Monster Behind the Wheel

by Michael McCarty

  She didn’t suggest how I was supposed to reach them. A normal person couldn’t even have managed a scratch in those places—and I was going to remove bandages?

  I mentioned this.

  “Ah.” Her face scrunched up with consternation, eyebrows arching like I simply wasn’t showing the proper heart or cooperation. “Well then, I guess you can leave them on until they fall off.”

  Or until the skin beneath rots away and they plop off along with it.

  Before I was sent home, I was reminded that I needed to walk a mile and a half each day as part of my therapy.

  That was extremely difficult because of the pain and stiffness in my muscles. I was seeing a chiropractor to slowly put my hips to rights, eventually getting both legs the same length again. And I’d been given a cane to help me shuffle along the exercise route of the damned. I walked north and south on Jupiter Road. Then I started journeying down the side streets. The scenic route. It was better to stay clear of main roads where the traffic might see me as ten points to add to their score.

  One particular day I turned and went toward Burning Tree Lane. I limped down the suburban street, trying not to wince too much as I walked. I thought, Just another three-quarters of a mile and I can turn back. I’ll eventually make it home. To my meds. And my heating pad. And my meds.

  Then I saw him.

  Big, black, and beautiful.

  It was love at first sight.

  The he in question was a sleek Barracuda sitting in front of a driveway.

  That’s the funny thing about cars. As soon as people see the car of their dreams, they can tell whether it is a he or a she. Most folks are rampaging bisexuals when it comes to cars. They’ll climb into a male or a female, as long as it delivers a sweet ride.

  This black beauty was just what I needed to pop my life back into gear. And best of all, magic words had been scrawled in orange crayon on the front window: 4 Sale—Make Offer.

  I shuffled closer to the car. It had a souped-up engine, big racing wheels in the back, metallic paint so shiny you could see your reflection. A true American classic.

  Some folks thought the old Mustang was it—or the classic Thunderbird or the Goat. Hard-on cars. Totem animals, all. But for me it had always been the Barracuda.

  Barracudas are voracious pikers—if they were my totem animal, what did that make me?

  I hurried to the house as fast as my scar-hardened legs could take me in what was the closest thing to a sprint I’d managed in months. I knocked on the front door.

  No answer.

  I rang the bell.

  Still no answer.

  I knocked again. No, knocked wasn’t the right word. I pounded on the door so hard the windows shook.

  Then I heard a woman’s voice. “I’m coming. I’m coming. Jesus Christ, hold your fucking horses, hombre . . .”

  A lady in her fifties swung the door open. She didn’t open it a crack to see who was out there pounding, and there was no peephole. From that I could tell she was the fearless type. Her bottle-blonde hair was streaked with gray, and she would have had very pretty blue eyes if they hadn’t been so bloodshot.

  She seemed to be the worst possible combination of Mae West and Roseanne, with a touch of the Bride of Frankenstein. She wore a tattered pink robe that wasn’t tied too well, and most of her flabby legs and thighs were exposed.

  She cocked her head. “Damn. What charity are you collecting for?”

  Her breath reeked of cheap tequila. I detected a line of salt crusted on her upper lip.

  “Your car—” I began.

  “It’s not leaking oil again, is it? Goddamn it. All the neighbors complain about that.”

  “No, I’m interested in buying it.”

  “Oh?” She sized me up. “Got any money? You’re all banged up, kid. What happened?”

  “I was in an auto accident.”

  “And you want to buy the Barracuda? Buy some new shoes and stick to walking. You should stay the fuck away from cars. Looks like you and them don’t get along.”

  She said more, but I was staring at the car and didn’t catch her words. That car practically had my tongue hanging out. I would have been salivating, but the meds caused a case of perpetual cotton mouth.

  “What?” I asked, swinging back to her. “What did you say?”

  “I said, my name’s Connie Edmondson. What’s yours?”

  “Jeremy Carmichael.”

  “Heh,” she wheezed. “You’ve even got ‘car’ in your name. Well, it’s your funeral. I’ll get the keys.”

  Connie hustled inside, then returned a few minutes later with the keys jangling in her hand. She was still dressed in the robe but had added a pair of fuzzy pink slippers to the ensemble.

  “What year is the car?” I asked.

  “It’s 1970 cherry. That’s what my husband would always say at the car shows.”

  “Cool.”

  She opened the passenger door and slid in, then pushed open the driver’s door, gesturing for me to take up position behind the steering wheel. I sat in the driver’s seat after putting the cane in the back.

  “Here,” she said as she handed me the keys. “Don’t step too hard on the gas, because it has a 426 Hemi engine. That’s a lot of horsepower.”

  I had a momentary worry about doing this under the influence of my meds. There was the usual warning about driving or operating heavy machinery while on the drugs, but there were two angels on my shoulders. The good angel was twisted and scarred and shouting, “No, no. It’s like driving drunk. It’s irresponsible. You could create more miserable wretches such as yourself.”

  But on the other shoulder, the fallen angel grinned through the maggots between his sparse teeth, scratching at the hole in his armpit that was the entrance to hell. His exposed brain quivered in his head as he whispered, “You belong here.”

  I considered my situation. “It’s because I’m a miserable wretch that I gotta do this.”

  “Say again?” Connie asked.

  “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  I gently pumped the pedal and turned the ignition key. The car fired up at once. It sounded like a hungry lion taking off, but as I began driving down the road, it purred more like a happy house cat.

  The car took corners with ease, almost floating down the street. That wasn’t just a surreal overlay supplied by the drugs. It was the sublime glide of the Barracuda, gentle as oiled penetration. No wonder her husband had called it cherry. No wonder he’d taken it to car shows.

  “It’s stuffy in here,” Connie murmured, rolling down her window.

  I did the same.

  The breeze blew her robe wide open, making her naked from the waist down. When I stared at her dark brown pubic thatch, she graced me with a crooked smile.

  “Oopsy,” she said. But she made no attempt to cover up.

  I was bombarded by too many emotions at once, seeing a nearly nude woman almost as old as my own mother. One was inclined to not think anything taboo, remaining respectful, thinking of good old Mom. The good angel shrieked, “Don’t look.”

  And the fallen angel spit worms as he tittered, “You belong here.”

  I took the corner onto North Jupiter Road. The breeze blew the opposite direction, blowing most of her robe closed again.

  “Lovely day for a drive,” Connie said. “Been a while since I’ve gone out for a spin with a young buck like you.”

  I drove north up to Belt Line Road. Then I turned around in a parking lot, headed back down Jupiter Road, and turned left on Burning Tree Lane, putting us in front of Connie’s house again.

  I pulled the gearshift into park and turned off the ignition. I just sat staring at the steering wheel. I had to have it. I blurted out, “How much?”

  “Hmmm,” Connie said. “How about nine hundred?”

  “Nine hundred thousand?” I asked, shocked. Yeah, I had asked that. A question that went beyond ridiculous. But, remember, I was no mental (or physical) cherry and a half at that point.
It was a miracle I’d recalled where to put the ignition key.

  She brayed out a laugh. “I wish. Nope, just nine hundred dollars.”

  The Barracuda was worth at least fifty times that for being a classic car in mint condition. “Why so”—I hated to say it, fearing I would jinx the deal—“cheap?”

  Connie sighed, huge breasts heaving, stretching the thin fabric of the old robe. “The car has some unpleasant memories for me. I just want to unload it.”

  “Oh.” Nine hundred dollars was cheap for any auto. But she might as well have said nine hundred million, because the price was still out of my reach.

  “I’m still kind of tight on money because of this accident,” I admitted. I was nervous. “Could I pay you something to hold the car until I reach my settlement?”

  Wait. Was there ever going to be a settlement? Well, Caitlin had a last-ditch lawyer she wanted me to see next week. Some guy she knew in high school.

  “Let’s go inside and talk this over,” Connie suggested, getting out of the car, not looking back to make sure I was following. She knew she had me hooked, like a fisherman reeling in his catch—or a drug dealer closing a crack sale. She strolled inside the house, leaving the door ajar, and sauntered through the living room to end up standing in front of a small, oak kitchen table.

  “Have a seat.” She took out a notebook and started writing. “Okay, Jeremy. Where do you live?”

  “Just down the street at 1000 Jupiter Road, Apartment 3.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “No, I live with my stepsister, Caitlin.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Where do you work?”

  I cleared my throat. “Mr. Pizza.”

  Her eyes glittered when she looked at me. Her obvious desire made me uncomfortable. Sure, I was banged up, but maybe she liked banging banged-up dudes. I felt like a porno guy in a cheesy seventies XXX movie. Who ordered the twelve-inch pizza, extra sausage? Wrap your lips around it while it’s still hot, bay-beeeee. I blushed, which made my scars feel as if they were twitching.

  “Your position?”

  What was this? A job interview? Somehow I felt like I was being sized up for more than just a car. “I was a delivery driver. Now, without wheels, I’m a cook.”

  I didn’t bother to add that I was barely even a cook. I was allowed to work now by my doctor, provided I didn’t lift more than ten pounds. And a cook had to do a lot of that, between the pans and dough and five-gallon cans of sauce and taking out the garbage, all the shit jobs. I was on limited duty—and on bare minimum pay for a kitchen helper—because Mr. Pizza didn’t want to pay me unemployment benefits. Or maybe they didn’t want to get sued for ugly discrimination.

  Connie swiped a few grains of salt from her upper lip with her fingers. “Do you plan to use the car to deliver pizzas?”

  How could I deliver pizzas in such a classic car? “I don’t know. I haven’t given it that much thought.”

  The money was a little better delivering, because I received a dollar fee for each pizza that went out, plus tips. The idea of driving a muscle car with that much power for pizza deliveries made as much sense as Jeff Gordon using a stock car as a taxicab.

  “I suppose it’s none of my business what you do with the car. Next question: How often do you get paid?”

  “Every two weeks.”

  “How much could you reasonably afford to pay for the car?”

  Because I was helping Caitlin out with the rent and there was college, I pulled out the most realistic figure dealing with my limited finances. “A hundred and fifty.”

  She started scribbling. “According to my calculations, if you give me one hundred and fifty every two weeks, that would equal three hundred bucks a month. If you did that for three months, you’d pay it off.”

  I nodded, surprised she couldn’t do that much figuring in her head. But then, when it came to numbers, some folks thought better on paper.

  Connie jotted down more notes. “This is an agreement saying what we just decided. I want an additional hundred bucks for breaking up the payments. When do you think you could come up with it?”

  “I have that in MetroBank now.”

  “Okay, when you bring over the hundred, sign the contract, consent to the extra clause, then the car is yours.”

  “Extra clause?” I studied the agreement she handed me. “I don’t see any extra clause.”

  “It’s a verbal agreement. Every time you come over with a payment, you’ll agree to do some”—she put her hand on my leg—“personal favors.”

  “What?” I was totally unprepared for that one, though it fit my earlier fantasy. Oooh, Mr. Pizza Man, I don’t have any money for that big, juicy pizza. Can’t we work out a trade? I stammered, “W-what about your husband?”

  “He won’t care, what with him being dead and all. Us widows, we need comforting, and I haven’t had any comfort for a while.” Connie brushed my jawline with her fingertips. “I’m looking forward to some young buck turning back my clock. Don’t think I’m put off none by those scars. Makes you look . . . rugged. I had a boyfriend, long time ago, before I met and married my husband. Came back from Nam the worse for wear. Poor guy didn’t have a nose anymore, but he could suck a cage till all the bars rattled. I made a quilt out of these skin squares he’d collected while in the jungles—still got it somewhere.”

  “What kind of skin?” I said, trying to make sense out of what she was saying.

  “Long pig, kid,” she said with a laugh and a wink.

  Long pig? Wasn’t that what cannibals called human flesh? I didn’t know if she was joking or not, but still, my skin crawled at the thought. I suddenly felt I needed a shower. I tried to smile but I felt dirty, violated somehow.

  “Don’t look so shocked. He was in Nam, ya know. One big savage jungle. A whole different time and place. The war messed him up pretty bad, but he was still all man. Maybe an ugly one, but a man who’s too pretty makes a woman see her own shortcomings.”

  I found myself trembling. But I wasn’t sure if it was at the prospect of turning back this crazy old lady’s clock or of actually being the owner and driver of that ’70 Barracuda at the curb. It was pretty clear she liked her men macho. Was that how she saw me and all my battle scars? With my fucked-up face, I was lucky to turn anybody on, and for an old boozer, she wasn’t half bad. Beggars can’t be choosers. If I had to whore myself out to get this car, well then, let the whoring begin.

  The messed-up good angel swooned and fell off my right shoulder, while the bad angel on my left smiled maggots and chuckle-gurgled his pleasure at my decision. Where you belong echoed in my ears.

  For the first time in nine months, I felt alive. Sitting behind the wheel of that car, I had sensed that my life was no longer stalled. It was in drive at long last.

  “Is it a deal?” Connie asked.

  “Yes, but . . . I don’t know how good I can be. You know, with the favors. I mean, I can barely walk,” I admitted. I didn’t want to disappoint her. She might change her mind about the Barracuda. I’d fuck for that car. Hell, I’d kill for that car.

  “Got just the thing for that, too. My old soldier boy was wrecked, but the seventies introduced a great sex aid for disabled fuckers: the hot tub. The heat is beneficial and the water provides buoyancy. Got one right outside this door on my covered porch.” She was rubbing the front of my pants and therefore my penis, which was becoming broomstick hard.

  I managed to smile at her, telling myself, I will not think of how she reminds me of my mom. That would be incest and this is really just business.

  “My. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I don’t think we’ll have any problems,” she said, giving me a squeeze.

  I cleared my throat. “Then . . . okay.”

  “Sign here,” she said, handing me a pen.

  I did as I was told.

  “Okay, when you come back with the money, I’ll give you the keys.” She slipped off the tacky robe
and was as pink underneath as the robe had been. “Now, let’s get started on that first favor . . .”

  I was really worried about how I’d measure up, but as it turned out, everything was all systems go. Both of us were so flesh hungry, it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d been Quasimodo and she’d been Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies. The parts fit together just fine.

  Later, Moose figured I must have stolen that car, since it was way out of my league. I explained to him my deal with Connie.

  “Dude,” he whispered, “that is so American Gigolo. Laying some old bag so you can lay some rubber. Cooooool.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE CROWS

  I was sitting in a darkened theater. This wasn’t some soulless multiplex with spilled soda on the floors and tiny metal seats with a half inch of padding. There was no decibel-blasting, ear-damaging surround sound. There weren’t two dozen other movies playing in a row so that the mood was one of rancid sardines in a crushed tin. There was no sterile, LEGO snap-on decor here with the reek of cheap nachos and the wee insect shrieks of dying gummy bears.

  No, this was a theater in the high-class style of days gone by. It was a former opera house, converted into a single-screen movie house, with plush curtains, a balcony with a carved gilt railing, and genuine leather seats. Had a ceiling that arched high for maximum acoustics. Was decorated with original posters for the flicks in frames like those in an art gallery. Had honest to God ushers in militia-crisp uniforms, gold braids and epaulets, even red flying-monkey fezzes perched smartly on their heads.

  I had only seen such theaters in films before. I had never experienced one up close and personal.

  Though the surroundings were luxurious, everything stank of death. Sweeter than a Good & Plenty massacre, sourer than a case of hot dogs dumped behind the backseats and turning to pork-entrail and chicken-beak slime. It smelled like I was sitting in the middle of a morgue where the air-conditioning had gone out a month earlier.

  This was a midnight movie in the Land of the Dead. All the audience members were dead, of course. Except for me.

  As the ushers glided from the shadows to escort them to seats, I could see various patrons had knives embedded to their hilts in skull bones, bullet wounds yawning front and back through hearts, barbed wire cinched around throats and digging like sharp claws into tracheas and jugulars. I saw folks with their eye sockets sunken so far back, they looked like dried-up Milk Duds in patches of crusty cotton-candy brains. I saw reams and ripples of decomposing bubble-gum flesh.