I was driving Ashley's car home. Dallas to El Paso is a ten-hour haul if you're doing nothing else, and I wasn't.
A red Honda Accord. Bought with her own money, or anyway not mine. She'd worked at the mall for two years, her friend said. Her key-chain held a little white rubber Schnauzer toy and only a couple of keys. Too young for more. Far too young.
Before starting I'd dipped my hand under the seat. A sandal. Lipstick. A grocery list, which I folded and put in my pocket. A cup-holder full of pennies. Deep under the seat among the oiled parts was tucked a light, fragile-feeling object wrapped in newspaper. I put it back.
The handling in the Honda was stiff and sludgy, as if it was resisting me. Automatically I went to shift the seat back and stopped, as if fearful of displacing her. The radio was set to classical music. Had she liked classical? I let the violins wash through the car.
Her diary sat in the passenger's seat. A version of her, riding by my side. A booby trap, that could only go off if I opened it. I would have to open it.
I knew I-20 intimately and adjusted unconsciously, the way your body shifts in sleep, to the speed traps, the stretches you could open up, where the four lanes became ten and back again. In a couple of hours the handling smoothed out; it became my car. I didn't stop. Stopping would mean reading. The violins blurred into dissonant piano, into full orchestra, back to violin, my burning bladder a chronic condition, beyond cure or caring. Penance.
The sun fell, the sky went black: A bright clear night for stars. Ursa Major. Ashley had been right. It doesn't look like a bear at all. Did the stars look different in Dallas? I had only been twice, once to drive her to school, the other time for a weekend visit where she couldn't do anything right.
What is wrong with me?
An exhausted noise humming below the violins drew my attention. I had neglected the vital thing: The gas gauge in the Accord was bottom right, not top left like in my truck, and it was dipped dangerously below the line.
Don't leave me here.
I lurched the car toward the bright green exit sign and curved sharply off I-20, bracing the diary so it didn't slide; immediately a blue and white poison snow-cone lit up in the rear-view mirror. I pulled over, still caught on the ramp, pulled out my license, her registration, straightening them for presentation. I blinked politely in the glare of the cop's flashlight.
"Sir, I notice you turned off when I came behind you. Can I ask why?"
"I didn't know you were back there, that's why."
A silent perusal of the offered material by flashlight, thorough enough to be insulting. "I see that this vehicle isn't registered in your name. Is Ashley your wife?"
"Ashley is not my wife."
Officer Friendly took the flashlight, looked over the backseat, checked the tags. Faintly from the main highway came the whirr of speeding cars and rigs. When he returned he had a pen. "I also see you're driving with an expired tag. Were you aware these tags had expired, sir?"
"It's not my car. It's my daughter's car."
"May I ask why you're driving your daughter's car?"
"This is bullshit."
The officer swelled up. "What was that, sir?" He put the pen away, perhaps considering an upgrade.
"You know I'm 49 and never been in a jail in all my life? Because I've always tried to be respectful. Or maybe I was just scared."
"This will be easier if you cooperate, sir." I thought of a white cell, bologna for lunch, and was surprised to discover I didn't care. "I'll ask you again. Why are you driving your daughter's car?"
"I am driving my daughter's car home from her funeral. What I will do after that I do not yet know but I shall certainly keep the authorities in the loop."
A pause. "Is that it. Well. I am awful sorry to hear that, sir."
"I'm sorry about a lot. You know I'm not a criminal. Any more questions you'd like to ask me, or am I free to keep minding my own business?"
He hadn't stepped off or stooped down, if anything had become more rigid. But now he looked like he wanted to take off the patrol cap and scratch his head. And now dammit I felt a little bad for him. Life pushes you against a wall and takes a photo and that's who you are. It was all a damn shame.
The cop pulled off after mumbling something about getting a new tag ("when you can get to it") and I sat there a while, the gas ticking away. I was two hours from the empty house. I must have sat there half an hour, not looking at the diary.
By the time I cranked up again the fuel was vapor. The only light up ahead revealed the bright orange gabled roof of what turned out to be a motor hotel.
I coasted to a stop in the parking lot under the one lamppost still leaking light and rounded up what Ashley had left behind. The thing in newspaper I dropped in a garbage can with a heavy lid.
I took a room on the second level. After a long piss I unhooked the toy dog from the key chain and placed it on the table along with the grocery list and the penny jar. The diary I laid softly on the bedside table. The air conditioner was dead so I threw open the door for a breeze and stood on the landing to take it in.
Those stars so serendipitously bunched together into constellations? Actually billions of miles apart. Only by chance do they line up to appear connected. Thinking of the gaps made me dizzy.
I went inside and propped myself up in bed. I would do it now, while my dread was just another odd shadow in my punch-drunk mind. I skimmed the tight cursive with wretched urgency for damnation or possible reprieve.
And finally, nothing of family. A police raid of a party, a few hours in lock-up. I burned with bootless anger. "Don't forget the mustard!" twice, an inside joke that would never get explained. Ashley's skittering over the pages. Some of the A's curlicued into elaborate flowers with big smiling heads. Her work schedule for this week. Plans. We all make plans.
I laid my head down, and the universe fell in.
Through the singularity I emerged un-weighted, floating above the bed, through the open door. The sky was gleaming, milky with stars. I rocked my head back to see more and found I already could, the grand panorama effortlessly visible as I rose through white mist. But I recognized nothing. Had the constellations not come together yet? Had they long fallen apart? So what was I then? What was anyone?
I startled upright in bed, slapping at my tingling arms.
What is this world?
I bolted out onto the landing. The car was under the lamp, just where it had stopped. It was empty. It was just a car. It was the stars that had changed, a little.
A red Honda Accord. Bought with her own money, or anyway not mine. She'd worked at the mall for two years, her friend said. Her key-chain held a little white rubber Schnauzer toy and only a couple of keys. Too young for more. Far too young.
Before starting I'd dipped my hand under the seat. A sandal. Lipstick. A grocery list, which I folded and put in my pocket. A cup-holder full of pennies. Deep under the seat among the oiled parts was tucked a light, fragile-feeling object wrapped in newspaper. I put it back.
The handling in the Honda was stiff and sludgy, as if it was resisting me. Automatically I went to shift the seat back and stopped, as if fearful of displacing her. The radio was set to classical music. Had she liked classical? I let the violins wash through the car.
Her diary sat in the passenger's seat. A version of her, riding by my side. A booby trap, that could only go off if I opened it. I would have to open it.
I knew I-20 intimately and adjusted unconsciously, the way your body shifts in sleep, to the speed traps, the stretches you could open up, where the four lanes became ten and back again. In a couple of hours the handling smoothed out; it became my car. I didn't stop. Stopping would mean reading. The violins blurred into dissonant piano, into full orchestra, back to violin, my burning bladder a chronic condition, beyond cure or caring. Penance.
The sun fell, the sky went black: A bright clear night for stars. Ursa Major. Ashley had been right. It doesn't look like a bear at all. Did the stars look different in Dallas? I had only been twice, once to drive her to school, the other time for a weekend visit where she couldn't do anything right.
What is wrong with me?
An exhausted noise humming below the violins drew my attention. I had neglected the vital thing: The gas gauge in the Accord was bottom right, not top left like in my truck, and it was dipped dangerously below the line.
Don't leave me here.
I lurched the car toward the bright green exit sign and curved sharply off I-20, bracing the diary so it didn't slide; immediately a blue and white poison snow-cone lit up in the rear-view mirror. I pulled over, still caught on the ramp, pulled out my license, her registration, straightening them for presentation. I blinked politely in the glare of the cop's flashlight.
"Sir, I notice you turned off when I came behind you. Can I ask why?"
"I didn't know you were back there, that's why."
A silent perusal of the offered material by flashlight, thorough enough to be insulting. "I see that this vehicle isn't registered in your name. Is Ashley your wife?"
"Ashley is not my wife."
Officer Friendly took the flashlight, looked over the backseat, checked the tags. Faintly from the main highway came the whirr of speeding cars and rigs. When he returned he had a pen. "I also see you're driving with an expired tag. Were you aware these tags had expired, sir?"
"It's not my car. It's my daughter's car."
"May I ask why you're driving your daughter's car?"
"This is bullshit."
The officer swelled up. "What was that, sir?" He put the pen away, perhaps considering an upgrade.
"You know I'm 49 and never been in a jail in all my life? Because I've always tried to be respectful. Or maybe I was just scared."
"This will be easier if you cooperate, sir." I thought of a white cell, bologna for lunch, and was surprised to discover I didn't care. "I'll ask you again. Why are you driving your daughter's car?"
"I am driving my daughter's car home from her funeral. What I will do after that I do not yet know but I shall certainly keep the authorities in the loop."
A pause. "Is that it. Well. I am awful sorry to hear that, sir."
"I'm sorry about a lot. You know I'm not a criminal. Any more questions you'd like to ask me, or am I free to keep minding my own business?"
He hadn't stepped off or stooped down, if anything had become more rigid. But now he looked like he wanted to take off the patrol cap and scratch his head. And now dammit I felt a little bad for him. Life pushes you against a wall and takes a photo and that's who you are. It was all a damn shame.
The cop pulled off after mumbling something about getting a new tag ("when you can get to it") and I sat there a while, the gas ticking away. I was two hours from the empty house. I must have sat there half an hour, not looking at the diary.
By the time I cranked up again the fuel was vapor. The only light up ahead revealed the bright orange gabled roof of what turned out to be a motor hotel.
I coasted to a stop in the parking lot under the one lamppost still leaking light and rounded up what Ashley had left behind. The thing in newspaper I dropped in a garbage can with a heavy lid.
I took a room on the second level. After a long piss I unhooked the toy dog from the key chain and placed it on the table along with the grocery list and the penny jar. The diary I laid softly on the bedside table. The air conditioner was dead so I threw open the door for a breeze and stood on the landing to take it in.
Those stars so serendipitously bunched together into constellations? Actually billions of miles apart. Only by chance do they line up to appear connected. Thinking of the gaps made me dizzy.
I went inside and propped myself up in bed. I would do it now, while my dread was just another odd shadow in my punch-drunk mind. I skimmed the tight cursive with wretched urgency for damnation or possible reprieve.
And finally, nothing of family. A police raid of a party, a few hours in lock-up. I burned with bootless anger. "Don't forget the mustard!" twice, an inside joke that would never get explained. Ashley's skittering over the pages. Some of the A's curlicued into elaborate flowers with big smiling heads. Her work schedule for this week. Plans. We all make plans.
I laid my head down, and the universe fell in.
Through the singularity I emerged un-weighted, floating above the bed, through the open door. The sky was gleaming, milky with stars. I rocked my head back to see more and found I already could, the grand panorama effortlessly visible as I rose through white mist. But I recognized nothing. Had the constellations not come together yet? Had they long fallen apart? So what was I then? What was anyone?
I startled upright in bed, slapping at my tingling arms.
What is this world?
I bolted out onto the landing. The car was under the lamp, just where it had stopped. It was empty. It was just a car. It was the stars that had changed, a little.
