by Jeff Strand
The car does not actually say any of this, but what other message could I take from this exquisite comfort?
There is, however, a small problem. Immediately after escaping The Terror of the Racist Aspiring Romance Novelist, it was easy to take a "screw it" attitude toward our lost possessions. Now, it occurs to me that she's got my phone charger and my electric razor, not to mention a perfectly good suitcase. We should get our stuff back. It's not like she's dangerously violent or anything.
We stop by the auto repair shop. It's closed.
We call the number on the sign. It goes to voice mail. I leave a message explaining that Jakey's mother accidentally drove off with our bags and tell him that if he could call me back as soon as possible, that would be great, thank you.
And now we're pretty much stuck here. Joy.
We stop at a drugstore, where we purchase the materials to clean my knee wounds. Amy buys the extra-large bottle of iodine, and I'm not sure if she's trying to be funny or practical.
I always find it amusing in action movies when the hero takes punches, kicks, bullets, broken glass, and various other types of physical abuse without anything more than a manly grunt, yet when the heroine dabs his cuts with antiseptic, he lets out a loud wince. I think about this as I let out my own loud wince, although it's really not an appropriate comparison, since I also winced when I scraped myself up in the first place. Overall, I feel that I've dealt with each injury in a satisfactory manner, though I really wish they'd quit compiling.
There are seven or eight restaurants that look pretty good, but they're all closed, so we accept defeat and have fast food burgers. It's not like we're food snobs.
Now what? We could get a hotel here and pick up our stuff in the morning, if Vivian hasn't burned it, but I'm not tired and I'd hate to lose the extra driving time when we're already so far behind schedule.
Just as I finish the last of my fries, my phone rings. It's Jakey.
Ten minutes later, a young black man walks over to our booth and drops our bags on the table. "Look, if this is drugs or terrorism shit, I don't want any part of it," he says. "I don't know nothin'. The lady said you'd give me fifty bucks to deliver these bags, so that's all I'm doin'."
"Oh. Uh, okay." I'm not sure what else to do, so I reluctantly take out my wallet.
The man laughs. "Put that away. You think that just because I'm a black man that I'm going to take money to deliver bags to strangers? Jakey says hi."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"I dreamt...I dreamt that we were all going to die."
"I dreamt that we were all naked in a giant bowl of oatmeal. I win."
--Exit Red, Season 4, Episode 5
I didn't pay that much attention while I was packing, but I'm almost positive my bag is missing a pair of underwear. I'm not sure who took it, why they wanted it, or what they plan to do with it, and I decide that I will not only remain blissfully ignorant, but I will refrain from brainstorming any possible scenarios.
We're back on the road and loving the sound system in this car. I didn't realize the true depths of crappiness my own car's sound system had reached until now. I might as well have been listening to music with a pair of tin cans and string.
A sign welcomes us to Georgia. We've done it. We've successfully crossed our first state line.
We want to have a celebratory peach, but it's after midnight and no place that sells peaches is open. We find some peach-flavored chewy candy in a rest stop vending machine and eat that instead. It's not very good.
"From this point forward, nothing else is going to suck," I announce.
"Here, here. But why do we say that?"
"What?"
"We say that things suck. 'That movie sucked.' People say 'suck my dick' like it's a negative thing, when really it's one of the kindest, most generous things you can do for somebody."
"I guess I never thought about that," I admit.
"If somebody is being a jerk, we say that they're being a dick. Why? There's nothing wrong with the behavior of a penis. When you say that somebody is being a dick, it should mean that they've won an award or something. 'Stop being a pussy.' Why? Stop being something that's passionately sought after? It's like saying 'Stop acting like that pile of gold over there.'"
"You make an excellent point."
"Sorry for being crude. It's just something I think about every once in a while."
"No, no, that's fine. Be as crude as you want."
"I'm done now."
She's put an image in my mind that I'm not in any hurry to banish.
"Do you want to sleep?" she asks. "I'm totally fine to drive for at least a couple more hours."
"You sure?"
"Yep. No problem at all. I'll wake you up the first time I drift into the opposite lane."
I recline the seat all the way back--oh, such sweet comfort was unimaginable in my old car!--close my eyes, and fall asleep in approximately three seconds.
In my dream, Amy leans over and does things to me that are incredibly unsafe when one is operating a motor vehicle on the highway. Even in my dream, I want to say "Uh, if you're not going to watch the road, maybe you should at least drop below sixty-five." Instead, I say, "Your face has turned into an alien," which it has, because that's what often happens in my dreams.
Then I turn into an alien, and we have weird-ass alien sex. It's uncomfortable but awesome. I'm thankful that I paid for the full coverage on the car, because we've really messed up the interior. Even for spike-covered fluid-leaking aliens the damage is excessive.
Then we're not aliens anymore. Amy is still using her mouth on me, and she's right, "suck my dick" is such a terrible pejorative, why the hell would anybody use that phrase in a negative manner, what's wrong with the idiots who invent insults, we're definitely going too fast for her to be so distracted, I should probably grab the wheel, but if I do that she might become aware of the danger of being distracted and stop what she's doing, nobody wants that, does she have two mouths, I think we missed an important turn, I don't think we're on the road anymore, I'm not entirely sure the car is still upright, I should really finish up so she can get back to driving--
I open my eyes. It's daylight. For a truly horrifying split second I think that I was masturbating in the passenger seat while Amy drove, but no, my hand is on my lap but not my crotch, and Amy is not staring at me in disgust.
Why is it so light out? It should still be dark, right?
I raise the seat and glance at the clock. After a moment for my eyes to focus, I see that it's 7:37.
"It's 7:37," I say. The standard quality of my comments immediately after I wake up isn't very high.
"I know."
"Did you drive all night?"
"Yeah."
"You should have woken me up."
"I never got tired."
"Are you tired now?"
She shrugs. "Not really."
"Where are we?"
"Virginia."
"Wow."
"You missed South and North Carolina."
"Were they nice?"
"It was hard to tell in the dark."
"I feel like a lazy bum."
"Don't. If I'd needed you to drive, I would have woken you up."
"Are you a cyborg?"
"Maybe. A cyborg with a faulty chip."
I flip down the visor and look at myself in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, unshaven face, swollen lip, wacky slept-on hair, a small but unmistakable drool stain...not my best look.
"We're coming up on a truck stop. I figured we could take showers and change clothes."
"Sounds good to me," I say, though I hadn't anticipated that we'd be showering at truck stops. I'd assumed that when we were not having sex, our abstinence would be at a motel.
Having never been in a truck stop shower before, I was expecting something ghastly involving rust, pools of greenish-yellowish-brownish slime, and the not-so-distant roar of chainsaws. But it's actually quite clean and unfrightening, and the water pressure is
fantastic. It may even be bruising my chest, but I don't care. I didn't realize until now how much my shower at home resembles bathing under a watering pot.
Soon I'm washed, shaven, deodorized, and in fresh clothes and bandages. I am ready to drive.
Amy meets me in the café. Her blonde hair is still wet, she's not wearing any makeup, and she looks absolutely fantastic. We each order a ham and cheese omelet.
"You really shouldn't have driven all night," I tell her.
"I decided that if you woke up, we'd swap. But you didn't wake up, and I wanted to let you sleep. Besides, while you were asleep I stared at you in a creepy manner."
"Did I snore?"
"Like a 400-pound man with a breathing disorder."
"Really?"
"Nah, just a little. Not bad."
"Good."
"You did talk a bit."
"Really?"
"Yep."
"What'd I say?"
"'Ellen.'"
"Ellen?"
"Ellen."
"Who's Ellen?"
"I don't know. You said it."
"Ellen DeGeneres?"
"You didn't give any context."
"I don't know anybody named Ellen."
"That's the name you said."
"I didn't say anything else?"
"No, you just said 'Ellen...Ellen...Ellen.'"
"That's really weird."
"You were kind of mumbling. I guess you could have been saying 'alien.'"
"Oh. Okay."
"Does that make more sense?"
"No, no, I was probably talking about Ellen Page or something. Did you see Juno?"
"Yeah."
"Great movie. Also Inception. Loved both of those. And Hard Candy and Super. She's done quite a few really good movies, actually."
The server arrives with our omelets, giving me an excuse to stop babbling. There is so much ham and cheese in this thing that the egg can barely contain it, and we both savor its deliciousness in silence.
When the meal is done, we return to the car. Amy puts the passenger seat all the way back. "Wake me if you need me," she says.
"I will," I say, although the only way if I'll wake her up before the eight-hour mark is if the car catches fire.
Amy goes to sleep, and I drive through Virginia.
I set the cruise control, sip some Red Bull, and drive. My finger, knees, and face don't hurt anymore. Honestly, I feel pretty damn great. It doesn't matter that I've been repeatedly injured and I have to buy a new car and we almost lost all of our travel supplies; this has been a great trip. If I'm having this much fun with somebody when we're surrounded by disaster, how fantastic will it be when things are going well?
I can't see Amy in the rearview mirror. I want to reach up and adjust the mirror, but no, it's okay for her to joke about watching me, but me tilting the mirror to watch her really would be creepy. And I should have the rearview mirror at the correct angle, for safety reasons.
I glance over at her every once in a while, watching her chest rise and fall as she breathes.
Beautiful.
I'm not well enough in tune with my emotions to know if I'm in love. I don't think I am. It's much too early for that. It's not as if I'm having visions of us holding our grandchildren on our laps. I just really like being around her, even when she's lying there asleep on the passenger seat.
I know that my previous relationships weren't love. It was more astonishment on my part that they wanted to be with me. "Holy shit, this is a joke, right?" works out pretty well at first, since I'm certainly not an inattentive boyfriend, but I guess it gets tiring after a while.
I glance over at Amy again.
Has her chest moved?
I don't think her chest is moving.
I don't even know what's supposed to happen to her. Will she be alive one second and dead the next, like somebody flicked off her light switch? Will there be screaming and blood spewing from her mouth? Will she be in agony? How the hell did I start on a twenty-two hour road trip with her without researching the symptoms of a brain aneurysm? I should know this stuff. I don't want to know this stuff.
Her chest rises.
And falls.
And rises.
God, I'm sweating. And I'm not even sure that watching her breathe is reassuring me that she's okay.
I should wake her up.
I should not wake her up. She's only been asleep for an hour.
What I should do, starting right this second, is pay attention to the road.
I don't want to lose her.
I'm going to. That's just the way this is going to work out. This relationship has an expiration date. I bought the milk when the "Sell By" date has already passed, which doesn't mean there's anything wrong with the milk yet, the milk is perfectly fine, but I'm not going to have fresh milk for much longer.
Comparing Amy to expired milk. I'm quite the romantic. I'm surprised I haven't serenaded her with a song about how much I adore her boogers.
My phone rings. Crap! Amy opens her eyes as I dig it out of my pocket. I apologize to her, and then answer. "Hi, Craig."
"So what happened to calling me every night?"
"I'm sorry. I forgot."
"You forgot. You forgot. Well, that's nice, because I certainly didn't stay up all night worrying about you."
"I'm really sorry. I got distracted."
"Oh, I'm sure you did. Why concern yourself about your roommate being worried sick if there are distractions around, right? Because it takes so very long to pick up a phone and say 'Hey, everything's cool.' I'm even in your contacts list. You only have to touch your screen three times to let me know you're okay. Three touches. That's it."
"It won't happen again."
"Do you know how close I was to calling the police?"
"Hopefully you would have called me before the police."
"I did call you first. I'm calling you now. But the police would have been my second call if you hadn't answered."
"Like I said, I apologize. That was very uncool."
Craig is silent for a moment. "You are okay, right? It's not like you know that lady at all. If you're not okay, if you need me to contact the authorities, say 'sleeveless gown.'"
"I'm totally fine."
"That wasn't a good one. That's kind of hard to work naturally into a conversation. Sorry. Margaret came over last night and she wanted to show off this new sleeveless gown she bought for her sister's wedding. I literally had no opinion on it. So if you're in danger, say 'apple.'"
"I'm not in any danger, Craig."
"You're not on speakerphone, right? She can't hear me?"
"No."
"Okay. Don't let this happen again. I've got enough stress in my life without worrying about whether you're safe."
"I'll call you tonight, no matter what."
"You'd better."
"I will."
"Jerk."
"Sorry."
Craig hangs up. I shove the phone back into my pocket.
"Everything okay?" Amy asks.
"I forgot to check in with Craig."
"Oops."
"He'll get over it. I'm pretty sure he was exaggerating his level of concern. You should go back to sleep."
Amy raises the seat. "Nah, I'm awake now."
"You only slept an hour."
"But I feel refreshed. This seat is weirdly comfortable."
"Well, you won't hurt my feelings if you fall asleep while I'm talking."
Amy remains awake and alert as we drive for the next couple of hours. I'm impressed. It's been a long time since I've been able to survive without a full night's sleep.
We stop at a rest area for a bathroom break, where we are accosted by a man with a huge facial scar and a hook hand.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"And...the Nazis have just won World War II. Nice going, jerk."
--Exit Red, Season 3, Episode 13
We've used the not-so-very-tidy restroom facilities and are headed back to the car w
hen he walks over to us. He looks about sixty, with long scraggly gray hair, a couple of days' worth of stubble, and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. The deep scar runs from the left side of his chin to just under his eye. Instead of a right hand, he has a pair of metal pincers.
"How're you doing?" he asks, giving us a wide crooked-yellow-toothed smile.
"We're fine," I say, instinctively putting myself between the man and Amy, which is much better than shouting "Do with her as you will; just leave me unharmed, scary sir!"
"My name's Eddie. I've had a run of bad luck, and I'm just trying to get home. Is there any chance you can give me a ride?"
"I'm sorry, I don't think so," I tell him.
"Anything you can do for me, man. Even one more exit north would help. I'm really in a bind."
I feel bad for the guy. I really do. But this seems like the kind of situation where Amy and I could end up dangling from the ceiling of a shed staring at our exposed entrails and feeling rather silly about our recent choices.
"I just--I can't help you."
Eddie scratches his nose with his hook-hand. I don't think his nose really itches.
"It's because of my hand, isn't it?" he asks, still scratching his nose.
"No. Not at all."
Eddie nods. "Yeah, it is. You're looking at my hand and thinking 'Oooh, anybody with a hand like that must be a serial killer! He must be right out of a campfire story! Better not let him into my car!'"
"I don't think you're a serial killer," I semi-lie.
"You do so. You think I'm going to add your head to my collection. You think this scar is proof that I'm a bad person."
"That's not true."
Eddie traces his scar with his hook-hand. "Whoa, what a frightening scar! Nobody without evil in their heart could possibly have a scar like this! If it were a lightning bolt on my forehead, you'd say 'Goodness, how charming!' but if a man has visible scar tissue on the side of his face, run for the hills, because he must be up to no good! There's gonna be heads in boxes tonight!"
"That's not it."
"Then why do you keep staring at my hand?"
"Because it's right up by your face."