The Voting Machine

Empty Lanes

I drove down to the bar this time. I ordered a tall beer and double shot of tequila to get me started. After one sip of the beer, I didn't feel like touching anymore. There was no point in drinking to get drunk anymore. It wasn't going to ease the pain.

"You OK?" Davis asked.

"No, I'm not," I said. "I just found out a friend died today, a woman I used to work with."

"I am so sorry," he said. "Did she suffer?"

"I think it was quick. I think she died instantly."

"What happened?" he asked. "I mean, do you want to talk about it?"

"No, I don't."

I asked Davis for a glass of water to quench my thirst. I reflected on the people I'd lost in the past few years. My father took his own life and my mother lost her battle with cancer. I always felt that it didn't have to happen. Someone could have healed both my parents. But I was not that person. I failed them and they died.

Now the same thing had happened with Gina. Intentions don't count for much. Sometimes they make things worse. It was like my father said. No good deed goes unpunished.

I drove along Carson Street and turned north at Western. The moonlit streets had many memories for me. I glided past the empty Passion building onto the 405 freeway, heading west toward the ocean.

I parked by the pier on the beach and watched the waves. A throbbing hit my brain. Something inside me had snapped. It's true I'd lost my job and my friend, but that wasn't the root problem. It was like Suzy kept saying; I was not the man I used to be.

I thought about what my Dad told me a long time ago. There's no winning in this world, it's only a matter of how bad you're going to lose.

Gazing at the ocean, I wondered what would happen to Gina's body. Would the authorities in India cremate her remains and scatter them out to sea? Maybe her ashes would float across the oceans someday and reach the beaches of LA. That was the only way we'd ever be reunited.

I drove back on the 405 heading south past the exit home. I had no idea where I was going. It was late and the lanes of the freeway were empty. This was unusual. Most LA drivers spend their time cooped up like prisoners in a holding pen in traffic jams. We don't know how to handle the freedom of an open road.

I saw the black sedan surge in the lane to my left. It was one of those German luxury cars with the huge metal frames. Maybe a Mercedes. It seemed like he came into my lane, though I honestly wasn't sure. It took one tap to knock me off balance, veering toward the Peterbilt flanking me on the right. My car bounced off the forty-ton truck like a matchbox toy, ricocheting back to the left and ramming into the concrete divider.

Before I knew it, I was spinning around the freeway, skidding backwards, staring through my windshield straight into five lanes of oncoming traffic. The sea of headlights came at me head on like a swarm of demons. I braced for the impact that would end in instant death. Underneath the roar of horns and skidding tires, I heard my own voice pleading for another chance.