Early Short Tails

by Barry Rachin

  The Ride

  The old radio finally started to sing white noise instead of the classic country radio that it played before. "Classic country radio." He had to laugh. Most of those songs were new while he was in high school if not a little before. He grew up with those songs. He was too young for songs that he grew up to be considering "classic." It had been what, ten years since gradation? 2004. Shit. It has been twelve. Still. It seemed ridiculous. He turned the dial. His callused finger tips knew the rotation well. The radio went from noise to a jumbled march of talk shows, advertisements, more static, rap, static, and finally country again. It was new country but it was country still. He turned it up. He smiled and replaced his hand on to the gear shift. With one hand on the wheel he watched as he passed Exit 27. Just the same as always. QYTZ Classic Country never seemed to make it out here.

  Exit 27 wasn't the first landmark and it would not be the last. Three hours in now. Three hours to go and those four hours in the middle wasn't nothing near stimulating. He knew the Exit signs, the curves in the express way, he knew where the cops like to hide and where there wouldn't be one for miles, and of course he knew where his radio stations would fail. His green eyes didn't bother with the landscape anymore. Trees that followed the horizon for leagues quickly lost their appeal. The road that curved forever was what he had in front of him. Hours of travel ahead of him through the windshield. Reflector decorated grey ahead and fall painted forever to the side. He yawned. But he had his car.

  His car. A 1967 Chevy Impala. Red. Her name was Ruby. Maybe it was a little clich? for a man to name his car but it was what it was. It was his car. He could call her whatever he liked. She was his baby. She was his baby. He placed is arm on the length of the bench seat across the top. The sun faded dashboard still had the crack along its surface form the scourging summer some years back. It ran like lightening from glass to wheel. He always joked the scar have her face some character. The bench seats were leather and God damn did they get hot in the summer. But the back seat was perfect when he brought Emmy here after she finished college. They made love back there. Twice. He brushed the blonde hair away from her blue eyes. Her lips tasted like strawberry wine. God that seemed like forever ago. The ring he bought didn't fit. It slipped off her finger twice as she cried. He smiled at the thought. It was fun drive with Emmy. The smile slipped. She didn't want to take that journey for as long as he did though. He asked her to marry him in the back seat and she asked to end that marriage in the front. She sat right there in the passenger seat. She wasn't crying then and he didn't bother to move the brunette dyed lock of hair from her face.

  He refused to look to his right. Some flickers of old memory liked to linger. He was a lot older in the rearview mirror now than when the last time Emmy was in this car. It wasn't that long but life does its damage. His green, stressed bordered eyes looked back at him in the reflection. And he could see the toddler booster seat in the back. It was empty. His smile returned. He gave her a marriage, she gave him a divorce, but they gave each other Jacob. And it was the second weekend of the month. He knew this ride well. He wouldn't miss it for the world.

  The Box

  The box sat on the top step right outside my door. It was wrapped in red wrapping paper and tied with black ribbon. Red and black were my favorite colors. I somehow doubted that could be some kind of coincidence. I stared at it a moment before deciding to pick the thing up. My favorite color on my steps. I suppose it's mine. Well, not like there was anyone else here anymore that it could possibly belong too. I sat it down on the coffee table in front of my favorite chair and debated opening it up or watching the rest of tonight's episode of "Game of Thrones." One of the Starks who somehow managed not to die was paused mid run on the screen. Suppose that would make tonight Sunday? I don't know. Who cares. Well unless I have to work tomorrow and then I kind of care. I kill another cigarette while I stare at that newly arrived parcel. Newly arrived? Bloody thing could have been there all day for all I knew. All weekend possibly. I blew smoke from my nose and replaced the cigarette in my hand with a small glass of whiskey. The ice had long since melted. Nothing like watered down tobacco flavored booze. Red and black. Only a handful of people in this world knew my favorite colors. Mrs. Perry, my second grade teacher, my mother who he only guessed did because that is kind of crap mother's remember, and of course, her.

  Mrs. Perry knew my favorite colors because I "accidently" painted her desk in those hues when I was left unsupervised for longer than anyone should leave a second grader unsupervised. Later they asked me why I did such a thing. I believe I said because I spilled the paint on her desk and I wanted all the colors to match. It may or not have been because the near ancient teacher kept breathing in my face after she ate her garlic and onion sandwiches during lunch. My father thought it was funny. My mother not so much. Speaking of my mother, she knew right? That's what mothers know. Favorite colors, favorite meals, favorite stuff animal I slept with as a kid and all that kind of crap. I doubt Mrs. Perry (God she has to be dead by now right?) or my mother would leave a package on my front door step randomly on a (maybe) Sunday night. So that leaves pretty much her. Damn it.

  "Her" would be Lynn. Lynn would be my most recent failure in the world of relationships. Or triumph when it comes to being a paragon of rejection. Guess it depends on how you look at it. Kind of what I am known for around here. She was pretty. The crazy ones always seem to be. Crazy and pretty. And usually you notice the pretty long before you notice the crazy. Oh she was pretty. Long dark hair with blue eyes. I never liked blue eyes before. Brown was more my sort. Brown eyes were easy to get lost into. Hers with blue and beautiful. And hid a tendency to be nuts. Maybe it was a vagina thing? Did having breast and a vagina somehow make one crazy? Like the ability to have multiple orgasms gives them an unavoidable need to make someone want you and then leave whenever they felt like it? She knew my favorite colors? She should. We dated for almost three years. Maybe a little over three years. Like it a month more or less mattered now. She was gone and I was here. I was still in this bloody place and she was outside that door. The door with the steps in which this thing was left for him to find. Bloody her.

  I went to the kitchen to refill my glass. Opening a new bottle of Jack, I never took my eyes off the package. Red and black. The last words she said to me was calling me an asshole. Me!? Maybe I was an asshole. I could be an asshole. I am an asshole. I hated that the last words I had seen coming from that pretty mouth was those words. She wielded anger well though. She left me. She left me. Was I supposed to take it well? I mean seriously? Isn't it okay that I am a little crazy? Don't I get to be hurt? I finished my glass and walked over to the table and picked up the package. Red and black. Screw her. I tossed it in the trash and went back to my TV to see which Stark dies tonight.

  About the Author

  Raised in a blue collar home in Spring Hill, Florida, J Johns found a love for writing after having a young love affair with film's such as epic fantasies, thought provoking science fictions, and personal everyday life. Along with motion pictures he enjoyed television series that centered on character development over action oriented plot. Now he is working on several works and is a current student at Full Sail University for his Bachelors in Creative Writing in Entertainment.

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