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Saturday, May 24, 2003

"There was an auto ittying by and it had its radio on. . .and I viddied at once what to do."
-A Clockwork Orange



FICTION:



Flying (part 2)



Why isn’t driving a sport?

Steven’s car was slowing down. The muscle and bone was tight across the top of his foot. His toes fanned out, audibly popping free from the sweat that glued them together. His foot rose higher off the pedal and the numbers under his hand fell.

Why isn’t driving a game?

He looked down the road and tried to guess where his car would finally stop. It the fading light he could see something curled up to the left of the white lines, right where an oncoming tire would hit.

Why isn’t driving enough of a reason to get in your car?

The car inched foward and Steven knew he wasn’t going to make it to that shape on the road. He opened the door and watched the black tar roll by under him. He turned his steering wheel slightly so the thing on the road could be reached from the driver’s seat. The road under him slowed even more and he saw an insect crawling along next to him, easily keeping pace with the vehicle. He wasn’t going to make it.

You know why driving ain’t a sport?

He slid his goot outside and felt the wind drying the webbing between his toes. He stepped on the road. The sun was down but the tar was still warm. He clenched his teeth and curled his foot for traction and walked the car forward. Several minutes later he was on top of the thing, leg aching, heel bleeding and sweat running down his nose.

There’s no ball when you drive. That’s why it can’t be a sport.

It wasn’t an animal. A short kick made a sound like wind chimes and he realized it was metal. Maybe something from a car?
Maybe something like a gall bladder to a car, something the car didn’t really need. Otherwise the car would still be here. Or dying near by.

Steven leaned out and looked to the vanishing point. Then he heard something rustle in the weeds and he quickly pulled his leg inside, banging his ankle in the process, and slammed the door shut. He pinched his eyes shut until the pain went away. He shook his head. Stopping in the middle of a road felt all wrong. He felt like a boy who was forced to piss himself on a long drive. Everything he’d ever learned about driving told him that he shouldn’t be stopped on the white lines. Everything he knew about the road was coaxing his foot back to the gas. To stop was a violation, not just of the law, a violation of a code. If someone saw him they would stare as if they’d seen a plane stopped cold in the sky.

Only nothing was coming. He rolled down his window and spit into the ditch and listened. No cars, no animals, nothing. He wanted to stay like that forever. A flash of movement caught his eye and he craned his neck outside. He remembered when he was a boy and he had tried to believe in “road pirates.” First it was just two words he thought he’d heard, later his young mind filled in the blanks. (road pirates, it just sounds right) He thought they’d run up alongside your car, or maybe they had their own black cars, and they’d jump on board with their swords flashing. Standing tall on your hood, a mouthful of bugs and gravel, ducking under the railroad barriers as Steven’s dad panicked and sped through the flashing lights to beat the train and shake him off. Pirates on cars. That was such a perfect thing for a boy to imagine. Like a scribble on a lunchbox of a dinosaur playing a guitar. Only it was a more natural fusion of fantasies.

He knew those antennas were for pirate flags.

Eventually his years of conditioning took over and Steven cranked the wheel hand over hand, stomped on the gas and headed for home. An hour later he was reluctantly climbing out and onto the driveway, high-stepping his way through the sharp rocks with his shoes in his hand and his ballcap in his teeth. He kicked his way through the door, savagely pulling his T-shirt over his head and struggling to get his head out like a man on the losing end of a hockey fight. He threw the tangle of shirt and shoes into the corner and spit his cap onto the floor.

"Fucking hot," he mumbled to no one.

Then he was tripping over James who was squatting behind the door, a newspaper spread out upside-down under his knees, pretending to read the sports page. The lights were off and the television was stuck between channels, soaking the room in a sickly green glow. James rustled the newspaper with his legs as he stood up smiling. He blinked as if he’d just noticed Steven there, he leaned forward arms behind his back. Steven scratched his neck and waited for the joke. Finally James held out his hand. They had never shaken hands in their three months as roommates, not even when they first met, so Steven just stared at his face waiting for the punchline. Then he looked down.

Three and a half dead flies were swinging from his knuckles.

Steven blinked and walked past him, grabbing his wet shirt from the corner and wringing the sweat out onto the floor. He held it up to the green screen, looking for anything crawling, then realized what he was doing and angrily threw it back down. James stepped up to him again, smiling and waiting for his handshake. Steven shook his head at him, the heavy sigh he blew from his nose spinning one of the flies around James’ fingers until it stuck in the dangle of dog hair and webbing that hung in the dead air between them.

"What were you doing, trying to catch spiders?"


-© 2003 david james keaton

::: david - 6:27 PM [+] :::
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