..:S...P...I...D...E...R...B...I...T...E...S:..

Thursday, December 04, 2003

"There are no healthy minds, and nothing saves any man except accident - the accident of not having his malady put to the supreme test."
- Mark Twain - The Memorable Assassination



FICTION:



Glass Car Crash (part 3)



That's when Steven saw her. He’d been behind her car since the bottle-neck between the road flares. Her car looked familiar. He figured it was because it was a blue car. His car was blue. Most cars were blue. The car he’d slapped mirrors seemed like years ago.

How do ghost stories always start?

It was a year ago tonight. . .

That car had been gone so fast he didn’t have time to get her numbers. Just her eyes. He remembered the eyes. They looked like the eyes in the sideview mirror in front of him, burning in the orange glow of the flares. Looking back. Looking down. Looking up. Looking back. It had to be her. The only problem was, if he was seeing her eyes in the sideview mirror, it couldn’t be her. That mirror was shattered when the cars connected.

Her car would be fixed by now. It was hot out when that happened. A year ago tonight...

He started his routine anyway, starting with the eyes in the mirror. She moved her head away and he looked for the rearview mirror. Inside. On her windshield. Where the hell was it? She didn't have one. All he could see was the shadow of movement, her knuckles drumming on her steering wheel. Then he noticed the streak on the side of her car. Was it blood? Was she part of the crash? If she was involved, then why was she in line with him, creeping past it? He wondered if maybe she'd come back to the wreck for something. Or maybe she just drove over something from the crash and didn't know it. Maybe there was blood on everyone’s car.

He rolled down his window, leaned out and looked down. Nothing on the road. He looked back up and saw that she was still missing from her side mirror.

good game. . .

He thought he saw a flash of teeth. Then nothing. He checked his hands on the wheel. Ten o’clock and three o'clock. He wasn't drifting. She must be drifting. Then he could see hereyes. Her ear. Her mouth. He could see the shape of her nose now. He realized that she was drifting out of the line, sliding to the left, moving towards the crash. All cars were stopped now. She was still creeping towards the light, drawn like a magnet into the sparks and flares and twisted metal.

What the fuck? What is she doing? Is that what happened? Was she circling back and getting in line over and over? She think this is the line for a rollercoaster? Is that how she got blood on her car?

While Steven thought these things, he was unconsciously popping his cigarette lighter in and out, in and out, in and - suddenly it sprang out of its socket and his fingers missed it. He fumbled after it as it dropped between his legs. He arched his body and it rolled under his ass.

He was so caught up in thinking about the car in front of him that he reached down for the hot coils as if it was just a penny he’d dropped. Then he was burned and both feet were kicking for the brake as he contorted and swatted the smoking lighter down onto the floor-mats.

100 % of all car crashes are caused by stinging insects. . .

He bit down on the burn and remembered something that happened a long time ago:

His first day at work at a fertilizer factory, he was given the simple job of gluing boxes together, mercifully far from the chemical stench. And after a couple hours in the box line, his glue-gun discharged across the knuckles of his leather glove. He wiped his hand on the corner of his table and went on working. The problem was, that glue came out of the nozzle at something around 300 degrees. It started eating through the glove at about a quarter inch every three minutes. He didn't know any of this and just kept on working and his gloves were eventually covered with hot glue by the time he was lining up behind the men pushing towards their lockers for their first break. Steven was shuffling along, laughing to himself at the lockdown style of movement the mob had acquired, then suddenly he was hopping around and trying to shake his hands loose from his wrists. He remembered thinking that it must have been a spider or a wasp or a bee that had crawled inside his glove, forgetting about the hot glue he’s been working with for the past three hours. And while he was jerked around fighting with the gloves, he elbowed the wrong guy in the face and started a fight. He was hit about five times before he even realized
what was happening. When he was knocked to the ground he looked around and saw one of his gloves between someone’s boots. He saw the glue on the knuckles and realized what had stung him. Angry at himself, he clenched his teeth, then retrieved the glove and stuck it back on his hand. He found a random boot in the crowd, then reached up over the ankle and worked his fingers under the sock. When the hot glue touched his skin, the man that owned the ankle was screaming higher than Steven thought possible. He grabbed another leg and wiggled his fingers into the sock until he heard another scream. Then he locked onto another and this time the shoe and sock slipped off. He squeezed that bare foot as if it was hanging off a cliff. Then suddenly there were more feet than he could deal with and the lights went out. He wished he would have kept one of those gloves on to throw one burning punch before he took that beating. He wished he’s have grabbed one more ankle before he was kicked into unconsciousness. He wished he was still down there among those feet, burning his way through the line until the glue on his gloves had grown cold.

His heart was pumping hard thinking about what he should have done that day, and that’s when Steven crunched into the car in front of him.

* * *

Steven was twisting his heels in the stones, head down, grinding his way up to her car to say he was sorry. He almost laughed, thinking about how he just crashed at a crash. He looked back at his hazard lights, and the rows of anonymous headlights behind them. No horns yet.

Now what if someone hits my car. A crash at a crash at a crash at a crash at a crash. I know an old lady who swallowed a fly, perhaps she’ll fly. . .

The girl’s head was outside. She was hanging out her window, staring at he walked up. Steven decided, at least while she was just a head in a car, that she was perfect. He wondered how much time he’d have. He glanced back, satisfied that the line was still dead in the water. He looked down at her.

"Sorry."

"What was that?” She laughed without smiling. Steven had never seen someone do that before, and for a second he thought she was injured. “No, let me guess,” she sighed. “You're going to tell me you hit the gas instead of the brake, right?"

"Yeah, I mean no. Sorry."

"So what were you smoking back there?"

"Huh? Nothing, I just wasn't looking and I..."

"No, I mean,” She wrinkled her nose. “What's that smell?"

"Has to be the crash." He looked up and down the street while he hid his arms behind his back and rubbed them together to brush off the burnt hair and black ash.

He jumped back as she suddenly stepped out and walked around to the back of her car to look for damage. Steven got the feeling that she didn't really care, that she was just going through crash etiquette. He followed her lead and crouched down next to her in the red glow of her taillights.

"I don't have any insurance," he said, fumbling around his pockets. "Here. You can have my driver's license instead." He dug through movie ticket-stubs and video rental cards and dollar bills folded into tiny airplanes. "Wait, how about you hold onto this. It’s my 'Joe's Last Chance Video & Gas' card."

"What?" She stood up arms crossed.

"Take it. So you'll know who I am. It's got a free movie on it! C’mon, it's worth more than my license. See, look at the back. . ." He held the videostore card under the taillights, nine checkmarks in ten boxes were visible. ". . .see what I’m saying. . ." He took out his driver’s license and turned it over under the lights. "See. Not
an organ donor. Ain’t worth nothin’."

The girl gave up half a smile, trying to stay mad. She turned before a full smile could crack, quickly walking back around to the front of her car and waving him away.

"Forget it. I don't care.” She announced. “The car is scratched. So what. I always hate how people treat cars like they're made of glass. Any time bumpers touch, the cars stop in the middle of the road, fuck up everyone else’s day, while they get out and wander around confused with phones stuck to their heads, clogging the road for hours. I mean, how can cars not run into each other. How bad is that..."

"What about this crash right here. You see the toys under the wheel? What if there was a baby under there too. . ."

"Shut up. There’s no baby under there." She put a foot back into her vehicle. A cop was finally walking toward them, he looked big, swelling as he approached, backlit with all the color and sound of the wreck. He started kicking the flares out of the road. The line of cars was eager to move, grumbling and twitching behind them like dogs waiting for the back door to open. No horns yet though. Steven decided he had a little more time. Maybe three minutes tops. He leaned down on her door and tried harder.

"Glass cars? Is that what you said. You ever really think about that? Glass cars I mean? Ever wonder what it would be like to drive one? See all around you while you're driving? Just looking out the windows driving a normal car doesn’t effect you, it’s too much like watching TV. If you could see under your feet you'd realize just what you were doing, how fast you were really going? It would be something different. . ." Her other foot was in now and the door was closing. “. . .and if two glass cars crashed? Imagine that shit. Glass cars crashing. Two glass cars exploding on impact, shards raining down on the road until there was nothing left. Except two people standing there on the highway, staring at each other with steering wheels in their hands.”

She slammed her door.

"Stop trying so hard,” she said.

"Sorry." He said, stepping back. He turned to walk away, defiantly thinking about the glass cars crashing in his head, rewinding and watching the impact over and over, imagining him and her slowly walking towards each other, windshield cubes crunching under their heels like wet March snow, his bare feet gathering cuts and shards with each step.

He started to walk away and heard the creak of her window rolling up behind him.

"Is it so hard to take the time to having a fucking conversation with someone..." he muttered, almost to himself.

The sound of the window stopped. The click of the door opening. Then her voice.

“My name is Ashley,” she said.

Ten minutes later, they were together in her car, windows down, moving fast. He noticed that she seemed to be looking for long roads so she wouldn't have to turn, maybe to keep the conversation going. It seemed to work. They talked about a lot of things. They talked about why dogs hang their heads out of windows. They talked about a friend of a friend of a friend’s dog that got it’s head caved in by a sideview mirror. They talked about cops needing to know where you were going because they’re as curious as everyone else. They talked about a man she’d seen today at the gas station, a man who gave up his place in line to carry a case of beer to a girl’s car. They talked about how he wouldn’t have done that for another man. They talked about how the story was oddly touching anyway. They talked about how neither of them knew what day it was. They talked about how they didn’t know if the season’s had changed. They talked about when dog’s had nightmares and yelped in their sleep. They decided that they were dreaming about cars.

Eventually they had to turn and the conversation stopped.

"Okay, you want to save some time?” She asked him. “We know each other a little bit however I still think we won’t take the chance of telling a story too interesting too soon."

"What do you mean?"

"’Cause if you told a story too interesting too soon, something incredibly interesting that happened to you, I would think you were lying. Right?"

"No. Why would you think that?"

"So instead. . .” She went on, ignoring him. “. . .you'd just keep telling me interesting stories about someone you know, right?"

"Not really."

"Do it then."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me an interesting story about yourself, only pretend it’s someone else’s story instead. So I can believe you.”

“Uhhh, I don't really have any friends more interesting than me.”

“You’re missing my point, dude.”

"Here's something,” Steven said after another turn. “Last summer, my roommate tied dead flies to his fingers. I still don't know why."

"So why did you tie dead flies to your fingers?"

"I didn't, I said that. . ."

"No!” Her foot kicked the gas and the car lurched. “You're not playing the game right."

"I guess I’m not. I’m just trying to tell you that my roommate did this. The thing with the flies. I don't think they were supposed to be dead. I think he killed them when he was tying them on to his fingers. I think he wanted to have them flying around when he shook hands with me or something."

"Why would you want to do something like that?"

"I didn't." Steven sighed. "I said, my roommate, James, did this thing. I don’t know why, maybe he thought it would freak someone out. Freak me out. You know, I’m shaking hands and I look down and see all flies buzzing and circling around. Like if you saw someone yawn and there was a lightning bug in their mouth."

"What?"

"I don't know. Something he said he saw once on the subway. Never mind. Listen, I don't get this game."

"Maybe I should take you back to your car."

"No. We got to see how long we can leave it there, remember? Maybe they'll think I was in it. Dead or something. Maybe they'll check the ditches, see if I crawled out, you ever read Tom Sawyer? When he walks in the door at his own funeral. . ."

"They ain’t gonna think anyone is dead. All they’ll do is tow your car. All you got is a smashed license plate, they won't even think you're hurt. They'll think you ran out of gas. I’m the one with blood on her car.” She turned to look at him.

“Yeah, I meant to ask you about that.”

“Wait a minute. Did you ask me about Tom Sawyer? She turned to search his face. “Don't tell me, you're one of those little boys who used to play dead, laying out in the middle of the playground, or under the monkeybars, and waiting for someone to check to see if you're hurt or alive or crying or whatever."

"Maybe."

She made did an abrupt one-eighty and headed back. Steven knew he was losing her and he quickly tried to tell her a story like she wanted.

"My roommate jerks-off to bug footage. . ."

. . .and I drive around looking for glass cars to crash. . .

"You're still not doing this right, give it up.” Her foot relaxed and the car slowed.

They drove on, with more small talk. At least their version of it:

They talked about driving with your teeth on the steering wheel, and how hard it is to take sharp turns that way. They talked about how they knew all the straightest roads within a hundred miles. They talked about the best roads and the best times to keep the sun behind your car and out of your eyes. They talked about the roads where the airplanes came the closest to your car. He asked her again if she really read Tom Sawyer and Ashley sighed and told him that, even though it was considered a “little boy’s book,” she read it several times. Especially the part where Tom takes Becky’s punishment, and now she wondered how much pain he’d take, if he’d give up a finger for her instead of the spanking. Steven guessed that it would depend on which finger. She flashed her brights and pointed out a large plastic square lying in the ditch. It had the letter “S” on it and he told her about the church sign box he saw earlier. He got excited and told her it must have come from the word “sins.” She laughed and said it was from another sign box about a mile back, and actually it had blown off the word “hamburgers.” He talked about how the word “road” should be spelled “rode” because it made more sense that way. Then, after a very slow left turn, he admitted that “rode” was how he insisted on spelling that word when he was little. She agreed that children might give roads the respect they deserved if it had a different name. Then she told him that she herself had said “smashed” potatoes for years. On a long stretch of highway, he told her about one night, a year ago, when he was driving along listening to the hits and an 18-wheeler roared past him with its light off on the wrong side of the road. He turned around to follow it, and then quickly turned around again after the first “wrong way” sign he passed. He was still ashamed he didn’t follow that truck. He wasn’t sure he ever saw it. This story seemed to slow Ashley’s car down even more. She turned and told him about a something that happened last summer, “a year ago tonight,” just like the ghost stories always started out. A car was drifting over into the middle of the road, and, when she saw the car purposely holding its wheel on the dotted line, she did the same. She said that she gripped the wheel with both hands, for the first time since Driver’s Ed., and heard herself saying:

“You want to play fucking games?”

“Then what?”

“I forget.”

“Why didn’t you swerve?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I think it’s because the dotted line turned yellow, like it was telling me I was scared. I don’t know.”

Three miles of silence after that. Small talk seemed exhausted until:

“My roommate showed me a videotape of a miscarriage last night, I mean, last summer.”

“Why the hell would you have something like that on tape?”

“I just said my roommate had it. . .” Steven sighed.

Ride the road? Rode the rides? Steven thought. What the hell’s the difference?

“Just messing with you,” she laughed. “You’re never going to get this right.”

“It’s you that’s all over the place,” Steven said, starting to get angry. “You say ‘a year ago tonight last summer’ and there’s snow on the road? How the fuck can-”

“Here, I'll show you.” She interrupted. “I’ll start it off. Friend of a friend of a friend of mine was in some third-world country for spring break. Wanted to do something different than the beach thing, so she thought she'd do that ‘running with the bulls’ thing. Now she saw this video in her Spanish class where she learned that they ran with the bulls everywhere, you didn't really need to go to the big one in Barcelona or whatever. Hey, what the hell does ‘third world country’ mean anyway..." She trailed off, looking impatiently at Steven. "Your turn, do this one with me!"

"Uh, friend of a friend of yours-”

“Friend of yours.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Keep going,” she said, rubbing her eye with her fist.

“And he was at the running from the bulls-”

“Why is it suddenly he instead of she?”

“It’s my friend now remember. So he’s at the running from the bulls-”

"Running with the bulls."

"Wait, isn’t it actually the running of the bulls..."

"No, it would be running for the bulls before running of the bulls so there’s no way it’s running from the bulls..."

"That's not what I said."

“That is what you said."

"Anyway, he's fucking running. And there’s bulls. And he never was the kind of guy who took chances. He's not exactly gutless, just missing some guts. So he’s prepared, equipped, and when it starts, and the bulls come up out of the ground..."

"What? They don't come out of the ground. Forget it. Go on."

"They come bursting out onto the street, and he ties a green bandanna tight onto his head, and instead of running, he turns around to face the horns head on." He glanced over and Ashley wasn’t looking at him but he could tell from the speedometer that she was interested. "Now it’s your turn. Keep it going."

"Okay, well, she quickly realized that there was only one bull to run from, and it wasn't even a bull. It’s an ox or something, half-starved and half-dead, and no one could even get it to move, let alone run. She says, 'why doesn't someone take the goddamn plow off its back.’ No bullshit, it really had a plow on its back. Then this native starts jabbering and pulling her back into the mob of students, all realizing they got suckered now, and she sees that other locals were setting up flags in a rice field to get everyone to run up and down these rows in front of the plow, you know, like when they corral you through the lines for the rollercoasters. It’s true, they were trying to get the tourists to do their farming for them. It was right about then that she started to suspect the ‘Extreme Sports/South American Tour’ she'd arranged through her Spanish class was a rip-off. She wondered about the next thing on their tour schedule. It said ‘scenic mountain-bike tour of Chad’ on the brochure and now she was starting to wonder if ‘Chad’ was just some dude and not really a country. Or maybe she’d be riding a bike with no wheels, up on blocks, attached to some kind of a corn-grinding machine, with some indigenous creatures holding up postcards of some scenery, running past her head.”

“Not bad.” Steven was smiling.

“Your turn.”

"Okay, so, um, there’s lots of bulls, and they’re all snorting and coming straight at him and he's only got a couple seconds before they run his ass over. So while he's standing there, trying to keep his eyes on the animals while everyone running by him keeps grabbing his arms and elbows and trying to spin him around in the right direction, he wonders, what’s worse? Ten bulls, or one car coming at you? Or ten bulls instead of two cars. Ten bulls or three cars? Doing the math, he’s thinking that every bull equaled about three and a half cars, until he starts to understand the differences. Even though cars got eyes, they don't have the horns and-"

"Cars got horns. My turn. So she's getting real bored waiting for this ox to move, and finally some kid puts headphones onto the thing's ear..."

“Slow down, it’s still my turn. Hey, is that a cop?” Steven leans over her and squints out her window. She smells good, like shampoo and gasoline. “I hate cops. They always want to know where you’re going just ‘cause they want to know where you’re going. It’s got nothing to do with the law...”

“You’re drifting,” she said and she pushed him back into his seat with an elbow.

“Sorry, I just hate it when they pull you over and ask you questions they don’t have to. I’ve got a surprise for them next time though. At my last job, I was doing some wiring in the basement and I found an old dog-pile of chicken bones and baby clothes and I tossed them in my trunk just hoping I’ll get pulled over because that shit looks suspicious as hell. Bones, baby clothes, and I even got a stuffed rabbit with tiny rabbits for feet, that I found on the side of the road a couple years back. That kind of trunk stash is so suspicious, the next cop would have back-up and S.W.A.T. vans and helicopters surround me before I even pulled out my license and video-rental card. That’s what they want you know? They don’t want to stop anything, they just want to find shit. Like a dead baby in a trunk. It’s a game. And the next cop that pulls me over is never going to live that shit down. The other cops will probably glue a stuffed rabbit to his hood and-”

“Dude, you’re drifting I said. What happened with the bull. Fuck it, I’ll finish it. So they put these headphones on the ox and-”

"No, I’m still going,” Steven jumps back in. “So realizes that the bulls have hearts and brains and they’re nothing to be scared of and he waits there in the middle of the road until he can see the big gold ring in the biggest one's nose. Red eyes, steam shootin’ out it’s nostrils..." They laughed together at that and Ashley started to open her mouth again. Steven just got louder:

"Then he pulls the gun out from behind his back and BAM! Pops a bullet right through one of those eyes, snuffing it out like a candle. Later, the videotape will show that the bull he shot was in no danger of running him over. The monster's head goes down, brain dead and its feet still chugging, like it’s the first drill at football practice, and it digs this huge trench in the road, throwing stone and bricks and dirt in a huge rooster-tail behind it...” He stopped. “What? What are you staring at?"

"Bullshit. Never happened."

“What?”

"I’ll prove it never happened. Watch. Ready? Okay. So, then what happened?” Steven just stared. “See? Never happened. There you go again. Trying too hard. My turn. So she gives up wanting to run, and she decides a picture of her next to an ox with headphones is better than no souvenir photos at all. So leans in to pet, or kick, the ribs on this bony thing. And, even though the music ain't working, she leans in close to that nasty fly-ridden ear to hear what the boy had playing on his headphones. Not a tape or a CD, it’s just those headphones that are only headphones. Radio, you know? And can you believe it? Over in that crazy country..."

Ashley reached down and cranked her radio full blast.

"And this was the song she heard!" Nothing but static.

"That would have been funny if you played a song." Steven smirked. “Or if we’d have been hunched over a campfire. Or if the ox had a hook for a hand.” Ashley sighed and shrugged.

"Sorry, they can’t all be gold. Every day can’t be Halloween." She clicked off the knob. "Problem is, I forgot I lost my goddamn antenna..." She trailed off, thinking about the little girl again, then suddenly hit her brights then the brakes. "Back where we started! There's your car. Looks sad sitting there all alone. Guess they finally called off the search, huh?"

Steven wiped a streak through the steam on his window and looked around. The crash was more than just over. It was gone. Not a single car, flashlight or pylon. Not a piece of metal, streak of blood, pink or purple toy under a tire, or even the glitter of bloody ice cubes on the road. Nothing. Nothing he could keep so he could prove that it had even been there. Just long tubes of black and gray ash from the flares. He’d tried to pick those up before and watched as his fingers sent them into the sky like dandelion seeds.

Then he saw a small piece of something on the road near him. It was glass, beating with the red pulse of her car’s hazards. He opened his door and reached down to retrieve it. It wasn’t from a smashed windshield, it looked like a glass screw.

Impossible. Steven thought. It would splinter as soon as it was screwed into something. Even if the drill was glass. Even if the cars were glass. Even if the factory was glass. Glass screw, glass hammer, glass bullet. They can’t exist.

He thought about two glass cars driving down the road and how no one would be able to see them unless the sun was out. And no one would ever know what they had been if two of them ever crashed. He wondered if that’s why crash sites always seemed to have too much glass. Maybe there was a glass car in there too that no one ever saw. And there was glass everywhere, on every road, if you ever got down on your knees to look. Every square inch of the highways sparkled with tiny shards, as common as snow on the tops of mountains. Glass cars crashing would leave no evidence at all. It would be as if they were made of ice.

Steven wondered if the road ever noticed these things like he did.

He stepped out of her car and turned to look at her as he slowly closed the door. He stopped when saw that she was reaching out to touch her sideview mirror with a finger. Then he flinched when her finger disappeared into it. For the first time he noticed that there was no glass inside of it. He didn’t understand. He was sure that he’d seen her eyes reflected in that mirror when he first drove up behind her. Confused, he slammed his door and heard something rattle and through the window he saw the sideview mirror’s empty socket fall off her door and rattle across the road under her headlights.

It was her. She was the car that he had slapped hands with earlier that night.

good game

She stretched out her window and leaned over her roof to point her finger at him and say:

“So, do you intend to pay me for all the damage you’ve done today?”

Who ever said driving wasn’t a sport?

* * *

In his car now.

“My roommate ties bugs to his fingers.”

“Prove it.”

“Sounds good to me.” He cranked the steering wheel hard and headed home.

Steven remembered how James had been crouched over a stinky dog dish with dead flies hanging off his fingers and he was hoping she’d see something equally ridiculous when they got there. He wasn’t sure how this game of hers worked, all he knew was that James' fly-infested handshake had to be a victory of some kind.

James was outside when they got to the house. He saw that Steven had a girl with him and he ran up to their car smiling with his hands behind his back. Steven and Ashley caught James’ grin as if it was a yawn as they got out of the car.

“James. Meet Ashley...” She was holding out her hand just as he’d hoped she would and Steven’s teeth cracked through his smile. He couldn’t wait to see what horror James would press into her hand.

Something flashed in his peripheral vision and was gone before he could focus on it.

Hell was that? It’s too cold out for lightning bugs. I can’t remember whether we called them fireflies or lightning bugs when we were little. I know one of those names was supposed to be scary.

“Ashley. Meet. . .”

James stepped between them and his hands came around from behind his back and Steven’s teeth clicked as his mouth snapped shut on his name.

James had successfully leashed ten lightning bugs...

fireflies

...to his fingers. They hovered and flashed their rapid-fire greeting as James reached for her hand. Ashley’s eyes swelled under the living fireworks of his handshake as she squeezed. The insects jerked left, then right, pulling on their strings in unison like a frightened school of fish. Then they slowed and circled back to their handshake, tying their fingers together in an electric hum of light and motion.

Invisible, Steven walked past them, catching something flying past his head on his way to the house and crushing it in a metal fist of car keys.



-© 2003 david james keaton

::: david - 5:17 PM [+] :::
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