by Jeff Strand
CHAPTER TEN
"Look, if we spend every waking moment worrying about destroying the space-time continuum, we'll never get anything done!"
--Exit Red, Season 1, Episode 3
The first thing we do is walk all the way around the building. You can't have a nervous breakdown over a missing car until you've done a lap around the place you parked.
There is no sign of my vehicle.
"Did you leave the keys in the ignition?" Amy asks.
I shake my head and take the keys out of my pocket. "We would've heard a tow truck, right? Somebody must have hotwired it." We were inside longer than the average person probably spends looking at a tractor made of gummi bears, but we weren't in there that long. Would there really have been time for somebody to break into my car and hotwire the engine? Since I have no idea what the standard timeframes are for these activities, it's kind of a pointless mental question.
"It's the perfect scam," Amy says. "Distract people with an object of beauty, and then steal their car." She's trying to sound lighthearted about this, but her voice is tight and her features are pinched.
"It'll be okay," I tell her, because this seems like the perfect time for meaningless reassurance.
We look around for a few more moments, as if we might have missed my car hiding under a squirrel or something. That effort is unsuccessful.
I take out my cell phone to call the police, then decide that I should talk to the old man first. Maybe he knows something. Certainly they wouldn't just leave their treasure undefended, so perhaps they've got high-tech security cameras installed to keep the criminal element at bay.
Amy and I walk back inside. "Needed another look, huh?" asks the old man with a smile.
"Somebody stole my car."
His smile disappears. "Oh, for Pete's sake. Not this nonsense again."
"You know who did it?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know exactly who it was. Don't worry, they're just on a joyride."
"Like...a destructive joyride?"
"Look, I ain't gonna promise you that the Meller boys won't damage your vehicle. They're rambunctious and they don't always think about the consequences of their actions."
I don't anger easily, but this seems like an appropriate moment for rage. "How often do they steal cars from your customers?"
"Counting you?"
"It doesn't matter. However you want to share the data."
The old man frowns, lost in thought. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that it's a frequent occurrence, but I suppose I also wouldn't say that it was necessarily infrequent."
"I'm calling the cops."
The old man nods. "Some time in the poke might be good for 'em."
Outside, an engine roars and tires screech. Amy and I hurry out of the building. My car is driving in small fast circles. The driver looks about sixteen years old, and the little creep hanging out of the passenger window can't be more than twelve.
"Cha cha cha cha!" he shouts. He waggles his tongue and makes devil horn signs with his hands. "Satan Satan Satan!"
"Give me back my car!" I scream at him. I almost add "You damned kids!" but I don't want to sound old.
The kids don't heed my request. They continue doing donuts. The twelve-year-old cackles with laughter and then says "Satan Satan Satan!" again.
The old man comes out of the building, holding a shotgun. Amy and I let out a simultaneous "Whoa!" as he points it at them.
"Don't shoot them!" I shout.
"I'm just going to take out a tire."
"Don't shoot my car!"
The old man lowers his shotgun. "Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Don't do anything! Take that gun back inside!"
"Cha cha cha cha! Satan Satan Satan!"
The car speeds toward me and I step out of the way. I'm getting really pissed, though not pissed enough to let the old man create carnage.
My car just narrowly misses the green truck, and then even more narrowly misses the corner of the building.
"The police are on their way!" Amy shouts at them. This (false) information does not change their behavior.
The old man has not yet gone back inside with the shotgun. "You sure you don't want me to open fire?" he asks. "I know somebody who'll cut you a good deal on a new windshield."
"Real sure," I tell him. Someday this whole crazy experience will make for an amusing anecdote, unless it ends with one of the kids getting his head blown off.
My car speeds at me again, then swerves. By now I'm so mad that it overrides my fear, and I step forward, slapping the twelve-year-old in the face.
It would have been a pretty good slap anyway, but he was in a moving vehicle. The kid cries out in pain, and the car brakes to a stop. The door flies open and the kid gets out, a great big red mark on his face.
"I'm gonna kill you!" he screams. "It's on! Oh, it's on! You made a big mistake!"
As has been established, I have a lack of fighting experience, and a general lack of bravery. Still, I can't find it in myself to be frightened of an obnoxious little pre-teenager. He storms over to me, unleashing a vicious series of threats, and when he reaches me, I slap him in the face again.
"You--you--you--you dummy!" he shouts.
His brother gets out of the car, fists raised and ready for battle. The old man, who has yet to heed my request to get rid of the weapon, points the shotgun at him.
I have an instant of self-loathing. Juvenile delinquent or not, there is nothing funny about a gun being pointed at a sixteen-year-old boy...and yet, the noise he makes is inarguably hilarious. My conscience is eased by the fact that I do not actually laugh out loud.
The kid turns and flees. He trips, falls on his face (the shotgun is no longer pointed at him, so I feel no guilt about my amusement), scrambles to get back up, and then resumes his fleeing. He disappears from sight, never looking back.
"You want a piece of me?" the twelve-year-old shouts at me. "Do you? You think you're tough? I'll make you my bitch!"
I've had enough of this kid. I spin him around and twist his arm behind his back. As he squeaks in pain, I walk him over to the green truck and then slam him against it.
"I'm done with your crap," I tell him. "Why aren't you in school?"
"It's Sunday!"
"I don't care what day it is! Do you want a broken arm?"
"No."
"You do anything like this again, and I will hunt your ass down. Do you understand me? I'm not playing around, you little shit. You know what you're doing from now on? You're going to mail me copies of your report cards. Every single quarter you're going to send over that report card, and if your GPA drops below 3.0, I will mess you up, motherfucker! Do you hear what I'm saying?"
"Let me go!"
"And you're going to sign up for some fucking extracurricular activities! If I find out that your ass isn't in a team sport or the band or the fucking chess club, I will rip your arm right out of its socket. Is that what you want? Is it?"
"No."
"So we understand each other?"
"Yes."
"What's your e-mail address?"
"None of your--"
"What's your goddamn e-mail address?"
He gives it to me. I slam him (gently) against the truck again and release his arm.
"I'll be in touch. I'm the bogeyman, and you do not want to find me under your bed."
* * *
As Amy and I get back in the car, I ask her if she thinks I went too far.
She shakes her head. "There aren't many circumstances where it's okay to almost break a little kid's arm, but this was one of them."
"I didn't almost break it. I just twisted it a little."
"That's fine. You do seem to have a lot of violent conflicts, though."
"I really don't. Until today, one hundred percent of my life was spent not twisting little kid's arms behind their back. Literally one hundred percent. But maybe the kid will go on to become Secretary of State or something."
I turn the ke
y in the ignition. The car doesn't start.
* * *
Those rotten little brats messed something up when they hotwired my car, so Amy and I sit in the waiting area of Cliff's Auto Repare. To maintain my sanity, I choose to believe that "Repare" is an aesthetic choice, a devastating critique of the rampant conformity in today's society.
We've been sitting here for three hours. If we'd known it was going to take this long, we would have walked to a bookstore or something, but every ten to fifteen minutes we are assured that it will only take another ten to fifteen minutes.
A pitcher of liquid is available, though we aren't certain if it is very weak coffee or dirty water. A taste test does not resolve this issue. There are also some orange slices as garnish, making the mystery beverage even more of an enigma.
At least the trip in the tow truck was uneventful, once we agreed to buy some candy bars from the driver for his daughter's fundraiser. There is nothing specific to indicate that, if we refused, things could have gone poorly for us, but that was the general vibe.
The auto repair guy peeks into the waiting area. "It should just be another ten or fifteen minutes."
"Thanks," I say.
He winks and leaves. He winks every time he gives us an update. I wish he wouldn't.
"I'm sorry," I tell Amy. This is the fifth or sixth time I've apologized to her, even though cognitively I know that I don't really owe her an apology for my car being briefly stolen. If I truly wanted to place blame, which I don't, the root cause of this incident would be when Amy suggested we go see the gummi bear tractor. Still, it's my car, and I can't help but feel responsible for our current misery.
"If you apologize again, I'm going to stick my thumb in your eye," Amy says.
I almost apologize for apologizing, but catch myself just in time. "Should we break open our chocolate?"
"Sure."
We unwrap our candy bars. The chocolate has that white color it gets when it has melted and solidified again, and it tastes eerily similar to the substance in the pitcher, but that's okay, it's really about sending a little girl on a class trip to Salt Lake City.
"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple," Amy says.
"Excuse me?"
"It's a game. You add something that begins with B. It's a memory test."
"Oh. I'm going camping, and I'm taking a bagel."
"You have to do the apple, too."
"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple and a bagel."
"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple, a bagel, and a cot."
"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple, a bagel, a cot, and a dustpan."
"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple, a bagel, a cot, a dustpan, and Excalibur."
"I'm going camping, and I'm taking an apple, a banana, a cot--"
Amy makes a buzzing noise at me.
"What?"
"Bagel, not banana." Amy playfully swats me on the arm. "Did you really lose before we even got to the letter F? On your own word?"
"Are you sure it was bagel?"
"Positive."
"I guess I was thinking banana but said bagel."
"I'm going to be perfectly frank with you: that's not the best performance I've ever seen in the camping game," Amy says.
"Rematch?"
"No, I think you should remain in eternal defeat."
"Poop."
"I'm sorry. This must be very embarrassing for you."
"I'll get over it."
"You pick the next game."
The auto repair guy steps back into the waiting room. "Okay, you're all set!"
I stand up. "Really? What was wrong with it?"
"Nothing. You were here for an oil change, right?"
"No. My car won't start."
"Are you the Ford Fusion?"
"No, Honda Civic."
He glances down at his clipboard. "Oh, my mistake. Sorry about that. It should just be another twenty to thirty minutes."
I sit back down as he leaves.
"We're trapped here forever," I tell Amy. "You know that, right? This is our new home. See that picture?" I gesture to a calendar with a photo of a cross-eyed baby. "That's our view until the apocalypse."
"It's totally fine."
"You know, you are remarkably patient for a dying girl."
It seems like a clever little comment as my mouth is forming the words, but as soon as they're out there, I feel like I'm going to be sick. What the hell did I just say?
Amy's expression is indecipherable. Is she going to burst into tears? Smack me? Laugh? Call me an asshole? Discover a previously unrealized penchant for stabbing people who make thoughtless comments? I think I'll actually be more upset if she cries than if she stabs me.
She smiles. Not a broad, happy, oh-Todd-you-are-so-delightfully-amusing smile, but also not a smile where she's gritting her teeth into tooth dust.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That was inappropriate."
"It's fine."
"No, really, that was a douchebag comment."
"I promise you, it's fine." Amy taps her forehead. "This isn't my favorite thing to talk about. Most of the time I try to pretend it doesn't exist--the aneurysm, not my brain itself. Though I'm also pretty good at pretending my brain doesn't exist. But I don't tiptoe around the subject like it's some shameful secret, and it's not an off-limits topic of conversation. And, yes, I am remarkably patient for a dying girl."
"So does waiting around like this bug you more than it used to? I'd be losing my mind."
Amy shrugs. "We're all on the clock. Not to be rude, but based on your track record this trip, I feel like I could outlive you, easily. That said, I do think the government should issue Short Timer cards to people who have less than six months to live that gives them front-of-the-line privileges. So if I'm in the grocery and there are more than three people ahead of me, I flash my card and go right to the front. Same thing for the post office and waiting for a table in a restaurant."
"Do you think that could lead to people scamming the system?" I ask. "People might befriend terminally ill patients just to skip the wait at busy restaurants."
"If they get new friends out of the system, so much the better. It's win-win."
"But they're not true friends. They're just using them."
"Yeah, I suppose you're right. The problem is that if you restrict the companions, then Short Timers could only eat with other Short Timers, and that would be depressing."
"Maybe there could be something where you had to know the person before their diagnosis to share their benefits."
"So, what, you're saying that when the doctors say you have a terminal illness, you'd have to fill out a form predicting who you might have meals with for the next six months? That's crazy talk."
"It wouldn't have to be a form," I say. "They could link it to your existing Facebook friends list. People who friend you after your card is issued are out of luck."
"I don't like the idea that terminally ill people can't make new friends."
"They can make all the new friends they want; they just can't get the first available table with them. If they want to wait in line like everybody else, that's perfectly fine."
"What if you became friends with somebody after the diagnosis, but now it's five months or so later and you've forgotten the actual timing of when the friendship started? When they scan your card, it's going to be a really awkward and uncomfortable moment, at a time when you're trying to have a good meal and enjoy the little bit of life that you have left. I've had credit cards declined before. It's humiliating. This whole idea is basically dissuading you from going out to eat with friends because of the risk of public embarrassment. I wouldn't even feel like having dinner after that."
"Hmmmm," I say. "I guess that would also require them to check ID's of everybody in your party, and if the restaurant is so busy that you'd need to use your card to skip the line, they probably don't have time for the extra workload. You're right. It's a flawed process."
"S
o we'll simplify it. You can't use your Short Timer pass to get into restaurants or movies or theme parks or other purely recreational activities, but you can use it at the grocery, post office, and DMV. People aren't going to leech off of dying people to skip ahead at the grocery, because the time you save in line is erased by all the time you'd spend dividing the groceries up after you've checked out."
"That works. Have you called our congressman?"
"Not yet."
"You should."
"I will."
"Now?"
"Later."
"Okay."
"But, seriously," Amy says, "No, it doesn't bother me to wait. I wish I could say that I've been living my life as if every second counted, but since I found out, I've wasted most of it. Last month I spent an entire day lying in bed watching the channel guide. Every half hour the menu would move forward a block."
I honestly can't tell if she's kidding or not. "Was it...interesting?"
"No. But the remote control was on top of the TV--I could see it there--and it didn't seem worth the trouble of getting up. And when I eventually got up to go to the bathroom, it still didn't seem worth the extra ten feet to walk over to the television, so I collapsed right back into bed and watched the TV menu some more."
"Jesus."
"I'm a lot less sunshiny than you thought."
I'm really not sure what to say. I don't want to make a joke about this, yet I don't have anything profound to say. I'm not a liar, but I'm not good with sincerity.
"Was this after your divorce?" I finally ask.
She nods. "He stuck with me for all the tests and stuff, held my hand, but once the doctors officially said 'Sorry, this is how it's going to be,' he was gone the next month. He said I was sucking his life away."
"Are you kidding me?"
"Nope."
"I don't even know how to process that."
"I didn't, either."
"I mean, that's, like, pure evil. That's something a supervillain would say."