For the Road: A Collection

For the Road

I remember it was the night of the flash flood. The city was losing power, one neighborhood puzzle piece at a time going dark. We’d closed up shop a bit early, over at the record store where I’d been dusting and sweeping for little to no pay since my prepubescent squeaker days. I remember fiddling with the radio as I drove, the rain pelting the windshield with the crack of gunshots.

The radio was scratchy, and the only words I could make out were warning me against driving in the storm. Little late for that.

My short curly hair, drenched from even the short sprint to the car, was plastered to my face, and I jerked my head, trying to get the little pieces out of my eyes to no avail. Irritated, I pushed back my forelock until it lay slick on top of my head, peering out the windshield with squinting eyes. I drove slowly, not wanting to hit something or hydroplane or any of those other things they warn you about when you’re just a dumb kid trying to get your license, a dumb kid dreaming about his first car.

This was my first car, and it was shit, so therefore the lights and wipers were also shit. I briefly considered pulling over and waiting out the storm, but there were too many trees nearby that could crush me if lightning struck. I really didn’t want to go home, though. Didn’t know what I’d find this time. It hadn’t exactly been a good week.

The streetlights in this area were out, so I had to rely on the crackling lightning to illuminate the road. There. Forward some feet, stop. Lightning again. Forward.

I allowed the car to roll in this way for some time, going even slower around the few curves, until the next lightning flash showed me that I wasn’t alone.

A silhouette, shoulders hunched against the rain, was shuffling through the puddles not ten feet in front of my car, going in the same direction. No jacket and what appeared to be really long, tousled brown hair. I knew that hair.

I pulled up to her and reached over to open the passenger door. It bumped into her knee, startling her. She hadn’t realized I was there.

Before I could think twice about it, I yelled “Get in!” over the storm’s shouting. She didn’t hesitate but hopped in, slamming the door behind her, and I eased my foot down on the gas, peeking at her out of the corner of my eye.

Really long, tousled brown hair, the growing-out bangs worn pulled back, and stormy eyes, and skin so pale it was like snow, making her eyes stand out even brighter under prominent brows. A flawless face, except for one mole on her cheek. But of course now her hair was wet and straggly, forming clumps and dripping darkness around her face. Even bedraggled she was beautiful.

Her angelic countenance was deceiving, which I found out as soon as she opened her mouth. “Trying to kidnap me?” she said, words laced with an edge I couldn't yet decipher. There was something about the way she clipped her syllables. I couldn’t remember ever really hearing her voice before, certainly never directed at me.

I just shook my head and kept driving, slowly, squinting, peeking at her.

There was a grace about her, but it was muddled by this air of no-nonsense, which meant she'd call you out with no qualms. I like "q" words. Here's another one: queasy. She made me sick to my stomach. But I wanted to know if she'd come with a medicine to cure it as well. So I let her stay in the car.

“Where to, fucker?”

I blinked. On second thought, she probably didn’t. “Where were you headed?”

“Where were you headed?” she countered, arms crossed.

“Nowhere, really,” I admitted, blinking and pushing my hair out of my eyes.