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Get in, roadkill. I'll give you a lift. The 57 Ford idles by the side of the highway, a lone stretch of what used to be Route 66.
I lean down and look through the passenger window, but it's night and the dash lights aren't strong enough for me to see the driver's face. "I'm good," I say and take a step back. "Get in, TJ," the driver says. "You're going for a ride." I'm a patient man, or as patient as I can be considering my circumstances. That's probably why I have this job, not that I interviewed or anything.
I've never met my boss. I don't have coworkers other than the spirits of run-over roadrunners, armadillos, and jackrabbits, and they don't say much. All I remember from my first night on the job is a '57 Ford and a whole lot of blood. The job wasn't hard to figure out. It was like I had been doing it forever. Basically, I stand by the side of the highway with my thumb out and wait for someone to stop. It doesn't happen often these days.
This stretch of highway is a forgotten road, left behind by history and progress, I suppose. Maybe during the day there's more traffic, but daytime traffic isn't for me. My shift is from midnight to 3am every night, no weekends or holidays off. So patience is definitely a prerequisite for the position. The trick is to see the world for what it is. The stars above that light up the desert sky.
The calls of the night animals, the wind that bends the sagebrush branches, the dry leaves rattling and scraping against each other, the heat that drifts up from the cooling asphalt, all of that keeps the boredom at bay. Well, that and the voice calling to me from out in the desert, that one's new. It hasn't always been there, but lately it's been getting louder and louder, which is making it harder to ignore. And I do have to ignore it,
I have a job to do. The headlights broke the night and I waited with my thumb out, knowing this one would stop. They always stop. "You need a ride?" the man asked as he leaned across from the driver's seat. I did what I always do. I assessed the vehicle. I assessed the driver. No passengers that night, so I didn't have to worry about distractions. I like it when it's one-on-one. It makes the process a little easier. "Thank you."
I said, and opened the passenger door. The driver, a man in his mid-forties with black-rimmed glasses and a comb-over, grinned at me as I got settled and clicked my seatbelt. It was only a lap belt, since the car was a '77 Plymouth. I don't remember the model, just the logo in the center of the steering wheel. "Those things aren't worth the trouble," the driver said. "Excuse me?" I replied.
"That seatbelt," he said as he put the Plymouth into gear and slowly pulled out onto the highway. "Not worth the canvas it's made from." "Is it made from canvas?" I asked. I fingered the belt across my waist. "It doesn't feel like canvas." "Whatever it is, it's just a ploy by the automakers to appease the insurance industry," he said. "Those bloodsuckers." "Which ones?" I asked. "The automakers or the insurance industry?"
The energy in the car changed. It wasn't a drastic shift, but enough for me to notice. Which is exactly what I was there to do. "You fucking with me?" the driver asked. "No sir," I said. "You sure about that kid?" he asked. "Seems to me that you're fucking with me." I'm far from a kid, but the drivers see what they want to see. "No sir," I said. "I'm just interested in what you have to say. Do you know a lot about the insurance industry?"
Do I? He bellowed. The car swerved slightly, but he straightened it out and chuckled. I've worked in the industry for over 15 years, he said. Got into it two days after getting out of the army. Oh, I said. What did you do in the army? MP, he said. He leaned over the steering wheel and peered out into the night. Where is that exit? I swear I've been driving forever looking for it. It's coming up, I said. I'll let you know when we get there.
He side-eyed me, then nodded and eased back in his seat. "So, the army," I said. "You were an MP. That's military police, right?" "Yeah, yeah, that's it," he said. "I was the asshole that had to bust my buddies for doing shit I was doing on my nights off," he snorted. "They didn't like me very much." "Who didn't?" I asked. "Everyone," he said. "MPs are hated on base. I found a pile of dog crap in my boots one day.
"Both boots?" I asked. "What do you mean by that? You think I'm lying?" He snapped. "No, sir," I said. "I was only wondering if your buddies made the effort and took the time to fill both boots with dog shit. Or if it was just one, that's all." "That's all?" He responded in a mocking voice. "My wife used to say that. I'd know she was up to something and she'd give me some bullshit excuse and at the end she'd always say, 'That's all.' Bunch of bullshit that was."
"You're married?" I asked. "Why? Don't you think a guy like me can be married?" He shouted. His knuckles blazed white as he gripped the steering wheel. "On the contrary," I replied, as an image of a woman in a faraway land filled my mind. "I believe you've been married more than once." The driver's body went rigid. "What did you say?" He whispered. "I said, 'I believe you've been married more than once.'" I repeated. "Repetition is key to the position."
Back in Korea, was it? What was her name? Your first wife. The driver's foot slammed on the brake pedal, but nothing happened. He pumped his right leg over and over. Still nothing happened. Tell me about her, I said. Did you love her? Why won't this fucking car stop? He muttered to himself. I was losing him and needed him to focus. Daniel, I said. Did you love her? At the mention of his name, the driver stopped pumping the brakes, turned his head and stared at me.
"Who the fuck are you?" he asked. "Someone that has your best interests at heart," I said, regardless of the outcome. "What the fuck does that mean?" he snapped. "It means, I need you to answer the questions. Let's start over," I said. "You met her in Korea, right? Just after the war ended?" Daniel shrugged. "I will take that as a yes," I said. "And what was her name?" "Your first wife." He stayed silent. I sighed.
"Daniel, this will be easier for you if you cooperate," I said. He swerved the car to the side of the highway and started pumping the brakes again, but the car didn't stop. Instead, the car corrected itself and swerved back out onto the highway. Daniel yanked his hands away from the steering wheel like he'd been burned. He looked over at me. I smiled at him as I waited for the answer. Like I said, I'm a patient man.
"Jin," he said after a few minutes. He focused his eyes back on the highway. "She was a waitress at a bar and we got along." "Got along well enough that you married her," I said. "Then what?" "Who the fuck are you?" he asked, his voice quiet but filled with rage. "TJ," I said. I waited a couple of seconds and then asked again. "Then what?" "We got a little house off base," he said. "She quit waitressing and kept a tidy house."
"Until?" I was walking a thin line. If I pushed too hard, then he could clam up and the whole ride would have been for nothing. Daniel would have to start all over again. So I waited. We drove for miles until he finally answered. "She was cheating on me," he said. I took a deep breath and shook my head. "Are you sure?" I asked. "Of course I'm sure!" he shouted. "I wouldn't have bashed your brains in if I wasn't sure, now would I?"
"I don't know," I said. "You tell me." And he did. He told me about the nights he worked late and would drive by his house to see lights on. "Jin should have been in bed," was his reasoning. "She shouldn't have been up that late." "So, one night you confronted her," I said, moving him toward the truth. "You bet your ass I did," he said. "I told her I knew she was cheating, and she was going to tell me who it was or I would kill her."
"Did you?" I asked. "Did I what?" He replied. "Kill her," I said, "when she didn't give you a name." "Oh, she gave me a name!" He shouted then laughed. "Her own mother! She said her mother was living alone and didn't have enough food, so she'd come over and Jin would feed her. Can you believe that bullshit?" "Yes," I said, "because it was the truth." He pounded his fists against the steering wheel. "There is no truth from whores!" He yelled.
I didn't respond. I let him cool down a bit before I pressed on. "And your second wife?" I asked. "What happened to her?" "Cheating bitch," he said. I nodded. Not in agreement, but to keep him going. "I was on the road," he said and looked about his car. "Living in this shit can. Making all the money so she could go out at night and find men and bring them home. Into our bed. Our fucking bed." "She told you that?" I asked.
when you confronted her she told you she was cheating and bringing men home no lie he yelled even in the dim light of the dashboard i could see his face turning red you came home one night and what happened i asked i came home and she was asleep on the couch he said i wasn't supposed to be home until mid-morning the next day but i wanted to catch her once and for all but you didn't i said
She was asleep on the couch, right? Asleep because she was drunk after a night of whoring! He shouted, more fist-pounding. His face looked like a ripe tomato. I could smell all the men on her, all of them! Oh, I said. So what did you do? I fucking killed her, that's what I did! He shouted. Spit flew from his lips and speckled the windshield. It looked like stars against the night.
Without asking her any questions, I stated, "You picked up the glass ashtray and did what, Daniel?" "I, uh, I..." He sputtered and stammered. "I... I hit her... over... and over..." "And do you regret it, Daniel?" I asked. I watched a shiver run through him. "I..." He didn't, or couldn't, finish. "I see," I said. I pointed to the side of the road. "Pull over." "The brakes don't work," he said.
"They will," I said. After a couple of seconds, he yanked the wheel to the side and slammed on the brakes. The Plymouth skidded in the gravel on the side of the highway then came to a full stop. Daniel looked confused. They always looked confused. "Thank you for the ride," I said and got out of the car. I shut the door and leaned down so I could lock eyes with Daniel. "Neither of your wives were cheating on you, Daniel. But you know that. You knew it then.
I looked down for a second and gathered my strength. Then I looked up and pointed down the highway. "You see the two exits?" I asked. He stared out of the windshield and nodded. Down the highway were two exits, one right after the other. From a Department of Transportation perspective, the exits made no sense. Why would there be one right after the other? "You have one chance, Daniel," I said, and took a step back from the car. "You can be completely honest with yourself and admit what you did.
"If you do that, you'll be able to take Exit A. Do you understand?" He kept staring out the windshield. I waited. When he finally nodded, I continued. "If you decide not to be honest with yourself and continue to believe the lies you made up to justify your murders, then you will only be able to take Exit B. Do you understand?" He nodded faster that time. "Good," I said. "I wish you luck, Daniel. I hope you take the correct exit."
He rubbed his face, looked at me, narrowed his eyes and laughed. That wasn't a good sign. He was still laughing when he drove off. The Plymouth aimed for the first exit, exit A. But when he reached the exit, it disappeared. Before him was only exit B. I could hear him shouting and cursing. I watched the brake lights flash over and over as he futilely pumped the brakes that had once again stopped working.
I stood there until his taillights were only dimmed dots. Then I started my long walk back to my waiting spot. "Do I know you?" I ask, still trying to make out the driver's face. "Yep," the driver replies. "Get in." "I'm working right now," I say. "My shift ends at three, not tonight," he says. I stand up straight and take one step back.
I look back the way the 57 Ford came from, but of course, all I see is deserted highway. "We ain't got a lot of time, DJ," the driver says. "You know how it is." "What about the cars?" I ask. "The drivers I'm supposed to lead to their exits? Don't worry about that," driver says. "This ride isn't for them." There's something familiar about the voice. I've heard it before. I know I have. "I think I'll finish my shift," I say and take a few more steps back.
I stick out my thumb and turn away from the '57 Ford. "I have a job to do." "No, TJ. You have a job to finish," the driver says. "So get in and finish it." I stand there, thumb out, and ignore the driver. "Hey!" the driver shouts, making me jump. "Your job is to stick that damn thumb out and catch a ride. I'm your ride, so get in the damn car!" Without thinking, I grab the door handle and yank it open. Then I plop down in the passenger seat.
"You don't have to be a jerk about it," I say. "I know what my job is." He grabs the gear shift and puts it into first. I can hear the clutch grind. It's a familiar sound, one I know well, but I'm not sure from where. The first night I heard the voice calling me was the night the station wagon pulled up next to me. I almost didn't hear the mom asking me what I was doing out by the side of the highway so late at night. The voice wasn't as loud as it would get, but it was distracting enough.
"Mister, you okay?" the boy asked. That got my attention. There usually aren't children involved. It would happen now and again. But it was rare. I looked at him and smiled. He was the spitting image of the mom. Blue eyes, red hair, freckles. "I'm fine, thank you for asking," I said to the boy. Then I looked at the mom. "Sorry, I thought I heard a coyote." "Well, you best get your butt in the car then," the dad said from the driver's seat.
The boy shoved his door open and scooted over to let me in. I climbed into the backseat of the station wagon and closed the door. Thank you, I said. The car pulled out onto the highway. Have you been waiting long? The dad asked, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. I suppose you have with it being one in the morning. We haven't seen a single car all night, the mom said. The station wagon was an 85 Chevy Caprice, one of those big suckers Detroit used to make.
I remembered the first time I saw one come rolling down the highway. The windows were caked in blood. That wasn't a fun ride. "Not many cars come along anymore," I said. "Oh? How do you mean?" the dad asked. "What? Never mind," I said. I'd gotten off script and needed to get my head focused. "So, where are you folks heading so late?" "Well, that's the funny thing," the dad said.
"We started driving just after lunch. Next thing we knew, it was dark out." "That happens around here," I said. "The desert can be tricky." My thoughts immediately went to the voice calling to me. I shook my head. "You sure you're alright, mister?" the boy asked. "I'm fine," I said and smiled at him. "Just a little tired." "Bobby, leave the man alone," the mom said. "It's late. Let him rest." "Where are you headed?" the dad asked. "Just up the road," I said.
"Where were you folks headed?" The mom turned in her seat and looked back at me. "Where?" she asked and smiled. "We haven't changed our plan, silly goose. We're still on our way up to see the Grand Canyon." "Grand Canyon, yay!" The boy, Bobby, cheered. "I've never been," the mom said. "But Larry has." "A few times," the dad, Larry, said. "How about you?" "No, can't say that I have," I said.
"You should come with us," Bobby said. "I'm not going that far," I said. I cleared my throat. "Mind if I ask a couple of questions?" "What kind of questions?" Larry asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "Do you regret the bad things you've done?" I asked. The car was quiet for a solid minute. "Yes," Larry said. "I do. Every day." "What do you mean?" the mom asked. "What bad things?"
"I'm not the one to say," I replied. "It's a strange question, I know. But it's important." "Have I done bad things?" Bobby asked. "Probably," I said. "We all have. But your bad things get a pass." "What's a pass?" he asked. "It sort of means they are already forgiven," I said. "Are Mama and Papa's bad things forgiven?" he asked. "I'm not sure I like this question," the mom said.
She still hadn't offered her name. Not that I needed her to. "Larry, pull over please." So she was the one holding them back. Larry had taken a moment to answer, but he was straightforward. The mom was skirting the issue. "Come on, sugar. I'm not going to drop this young man off in the middle of nowhere at one in the morning," Larry said. The mom looked like she wanted to fight, but after a moment, she nodded. "Of course not," she said. "We're not that kind of people.
"But you were at one time, weren't you?" Nell, I asked. That chill that always happened filled the car. "How do you know my name?" the mom asked quietly. To Larry's credit, he didn't pull over. He kept driving, eyes on the road. "I'll answer that after you answer my original question," I said. "Larry?" Nell asked her husband. He didn't move. His eyes stayed on the road. "Maybe answer the question, sugar," he said.
Nell stared at her husband for a long while. We were getting close to running out of time, but I waited patiently. I could feel she was close. I do, she said finally. I regret all the bad things I have done. Do you? Really? I asked. Yes, she said quickly. Her head bobbed up and down. I do. I really do. Okay, I believe you, I said. Can you pull over now?
Without a word of protest, Larry pulled over and I got out. I told them what they needed to know. I pointed at the two exits. Nell and Larry nodded that they understood. "Good." Then I smiled at Bobby. "Have fun at the Grand Canyon," I said. "We will!" He cheered. Then Larry drove that Caprice away, and I watched them approach the exits. When they took exit A, I let out a long breath. It had been a while since I'd seen a car take that exit.
Nell had meant what she said. "Where do I know you from?" I ask the driver. His face does look familiar now that I'm in the car and can see it up close. The dash lights are still dim, but they do the job well enough that my mind is reeling and whirring as I try to figure this guy out. "Have you been by here before?" I ask. "A long time ago," he says. "Haven't been back since." "Not until tonight." "Oh," I say. My mind is racing.
He knew my name when he pulled over, but I don't know his name. And I always know the names of the people I catch rides with. It's part of the job. "Where are you headed?" I ask. "You'll see," he replies. "Yeah, I'm not much for surprises," I say. He shrugs. We drive for a bit. "So, tell me, do you regret what-" I start to ask. "No, none of that stuff," he says, interrupting me. "You don't ask the questions on this ride,
"But that's the job," I say. "I don't know why I tell him this. I never tell the people about the job. I dance around it, but I never say it directly." "Don't worry about that," he says. "How about you tell me if you regret the bad things you've done?" "Of course I do," I say. "If I could remember them." He nods. "You don't remember any of them?" he asks. "No," I say. But he catches the tone of my voice and looks over at me. "I know that face."
"You remember something," he says. "I can tell. I know you, TJ." "Do I know you?" I ask for the second time tonight. He just smiles and asks, "Do you regret the bad things you've done?" "I already said of course I do," I reply. "Come on, TJ. You know the rules," he says. "I'm gonna need a yes or no." "Yes," I say immediately. "Yes, I regret the bad things I've done."
"You just can't remember what they are," he states. "Bingo," I say. "Okay, okay," he says, and he's nodding and smiling again. "We'll work on that. What do you remember?" I let the question swirl around in my head when I say, "I remember a '57 Ford and a whole lot of blood." "That's good, TJ," he says. "That's very good. Now, let's think back before all that blood."
"Wanna see what I have in my trunk?" the young man asked as he hopped out of his '95 Honda Civic. They never got out of the car, so that was different. "No, no, I'm good," I said, and reached for the passenger's door handle. "No way, dude, you gotta see this," he said, and rushed to his trunk. "Oh shit!" He rushed back to open his door and leaned down. I heard the trunk latch click. Then he was back behind the car and gesturing for me to come see.
"Dude, this is the greatest thing you'll ever see in your life!" he nearly shouted. Little did he know, when I realized he wasn't going to relent, I walked back behind the car and stood with him as he grabbed the trunk lid. "Ready?" he asked. He was filled with so much excitement and anticipation that I could almost feel his body vibrating. "Sure," I said. He opened the trunk. If my stomach was full at that moment, then it would have been empty a half second later.
Inside the trunk were three young women. None of them had heads. "Ah, Stanley," I said. "I didn't want to see this." "What?" he said and slammed the trunk closed. He got up in my face, his chest pressed to mine. "What did you call me?" "I called you Stanley," I said. "Because that's your name."
"My name is the Headless Horseman!" he shouted. "No one calls me Stanley! The last person that called me Stanley ended up in my trunk! Do you want to end up in my trunk?" "I'd rather not," I said. Nothing was going to plan. Everything was out of whack, especially Stanley. He studied my face for a few seconds then grinned from ear to ear. "Wanna see the heads?" he asked, then hurried to the rear door on the driver's side. He yanked it open. "Come on! Come look!"
By that point, I knew Stanley wouldn't take no for an answer. So I walked around and took a look like he asked. Yup, there were heads in the back seat. All of them young women. The problem was that there were four heads and not three. "Where's the fourth body, Stanley?" I asked. He'd been twitching and giggling and so excited for me to see the heads that he didn't even react to me calling him Stanley that time.
Instead, his giggling and twitching and excitement increased. "Oh, I'm keeping her," he said. "She's mine, forever!" "I see," I said. "But not her head?" "And have her yelling at me all day and all night?" he asked, and shook his head back and forth. "No way, dude. You gotta bury the heads." "Of course you do," I said. Then I looked up the road and was surprised at what I saw.
"Well, Stanley, I think it's time for you to go," I said. "Cool, cool," he said and slammed the rear door, then got into the driver's seat. "Hop in, dude. I gotta bury these heads before the sun comes up." I walked around to the passenger's window and did my lean-in thing. "You know what," I said, "I think I'm going to walk a little more." "Really, dude? You sure? I've got Bon Jovi on cassette," he said as if that was the answer to everything.
"I've heard it," I said, which was true. I'd heard pretty much every album at some point or other. "You enjoyed Alone with the ladies?" "Oh, for sure, dude, for sure," he said. Then he put the car in gear and drove off. I watched as the car headed for the only exit that presented itself: Exit B. For Exit A to not even make an appearance told me everything I needed to know about Stanley. "Do you like beer?"
The driver asks. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "There's half a case left in the cooler back there." I turn and look into the backseat. Sure enough, there's a beat-up Coleman cooler sitting there. One of the old metal ones, not one of the new plastic ones like I usually see now. I almost reach back there and open the cooler, but instead, I turn back and look out the windshield. "Good choice," the driver says. "Why's that?" I ask. "You know," he says.
I don't see the wink, but I can hear it in his voice. In fact, I feel it in the car, like there's a joke I'm not getting. "How do I know you?" I ask once more. "TJ, come on," he says. "The answers aren't going to come from me. You know how this works. You've been doing the job for how long now?" I'm confused.
Drivers shouldn't know all this. It's against the rules. I ask the questions. I help judge which exit they take, and I help guide them if I can. I ask the questions. "Me, calm down," he says. "You're getting worked up." I am. I hadn't realized. My breathing is fast and shallow, like I'm five seconds away from losing it. I heard a woman one night call it a panic attack.
"Slow it down, slow it down," he says. "Good, good," he says. He switches on the radio.
He sighs. I turn and look out the window, out into the desert nightscape. It feels off. I ask the driver when I turn away from the window. He said. He grinned and looked over at me.
"You always pick up when family calls, little brother." The 2010 Mercedes S-Class that pulled up had seen better days. The hood was pitted, the doors were dinged and dented, paint was chipping off of everything, and the front bumper was more of a suggestion than a reality. Not that reality mattered. The passenger window slid down. I could hear its poor motor struggling against the crushed-in door panel. Blaring music and thick smoke wafted out of the car.
A man in his mid-fifties, shaved bald head, trimmed beard and expensive shirt leaned over and shoved a bottle of scotch out the window. "You want a drink or a ride?" he shouted over the music. "Or both!" "I'll take a ride," I said. "You got it," he said and moved back into the cloud of smoke. I struggled to get the door open, but managed it after a few hard tugs. I was barely seated and didn't have the door closed before he hit the gas.
The door nearly closed on my leg, but I tucked it inside quickly. It made me wonder what would have happened if I wasn't quite so quick. Could I lose a leg? Or would the job cover it? "Where are you headed?" the man asked. He took a long swig of scotch then offered me the bottle, swerving back and forth across the highway the whole time. "No thank you," I said. "Suit yourself," he said. "Me? I'm headed to Vegas, baby!"
"This isn't the road to Las Vegas," I responded. "Bullshit!" he said and drank some more. The guy was a piece of work. "So, Nelson, do you regret the bad things you've done?" I asked. "Fuck no!" he answered without any hesitation at all. "You don't?" I asked, a little surprised at his conviction. "No fucking way!" he said. "You gotta do a little bad sometimes in order to have a little fun, right?" He drank and drank and drank.
A roadrunner dashed across the highway in front of us. Nelson swerved the car straight for it. He missed spectacularly and laughed. "Ha ha ha ha! Hey, like that joint in the ashtray!" he said. "I'll pass," I replied. I cleared my throat and raised my voice over the music. "So that I am clear about what you were saying, Nelson, you do not regret the bad things you've done, right?" "Nope and nope!" he yelled. "I am who I am, man!"
What I did is what got me here and look at me. I'm rich and the women love me. Oh, I said. He was clueless. You can pull over here. No way, man. You're coming to Vegas with me. He shouted. I'll get out here, I said. He turned and stared at me.
His eyes were bloodshot. His face was stretched by a rictus grin. "I fucking said you're coming to Vegas with me, bitch!" He snarled. "When Nelson Forsythe tells you to do something, you fucking do it!" "Got it," I said, and grabbed the door handle. "Good luck, Nelson Forsythe." I shoved the door open and threw myself out of the car. It's rare to have to bail, but it has happened. I hit the highway's shoulder and tucked and rolled.
There was no pain. I haven't felt pain in a long, long while. I watched Nelson drive down the highway. He had his arm out of his window and was giving me the finger. I sighed as I stood up and brushed myself off. I wasn't looking forward to seeing him again, but since no exits appeared, that was exactly what was going to happen. "Do you remember now, TJ?" the driver asks. "No, no. Not the driver. My brother.
"Tony?" I whisper. "Hey, little brother." He reaches out and ruffles my hair. "You should've answered my call." "That... that was you?" I ask. "Out there in the desert?" "Yeah," he says. "35 years, little brother. I've been calling for 35 years."
"Okay," I say. "Uh, 35 years?" "Yup, 35 years!" He laughs. "Your shift was done decades ago, but you always were the overachiever. Do you remember why we were on this highway?" I close my eyes. I can see it. I can see something there. A memory. We were... we were, uh... celebrating?
"Yep," Tony says, "celebrating you getting into Stanford." "Stanford! My little brother was going to go to Stanford!" "Stanford," I said. "Right, yes, I remember. Yeah, I remember now." And I do. We were driving up from Flagstaff to a cabin our family owned. Not that we had family. "You raised me," I say. "Yep," he replies and nods.
"Something isn't right," I say. I look around the car. "This isn't right." "Nope," Tony says and slows the car. Then he pulls it over. "Your turn to drive." "What?" I exclaim. He gets out and walks around the front of the car. In the headlights, his body changes, and I see him as he really is. His body is mangled and twisted. Blood is pouring out of him. His head is barely on. I look away. I look down. Then I see myself.
I'm not much better. "You know how this goes," Tony says as he leans into the passenger window. "Do you truly regret the bad things you've done?" I think about what I've done. How I insisted on driving that night, even though I was ten beers in. How I told Tony that he needed to let me be independent. That he couldn't protect me forever. How I reached back to grab another beer from the cooler and fumbled it. I fumbled everything!
I remember a 57 Ford and a whole lot of blood. My blood. My brother's blood. We didn't make it to the cabin. I'm sorry I killed you, Tony, I say. It's okay, little brother, he says, and reaches all the way in to ruffle my hair again. You were a kid. It was my fault for letting you drive. You were pretty shit-faced too, I say. He shrugs. Don't matter. Your shift is over. Time to drive on.
"What about the job?" I ask him. "Don't worry about that," he says and looks out into the desert night. "They found a replacement." I nod. I get it. "Go on," he says and points down the highway. I follow his finger and see a single exit. Exit C. "I haven't seen that one before," I say. "It's for employees only," he says. "For a job well done." He slaps the top of the car and takes a few steps back. "Good luck," he says.
You too, I say. I put the car in gear and hear the clutch protest. I missed that sound. Then I drive back onto the highway and take exit C.
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