Paths

by David DeSimone

  Poor Drew went from heartfelt to heartache. The steady decline began only a few weeks after the purchase when he began hearing a strange clattering noise coming from the gearbox. This ultimately led to total failure of the transmission. It took weeks to repair due to the car’s manufacturer being outside the country; the parts had to be shipped from England.

  And that was only the beginning. From the time of purchase to finally deciding he had had enough three years later and rolling it into a country road ditch, the yellow Satan had sucked thousands of dollars out of his hard-earned savings. Bucket seats notwithstanding, there was nothing in the car that wasn’t either rebuilt or replaced. Even now, Drew still couldn’t believe he had allowed himself to spend that much money to keep it road worthy:

  - Rebuilt Transmission. $250

  - New Tires (after a terrifying blowout on I-95). $500

  - New Brake lines and brake pump (after his brakes suddenly failed. He had to use the emergency brakes to bring the car to a halt). $250

  - Replacement of rear differential (bought from a junkyard). $350

  - Engine replacement (bought from a junkyard). $550

  - Complete electrical rewiring (after a short caused a fire and burned a hole through the plastic of the top part of the dashboard). $500

  - Additional $600 on more miscellaneous parts.

  None of this included the $700 he forked over for the paint job and pin stripes, and another $150 on a new stereo.

  When Drew added up the total amount of time the car was actually drivable he got just eight months. That was it. Eight months. The rest of the two plus years he owned it, the TR7 sat gathering cobwebs in some back lot while either waiting for parts to arrive from overseas, waiting for the mechanic to find time to get around to fixing it, or the car would simply languish in the family garage.

  Yes, it was a money pit and he was a fool, but he enjoyed tinkering. He learned a lot about how cars worked, which he found interesting if not fascinating.

  It had the intricacies somewhat akin to software: multiple components interacting with each other to make the system work as a whole.

  But the real reason he kept the car was because he simply couldn’t stop thinking about it, a tragic love affair between man and machine (or in this case boy and machine). Sometimes he’d find himself sitting alone in the cold seat with only dust and spiders to keep him company, not a single light on in the garage, one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick, the air thick with the smell of old motor oil and gasoline. During those times he’d dream of driving again.

  Reliving the thrill of shifting gears.

  The pull of acceleration.

  Heavy metal cranked full volume.

  Oh, the fun of having your own car…

  When it worked.

  He was convinced the car was evil. Some kind of black magic possessed it.

  How else would you explain, one, the spell it had over him and, two, all the shit that had gone wrong?

  Another question he had to ask himself was why he always looked back at those days with fondness?

  His answer was because it wasn’t just about the miseries of owning a lemon. It was also about oil-stained denim jeans, concert tee shirts, grimy hands, tousled hair, driving carefree on summer nights with the windows rolled down and girls, girls, girls. It was about dreaming, and letting the drive fuel those dreams.

  3

  With the gas nozzle still held in his hand, Drew gazed toward the southern part of the sky. The anomaly was gone, though it might still be hiding under a thin layer of clouds. What had the news called it, a fallstreak?

  Although not as black as sackcloth, the anomaly was nonetheless unusually dark. What made it especially odd was the lack of surface detail. It was a flat, gray circular shape in the sky with fuzzy edges. It hadn’t been very large, (about the size of a fist held at arm’s length).

  The news reporter attributed the cause to be the low angle of the sun: early morning rays hitting a dense, icy cloud from the side, and thus casting a long shadow across the face of the cloud.

  It was a typical meteorological phenomenon.

  No big deal.

  Drew wasn’t buying it. Ice doesn’t absorb light, even if stuck in clouds, he surmised. It either reflects light or refracts it, turning rays of sunlight into a rainbow.

  He didn’t know what the hell it was up there.

  But a fallstreak it wasn’t.

  But that was several hours ago. He figured if nothing happened to the world by now, then nothing probably would.

  Drew only wished for a better explanation.

  4

  Despite rush hour being an hour away, it was still a busy afternoon at the gas station.

  A young mother and her pretty teenage daughter climbed out from the front doors of a Chevy sedan followed by two children, a girl and a boy, exiting the rear. The mother wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt. Her bleach-blonde hair was haphazardly twisted into a bun, which was beginning to unravel. The teenager had long, chestnut brown hair that flowed wispily after her. She had on a blue windbreaker over a white tee shirt and jeans. As she took the little girl by the hand, the mother lifted the boy and cradled him in one arm. They hurried toward the food mart while the mother assured the boy that they’re very close to the bathroom. “Hang on! Almost there!” The boy was near tears. At the same time the teenager was busily promising the little girl that she was going to buy her, her favorite cupcakes.

  Ah, the joys of parenthood.

  And this was what Eva wanted?

  From the pump directly across from Drew, a lanky young man with long hair leaned against his silver Mustang waiting for his muscle car to quench its insatiable thirst. He sported mirrored aviator sunglasses, which made it impossible to tell whether he was looking at you or not.

  Drew shifted his gaze.

  Parked about fifty feet down from the gas station, a white utility truck displaying a ConEd logo sat idling pumping power into a jackhammer by way of an air hose. Three dark-skinned men wearing red reflector vests and white helmets also bearing the ConEd logo, stood around a pit while a fourth worked the jackhammer. On the opposite end sat a utility and shovel truck next to a dumpster. Orange cones and caution tape cordoned off the right lane for a stretch of over a hundred feet or so, forcing the traffic to pinch, much to the irritation of already edgy, late-afternoon drivers. The ear-shredding clatter of the jackhammer drowned out most of the conversation - or arguments - spoken in Spanish between the four road workers.

  A large black Buick rolled up to the Food Mart, and an old man with a salt and pepper beard got out. He shuffled painfully on arthritic knees into the food mart. He paused a moment, struggled to lift the belt over his paunch. Realizing he was fighting a losing battle, the old man waved it off grunting. He finally made it to the store and entered.

  A blue Toyota hybrid pulled into the station and an attractive young woman whose golden hair was pulled into a ponytail jumped out of the car. She had on a tight jogging outfit with pink sneakers. Drew stared admiringly as she unhooked the nozzle and began pumping the gas.

  More people came and went.

  A man in his thirties strode out of the food mart tapping down a pack of cigarettes. Like Drew he too stared at Ms. Golden Ponytail.

  From the passenger side of the Acura, Eva noticed a man in a black and blue Spandex outfit as he rolled his silver road bike up to the air pump. He dropped the kickstand, bent over, checked the tires. They needed air. It was now Eva's turn to get an eyeful and she didn't let a second go to waste.

  A middle-aged black woman, overdressed in a black coat, lumbered out of the food mart struggling with bags of groceries in both hands. She turned to the far side of the food mart where a red Subaru waited for her. Her husband got out, opened the rear door and helped her unload the groceries into the car. They both got back into the car, and for whatever reason chose to linger.

  5

  Drew set the gas nozzle securely into the Acura, pulled out his wallet
, and was about to feed the card reader when he noticed something strange about the pump’s digital readout. It was shimmering, as if being viewed under running water. He leaned closer, squinting to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, but it only seemed to make matters worse. What was supposed to represent the total gallon amount drawn by the previous customer, showed only gibberish.

  It wasn’t only happening with the gallons display either. All numbers on the display panel were affected.

  He recalled how the digital tuner numbers on the car radio also went haywire and how the severity of disintegration depended on the proximity of his hand.

  A light bulb went off in his head.

  Drew leaned away from the pump.

  He waited.

  The shapes flickered and stuttered before his eyes, and then the digital numbers reappeared.

  Drew was astonished.

  Slowly he raised a finger to the glass covering, gave it a few light raps for no better reason than to see what would happen. Once again, the numbers flickered, shimmied, and finally scattered into digital disarray.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said under his breath.

  At that moment he knew it had to do with the MRI accident.

  That goddamned MRI.

  Until then electronic things around him worked just fine.

  Technology loved Drew and Drew loved technology. They were pals, BFFs. Some people had green thumbs that gave them a knack for growing healthy strong plants. Drew had a silicone thumb. He could fix or modify anything with transistors, something to which Eva could attest firsthand.

  There have been countless times when her desktop computer stubbornly refused to unfreeze. Following a few magical keystrokes by the wizard himself, the computer would come around. It never failed.

  Drew’s touch was synergistic.

  Harmonious.

  One with the circuits.

  Very Zen.

  After the accident, however, it was appearing that electronic devices had decided to, well, unfriend him.

  The question was why?

  What happened in that imaging room?

  He thought of the strange luminescent aura – or whatever the hell it was – that had blanketed Tray, Eva and him, and how it lingered several seconds after the machine went dead.

  Was it a gas?

  Electrically charged particles?

  Was it radioactive, for chrissake?

  Because of his limited knowledge of physics and chemistry, Drew was in want of answers.

  Whatever he and his wife were exposed to was still around them, invisible, as evidenced by the aberrant behavior of nearby electronics.

  Although it was crazy, absolutely insane, Drew suspected that his hypothesis wasn’t so out-of-the-ballpark. The pump’s display stared back at him with all numbers accounted for.

  As Drew stood there lost in thought, his hand holding his MasterCard shook with nervous energy.

  Something stole the crook of his eye and he turned.

  Edging up to the curb of pump no. 1, a corner pump two islands away, was a large Ford pickup.

  A gray Ford pickup.

  He didn’t need to read the F150 decal on the front quarter panel to know the model. Drew had been schooled to recognize its finer features - the extra large cabin, low-slanting windshield, large front-end assembly that practically scraped the ground and, of course, the oval grille ornament bearing the automaker’s name.

  He would bet his entire investment portfolio that the person about to step out was none other than Mr. Red Cap, a.k.a. the maniac.

  The sight of the red cap made his stomach do cartwheels, felt his knees weaken. Drew tucked the MasterCard into his wallet.

  Red Cap stepped out of the pickup and began fueling up. He wore a red-checkered flannel shirt, gray cargo pants (the color of his truck) and heavy work boots. Just a regular, hard-working guy coming home from the job site. Apart from his bulk and height, which was comparable to those of an offensive tackle, his round face and calm bright eyes gave off an impression more akin to gentle giant than what he really was, a raging maniac.

  Drew looked on with dumbstruck fascination.

  Standing on shaky legs he used the Acura to steady himself.

  Drew stooped low hoping he hadn’t been seen. He stared around the side of the pump.

  The maniac gazed outward not focusing on anything in particular. Something caught his eye. He turned to see the teenage daughter and the little girl leaving the food mart.

  Drew followed the maniac’s gaze as the girls headed back to their car.

  He returned his attention to the maniac.

  The maniac continued filling his tank.

  What did he really have on the guy? He started making a mental checklist weighing between circumstantial and hard evidence.

  The shattered taillight: There was no bullet.

  Dented rear fender: The F150s front bumper looked no worse for the wear. No dents, no scrape marks. The Acura’s fender-bender could have been caused by anything.

  Caught in the Act: Had they recorded proof of the maniac in the act of committing a crime? No. Neither he nor Eva thought to capture the chase on video or in a photo. They had been too busy trying to stay alive.

  Call 9-1-1: They tried but were in a dead zone, probably the reason why the maniac chose that stretch of back road.

  Sadly, the evidence wasn’t in Drew’s favor. It would be the Fairwood’s word against his and that might not hold up in a court of law. If there was the slightest chance he was proven innocent because of lack of evidence, the maniac might use the information he gathered in court against the Fairwoods, which could lead him to their front doorstep.

  But what about the maniac’s next victim?

  Or the one after that?

  Or the tenth one?

  If nothing were done, the blood of future victims would be on Drew’s hands.

  The maniac dropped the nozzle back in its cradle, recapped the fuel tank, and walked toward the food mart. His big meaty legs looked like they could squash someone’s head. He pulled out his wallet and removed two twenty-dollar bills as he crossed the second island. Of course it was cash, Drew thought rather snidely. Why leave a paper trail?

  Drew squatted to avoid detection. He waited.

  The maniac passed by without ever taking his eyes off his wallet as he entered the food mart. Tiny bells above the door announced his entrance.

  Drew rose to his feet and stood quietly while ideas whirred in his brain like dust in a vacuum hose, cloudy and scattered.

  The gray pickup truck sat alone amongst the bustling traffic. He could hear ticking of the cooling engine like the metronomic beat of a doomsday clock counting down to Zero Hour. The End Times. There seemed to be a dark cloud hanging over the truck that spoke of danger and terrible possibilities and Drew had become an unwilling part of those possibilities - unless he did something about it.

  From the inside pocket of his leather jacket Drew took out his cellphone, pressed the power button as he had done a thousand times before. The screen was washed out with LED noise. “Ah, shit!” he growled pocketing the phone.

  Directly above, shades of blue sky poked through the haze. No visible signs of the anomaly remained.

  The road crew packed up while the shovel truck pulled away.

  The mother and son exited the food mart hand in hand, both now appearing calm.

  Drew looked at his wife through the driver-side window as she watched the mom pack her little boy into the car, not noticing the maniac passing the car. Drew opened the car door and got in.

  6

  “What’s wrong?” she asked not liking the expression on his face.

  “Look at the truck over there, the pickup.”

  She looked over his shoulder and froze.

  When she was finally able to speak, she said, “That can’t be,” shaking her head in disbelief.

  “You didn’t see him go into the store?”

  “No, I was trying to get my ph
one to work.”

  He acknowledged her with a nod.

  “What should we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Should we tell someone?”

  “No. We’ve got no real proof against him. They’d think we’re crazy. ”

  “Well, what do you suggest we do? If we don’t do anything, then maybe he’ll strike again and it’ll be on us. We would be just as guilty as him. Have you thought about that?”

  “Yes, I have,” he said with a stab of remorse.

  She watched his eyes shift from right to left and an idea began to take shape. “You know what?” he said.

  “What?”

  He opened the door.

  “Drew, tell me!”

  “I’m going to go in there,” he said pointing to the food mart, “and report him to the clerk.”

  “What if the clerk doesn’t believe you? We’re the crazy ones. Remember?”

  “He will.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I just know.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “If anybody’s going to believe me it’ll be a convenience store clerk. Who else knows better than a guy who could at any moment find himself staring down the barrel of a gun.”

  She looked doubtful but said nothing.

  “Besides,” he continued, “I’m not going to report him, per se, just his license plate. Let the police do a background check on him. At least we could say we’ve done something.”

  “If you’re going to do this -”

  “Yes?”

  “Then take his license plate number down now and wait for him to leave, then go tell the clerk.”

  “I don’t see why I can’t go in now and point the guy out to the clerk.”

  “Drew, don’t be macho - “

  “I’m not being macho!”

  She sighed and said, “Just take the number down, please. And you should do it now while you can!”