It's Only Temporary

by Eric Shapiro

  But it wasn’t the eroticism that got me; it was the closeness. Before her, I thought I knew all about closeness. Before me, so did she. But we broke through to something new together. We somehow managed to travel very deep inside each other—beyond so many walls and fences, so much chain-link and barbed wire—without judging one another. We liked each other too much for judgment. And eventually, we loved each other.

  It was snowing outside. Class was cancelled for days. It felt like weeks. (Every day at college felt like three.) We hung out in her dorm room. Her roommate had gone home early for winter break. It was the greatest sleepover in history. We outdid every clique of twelve-year-old girls that ever stayed up all night making marshmallows and doing each other’s hair.

  We smoked too much pot on the first night. Blew the stuff in each other’s mouths and nostrils. I expressed concern that we were leaning on the pot too much. It was keeping us from authentically bonding. She agreed without hesitation. We donated my stash to the fake punk rockers down the hall. You should’ve seen the look on their faces. It was like paradise had pulled up to their doorstep. Selma and I went over there together, like Ozzie and Harriet delivering a crumb cake to the new neighbors. She held the pot; I held the rolling papers. They thanked us for three straight semesters.

  Then we went home (meaning back to her room) and pressed our faces against each other’s stomachs. Spent hours on the carpet. Watched one DVD after another: Scorsese, Spielberg, Stone, Hitchcock, Peter Weir, the Coen Brothers. Analyzed the characters. Laughed at all the same parts. Agreed that De Niro was selling out. Made up our own ghost stories. Hers were always more funny than they were scary. Silly stuff about rabbits carrying axes. She made me soup on her portable stove. Fed the first spoonful to me, then I had to take over before she spilled it. She got mad that I didn’t trust her. Then I told her I loved her. No build-up, no fanfare. The most natural thing in the world. She said it back to me. Our eyes became glazed; sub-visible tears. I kissed her over and over. Got to know her mouth. How her bottom teeth were a little crooked even though she’d once worn braces. If her teeth were straight, she wouldn’t be nearly as perfect.

  Everybody knew us. Holding hands en route to class. Occupying booths in the dining hall. Standing on opposite sides of crowded elevators. Eyeing each other. Communicating without talking. She called me old-fashioned when I winked at her. I called her newfangled when she opened doors for me.

  And then, two years into our relationship and one month before graduation, Selma got drunk one night and fucked this kid named Brian.

  But I don’t want to think about that now.

  9

  My parents gave me the Ford Explorer just before I went away to college. Best gift I’ve ever received. All my friends asked if I was gonna name it. I always glared at them and told them that was stupid. But then—wouldn’t you know it?—an attachment developed. I began admiring this piece of machinery. The car has a subtle nobility to it. A distinct no-kidding-around vibe comes from its levers and switches. It’s warm, clean, and roomy, and its hood juts forward like the symmetrical nose of a handsome face.

  The nickname came out of nowhere (which is where all the truest nicknames come from). Whenever I was looking for my Explorer in a parking lot, for some reason I’d think of Richard III crying, “A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” I’d mutter that to myself as I searched for the car. And then, once The Horse came into view, I’d change it up a bit: “My horse! A kingdom for my horse!”

  I pet the dash and whisper, “That’s right, baby. That’s right.”

  My horse deserves a kingdom. Especially since it will outlive me.

  10

  I’m convinced that the whole “time flies when you’re having fun” theory is a crock of shit. Time can also fly when you’re miserable. It’s almost noon yet I’m just hitting the interstate. Roughly seven hours till the fall. Good thing my instincts were correct: The freeway is empty. It belongs to me and The Horse. We’re the only idiots with these kinds of plans. I put my seatbelt on and kick the beast up to 100.

  The weed/opium cocktail is thinning out. I feel insane. Clinically speaking, I probably am insane. Me and everybody else who’s not hiding under a rock. The fact that I can think is astounding. Our brains are really something else. No matter how aware you are of the big picture, part of you will remain entangled in the smaller details: hands on steering wheel; bugs on windshield; tension in forehead; gun in glove compartment; bleeding female on the pavement.

  “Fuck!”

  The Horse nearly spins when I hit the brakes.

  It’s awfully sticky out here. I look north, then south. Winding, barren concrete. I’ve never stood in the center lane of a freeway before. The female is less than six feet away from my front tires. Her hair is naturally blonde but presently red. (Or at least the side that hit the pavement is red; I can’t see the other side.) She’s wearing overalls, a white long-sleeved T-shirt, and no shoes. I approach her with caution.

  (Turn around. Go home. Hug your mother. Say goodbye to Selma on the phone.)

  Dry coughs pound from her throat. In a snap, she looks up at me. Her eyes are light blue. I feel like running, but I freeze instead. Her face is bloody but not cut. The wound is somewhere on her scalp; that’s where the red is darkest.

  Maybe I’m hallucinating. A lot of people have experienced sensory distortion lately. She seems very real and tactile, but the drugs I smoked are creating waves everywhere, and nothing can be fully trusted. In any case, hallucination or not, she/it is speaking to me:

  “Please help me.”

  I think I hear a car behind me. I turn around: nothing but The Horse. It seems to be grinning. Good boy. Stick with me. Back to the female.

  “What happened?”

  I’m not stepping any closer. I can’t see her hands; she could have a knife—or worse. The eyes in the back of my head glance through my windshield. Fucking idiot; I should go get my gun. I turn around again. Then she speaks to my back, and her voice is coming from somewhere new. She’s standing.

  I say, “Hold on a second,” as I whip back toward her. I circle around to my passenger side door, grip the handle.

  “Do you have water?” she asks.

  “No. No water here.” But that would have been a good idea.

  My hands are in my glove box. Ah, there’s my little pal. Thanks for holding onto her, Horsie. I stick the thing in the top of my ass crack.

  She’s coming toward me. I note that she’s attractive, despite all the blood. Her palms are facing me: empty. I scan her pockets: no bulges or shines. My heart slows down a little. Take control of the situation.

  “What happened to you?”

  She comes over to me and hugs me. This is now Hug-A-Stranger Day. The blood from her head stains my gray shirt. I don’t exactly mind. To be honest, the physical contact calms me down even more. She loosens the hug and looks into me. “It was so bad.”

  “Here, come with me.”

  I take her hand, turn us around, and guide her into the passenger seat. From zero to trusting in three seconds, huh, Sean? Fuck it. If she were dangerous, she wouldn’t have been bleeding in the street.

  Leaving her door open, I circle around The Horse and return to my saddle. Suddenly she’s spilling her story: “There’s a bus with women on it. We have to go catch them.”

  “A bus with women?”

  She’s crying. Hard. Her guts are involved. “These two fucking assholes drove around grabbing women and taking them onto this bus. They’ve been driving us around for two days and throwing us off. My turn just happened.”

  I’m getting feverish. “How long ago was this?”

  “Like five minutes.”

  And then God must have said, “Send in Sean.”

  “You have to go after them.”

  “What do you mean, ‘go after them’?”

  Her scream drowns out the radio: “There’s two other women on that fucking bus! Get moving!”

  I do no such thing. “What
are we gonna do?”

  “I don’t know! Fucking shoot them or something!”

  “How are we gonna do that?”

  The blonde’s hand is shining. That’s because she has my pistol.

  Imaginary bullets punch through my skull. “Give me that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Give me my gun back, and I’ll take you wherever—”

  The gun is on my slippery palm. Catastrophe averted. My heart belches. “Why did you take that from me?”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t know if you were safe.”

  “And now you do know?”

  “I could tell by the way you sat me down.”

  We smile at each other. There’s blood on her teeth. Our collective breath fogs up my windshield. “We should get you to a hospital.”

  More volume: “No! Fucking step on it! You’re not letting those girls die!”

  Either my head is spinning or the world is revolving faster. (If the latter is true, maybe the meteorite will miss.)

  The Horse mutters to me, “Let’s go, Sean.”

  Now I’m hallucinating.

  Through the air vents, The Horse says, “I would like to go do this.”

  I need more weed. Or less. I click the gear to “D” and floor the fucker.

  “What do you wanna do?” I ask. “Blow their tires out?”

  I think I’m being sarcastic, but she seems to take it as an earnest suggestion. “Maybe,” she exhales. “Just get to it. They won’t leave the freeway.”

  I’m having an out-of-body experience. The Horse and the blonde have seized control. “So who are these fucks?” I ask her.

  “I have no idea. They hate women. They held knives to our necks.”

  I check out her neck. No apparent cuts, just lots of blood.

  “Can I offer you some pot?” I ask, being hospitable. It’s the opposite of water, but it might ease her pain.

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

  I nod. Great. She’s fine, I’m fine, everybody’s fine.

  My gas pedal touches the carpeting. We blast up the road. Trees become blurs at our sides. I free one hand and find my bowl between the seats. I hand her the lighter and ask her to blaze me up. Given the looks of her scalp, I hope she gets a secondhand buzz.

  “Can you drive like that?” she wants to know.

  “I drive better like this,” I brag.

  The Horse corrects me: “I’m the one doing all the driving.”

  11

  “There it is!”

  Apparently she got no buzz. She’s still yelling. Her pink fingernail taps the windshield as she points. There’s a plump white dot up ahead. I feel like crying for my mother. The opiates have barely dented my anxiety. Ladies and Gentleman … welcome to “Opium vs. Crisis Situation.” Who—will—win?

  “Do these guys have guns?” I ask her, studying the weapon in my lap. It looks like a horizontal robot penis.

  “No, they’re small-time. Just a couple pricks.”

  I’m not sure if she digs vulgarity, but I try her out: “The only weapons they use are their pricks?”

  She glares at me. Fantastic eyes. But her mouth is frowning. “They didn’t rape us,” she says.

  Ouch. “No, that’s not what I—”

  “I don’t even think they like sex.”

  “I didn’t mean … I was just playing on words.” (Too much opium.)

  “Well, kid, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, I’m not in the mood to play.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  I imagine that most people whose heads are bleeding aren’t in the mood to play. I keep that thought to myself. “What’s your name?” I ask her. A more mainstream attempt at breaking the ice.

  “Paula. How ’bout you?”

  “Sean.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice meeting you.”

  The white dot grows and grows.

  “You from around here?”

  It’s never too late for small talk.

  “No. I’m from Florida. Those fucks dragged me across the country.”

  Paula doesn’t ask me where I’m from. Under normal circumstances, this would piss me off, but I imagine she’s lingering on the thought of being kidnapped.

  “What are we gonna do when we see these guys?”

  Paula squints through my buggy windshield, shoots imaginary lasers at the bus. “One of us is gonna have to shoot ’em.”

  My ability to swallow disappears. Rocks squeeze against the inside of my forehead. “Which one of us?” I ask, seeking maternal guidance.

  “I guess I’ll do it. It’s my deal.”

  She’s fucking-A right about that.

  “You just have to pull up next to them.”

  My lungs are trafficking less air than usual. “Um, Paula …”

  “What?”

  “Maybe you should think about this.”

  “I’ve taken care of that already.”

  She’s a fucking gunslinger with the lines, this lady.

  “You’re talking about killing people.”

  “I wouldn’t define these people as people.”

  “What would you define them as?”

  “Like ants.”

  My right hand leaves the steering wheel and conducts my speech: “I don’t want to sound like a preacher here, but what would God define them as?”

  The white dot has officially become a bus.

  “You believe in that shit?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So, what do you care about God?”

  “Because He may be out there.”

  Paula grinds her teeth.

  I add, “Or She.”

  “Or whatever,” she snaps, apparently unconcerned with any sexism on my part. “If there was a God, why would He be ending the fucking world?”

  “Because maybe He’s got other plans. Maybe the human thing has worn out its welcome.”

  “Well, okay. Be that as it may, we’re all gonna go anyway. We may as well deny these scumbags the freedom to go out with everyone else.”

  She’s making sense. No, fuck that. I wince and shake my head. It’s military rhetoric she’s using. Too many militants down there in Florida. Pitching justice and all that shit. An eye for an eye. I can’t be taken in by that. Not at this late date. “But Paula, since we’re all gonna go, what’s the use of settling scores on the way out?”

  “But Sean, if we’re all gonna go, what’s the use of not going out like a champion?”

  I nearly veer into the woods. That’s my expression. The air vents smile at me.

  One never knows what form one’s tests will take. Is this my glorious shot? A bleeding justice freak and a misogyny bus?

  “Besides,” Paula says, “we need to disable them somehow.”

  “How come?”

  “Because you’re out of gas and we’re gonna need a car.”

  An avalanche crumbles through my head. I check out the gauges. The needle’s well below E.

  “Shit,” I say. “I forgot to feed The Horse!”

  Paula looks at me like I have ten heads. I wish I did. Anything to get out of this one.

  12

  The white bus is no longer an abstract concept. It’s a massive, rolling, belching, filthy monster, less than a hundred yards away. The license plate says Louisiana. These guys have taken their little sport quite a distance. At the rate they’re going, they could make it up to New England before the end. But not if Paula has anything to say about it.

  “Here’s what we do,” she tells me.

  This “we” shit is getting to me. I’m content to remain her chauffeur.

  “You gotta pull up alongside them and pretend you’re as nasty and fucked up as they are. These guys aren’t incredibly sharp; they’ll definitely buy it.”

  “How am I supposed to pretend that?”

  “I don’t know, Sean. Be creative. Pull my hair and pinch me. I’ll make like I’m all crying and hurt.”

  “That second part shouldn’t be ha
rd.”

  “No shit. Can you do that?”

  I nod a little, reluctant to seal the pact verbally. “Then what?”

  “You roll down the window and yell, ‘I say we toss this bitch again, fellas!’”

  “You’re telling me they’re gonna fall for this? They’re gonna assume that you told me what they did?”

  “Yeah, or maybe you witnessed it. Whatever.”

  “This is totally transparent. It’s like Superman wearing glasses and everyone believing he’s Clark Kent.”

  Paula stares me down. To her, my pop cultural reference is more childish than the notion of murdering people. “Look,” she says, “if they don’t fall for it, at least we tried.”

  My shoulders are so tense that they’re almost touching my earlobes. I say, “So the concept is, they’re gonna pull over for the sake of recruiting me as part of their team and throwing you again.”

  “Right. And as they come near us, we blow their brains out.”

  My foot nearly slips off the gas pedal. “Okay, that’s the part that gives me pause.”

  Paula shakes with frustration. “Fine, kid, I’ll take care of it then.”

  “This is your vendetta. I’m just driving.”

  “Yeah, you’re what’s called an accomplice.”

  She seasons some extra salt onto the a-word. It’s enough to stop my heart. I look at her. Those pinkish teeth are in view; she’s grinning. Paula must have been head of her sorority. I’m sure her spirits soared when hazing season rolled around.

  We’re nearly parallel to the bus.

  “I just have different values than you, is all,” I mumble.