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Eye for an Eye In The Car The Mailbox |
In The Car (c) copyright 1992 by Brian Cameron "Get in the car" My head swivels and I make eye contact, order received and I open the door. The metal is cold as it brushes my leg and with a chunk it's closed. The air moves as he flies into the drivers seat, ignition roaring and a screach of tires and we're gone. I can still hear the outside through his open door, and the momentum slams it shut KACHOONK. I'm not looking, though, my body is arched over looking out the window to see who is behind us. For one second I see a white pale face with a big "o" mouth through this wall of glass and then he's gone. I'm in the car with Ed, Ed Rosenthall. The craziest man that I have ever met. He could talk to anyone, ANYONE, as if he knew the person from back home. He could make 'em laugh with his hair flying and his face making these sarcastical looks, and his eyes looking here and there. It wouldn't be long before even the most sour faced old gritch would shine on up to him and tell him near anything he wanted to hear. I've seen it happen, and I guess that's why I'm here. Ed's hollarin and whoopin, slamming his hands into the steering wheel in a halo of cash. Cash is flying around him, comin' out of his pockets and onto the floor where I can barely see it in the fluorescent haze of the radio. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and cops a Groucho at me. The wind flies in the window as we fly into the darkness. I have this big shit-eating grin on my face but I don't care, I don't have anything to say so I just watch the outside go by. Everything gets real quit soon and we've made a lot of room between us and that last city and I'm starting to doze off when the car begins to slow. We're on some old country road that is really only one lane wide, surrounded by cornfields. The last car we passed was miles ago and we both had to inch to a crawl to let each other by. I hear the dirt crunch under the wheel for a bit, we're stopped and the lights go out. I look over at Ed, figuring what's up, and he gives me the look. The LOOK. The look that tells me that I'm in for something and I had better, BETTER get myself worked up for it. It's a serious look with eyes darting into corners, theatrical almost. Then the doors open and he's gone. All I can do now is follow, I open the door and am over the car before my mind can catch up. I hear him, he's making the most awful noise smashing through the corn hollaring my name to follow, his name to tell his where he's at, and a name or two to tell him where he's going. Then I'm across the street and the corn is slapping my face, it stings like shit. Fuck this I yell to Ed and with a laugh dive after him. I follow him here, there, lose him, catch his name, and am off again. I find him sitting in this patch of crushed corn with a cigarette between his lips like he hangs out in the cornfields every day and what am I doing coming up on him and disturbing his meditations and so I wrestle with the fucker. Again, this is routine, we play tough but whoever wins has to give up just long enough for the other to feel a little victory then wait fuck that. We're both thinking this, letting each other get ourselves into these fantastic holds and yelling shit at each other. All sorts of cute homosexual humor like, "well nothing more I can do with you, might as well just screw you" and thats enough to get him riled up sure enough to throw me off his back. We've done it all before but it's still great doing it again:::all this adrenaline just pumped pumped pumped up and it has to get out. Now that I have all of that out of me I can sit and chill, watch the stars and get angry angry angry at Ed for talking me into this gag. I look over at him, catch his eye and we go off. Talking about how it felt to be king for just one second. About how we can nevernevernever do this again. The whole field just echoes with the "Har har har" "Har har har" of our laughs. It gets to the point where we can't even talk to each other anymore. Now all we can do is look at each other and catch our breaths, rest, and the ritual is through. We're back in the car and its boring as all hell. Ed's watching the road, mesmerized and whenever I try to talk about something its some quick snappy answer:::he must have a headache. I look out the window and watch the signs go by. Play a game that I've always played since I was little and road in the car with my father. We would see who could find all the letters in the alphabet, in order, firstfirstfirst. Not so much fun when you play by yourself but it passes the time. I can see my reflection in the passenger mirror and offer to take over the driving...it's my time and I do. Ed falls asleep the second we switch seats. I steal a look at him and he's drooling all over the seat big long streamers of drool flying down from his lips and all over his shirt, catching in the wind and flying around even. It makes me laugh and I hope to god when I sleep that I can drool too because he looks like he's enjoying that deep drooling sleep:::I can almost see the hours registering on his gas tank. It feels good to drive. |
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© 1994-2008 Brian A. Cameron