the sky, the universe—
except maybe for sports, cars, money—would sit in their little blue Honda thinking of those

whores in Unforgiven trapped in their second story rooms with tiny windows and no
Juliet balconies and no means of avenging themselves and he would duck down as the mob

cars passed him so they wouldn’t know he was watching the mob boss’s house for
the most opportune moment to steal her back—watching until those sinister mobsters left

on a mission to bomb some poor, unsuspecting enemy of their evil operations who were
attempting to gain power and wealth and more, more, more of everything—anything

they wanted: her, gold, gems, jewels, shopping malls, anything valuable they could get
their hands on, nothing could stop them. Now she is older and the little blue Honda has been

crushed. I mean she presumes it has been; nothing of that era that was made of steel and driven
around in mob country hasn’t been stuck in a car crusher by now and even Clint—

in character in the movie—said, we all have it coming, kid. Now she has left her husband who
loved her more than anything in the world, the sky, the universe—except for sports, cars,

money—and she no longer wishes she had been rescued—er, stolen—by a rich and powerful
mob boss. She left long after the little blue Honda was sold and she got herself her own

bedroom with a Juliet window and a little balcony on the second story. In the end, it wasn’t
the little blue Honda, or the shiny black limousine or the mob boss or the jewels. It was nothing

but her own homemade rope ladder thrown out a window after the ugly realization that
the mob boss wasn’t coming and not even the little blue Honda could save her

from the shrinking world she was trying to survive.

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