The Night Before My Beige Tercel Went Off The Cedar Creek Bridge With All Of Us Inside
Does she know what will happen? Of course she does. There's no doubt.
Well, maybe.
No, it's clear: she knows everything. Her voice could birth thoughts in
the minds of the dead. Her smile could bring peace to Israel. Or Iraq,
or Afghanistan. Wherever.
He thinks I am a bad driver, but it's his own fault. I am distracted.
And, shit, it's not like I've hit anyone. It invariably takes my full
restraint to keep from backing him over. I want to rip through him like
a drill press or a commuter train. Whichever is more painful.
And I remember driving though a different lifetime. The car rumbled
forward, engine churning, gasoline flowing to the combustion chamber,
sacrificing itself for our trouble. The windows swallowed the scenery
ahead and excreted it again behind us, as if we were never there. The
plains stretched on and on, suggesting some vague threat that I am still
unable to give a name to. It was long past midnight, and I'm not really
positive which city in which state we were passing through. It doesn't
matter.
Now—like then—the world is pitch black. In times like these we may
as well be slicing through infinity.
I also remember a time at work when I accidentally hit myself in the
head with a wrench. How embarrassing was that? The answer: extremely.
It was extremely embarrassing. Just like when I agreed to accompany
them on this trip. I love her. I hate him. Everything has its
inconveniences.
I want to tell her to listen, to understand, but it is too late. She
understands all too well.
Now in the middle of this pathetic love triangle, I want to be taken far
away. To bed? Perhaps. We could build a bed together and it would
smell like Christmas once a year and that would be enough. Wouldn't it?
I think it would.
And her laugh slips around the car like the ocean breeze just before a
storm. I have caused this to happen. This is a good thing. I could
live in
In this impossible future we could go out into the night and invent our
own cities and playgrounds and she would teach me how to write love
poems and I would teach her how to spell "mistake." I would feel my
nerves collapse before her as I wait for the fiery Armageddon I was
promised.
Just listen. What? No. Listen.
Look, I want to say. I know of a teenager who would love me. She has
answers in her naivete that you can only be jealous of. And I'll take
my teenager and move to Las Vegas and I will forget your name forever
and bet it all on 18 black because, fuck you, it's not like I ever asked
for a miracle, only to scratch my name on the polished surface of your
heart.
So listen, I could say: How about this? I have a friend in a mental
hospital. I have stories. I have bailed him out many times. I am
noble in my sacrifice. It's easy to sympathize with the mentally ill.
They are like presents on Valentine's Day.
In the rearview mirror their heads coalesce, causing jealousy to
resonate in furious shapes within my skull.
I imagine flipping the car. I'll do it, I swear I will and my seat belt
remains unhooked as the fiery crash burns luminous in the eye of my
brain.
She taps my shoulder and I flinch. I am poorly designed; I jump at
every touch. "Maybe I'd better drive," she says and I try to hate her
for it, but it just won't take so I picture her head as a rock and her
heart as a chia pet and place myself subtly into her self-portrait,
waiting.
She has no specific scent but I wouldn't care if her perfume were
sulfur. She could make robots seize or do the electric slide. Can you
feel it? It's electric. Electric like the disappointment my face cannot
conceal.
This is the worst vacation ever.