The bicyclist with the whistle could have gone around the car. There was plenty of room to the right. The car had broken the rules, left its designated area, but surely the man with the whistle knew: lines are imaginary things.
He blew his whistle. Long, piercing tweets like a walrus-sized bird strangling on a cat.
Whistle guy wore a glowing yellow vest. It was as bright as his whistle was shrill.
I rode by on the right.
A block later, I could still hear the tweeeeeet. I stopped at the light. Another rider rested to my right. I looked up. The sky was quiet.
Tweeeet. Tweeeet. Tweeeeet.
“Good luck with that,” I said.
I rode on.
Miles later, I entered the dark quiet, corridor of my street.
I could still hear the man with the whistle screaming his plea through that piece of plastic hanging from a string around his neck.
I went to bed. I closed my eyes. In my dreams, I heard him still: tweeeeeet. Imprisoned in that wide-open street, trying to make the world spin a way it never would.