The Bob Dylan album "Blood on the Tracks," only came to me later when I got to my office and saw the blood-like drips on the screen door and store window.
I don't think of blood right away. Or make the connection that this ugly thing might be directed at me.
The police said it might be just some kids fooling around as the lab boys took a sample, but if so, there would have been similar smears up and down the street on other doorways, not just ours.
While the police had no such list, I began to compile a list of my own: who have I offended in such a way and should I consider carrying a gun?
Over my long life, I have wandered through some strange worlds from the LA porno scene to the Weather Underground. I even met the Manson Family once, and was threatened by some wanna be Hell's Angels when I gave them the finger (the scars of their chains across my back faded over time).
Yet not since I spent several days in a county jail have I felt so vulnerable. Someone somewhere out there is sending me a message. But what message? What are they trying to say? What have I done they don't want me to do or not done that they wanted done.
Damn it, I wish they had sent me a telegram.