Jack Hostrawser
Louis realized he was staring. His gaze drifted through the bent spider web in the windshield, down the hood, and off into the twinkling embers on the plains below. Over the lake, another anvil flickered silently and the sun seemed to shear off the air itself. Calvin was down there, watching the coverage of his dad on TV. Louis had done a bad thing and now his son and the rest of the city were learning of it in high definition, with surround sound. Far away, his story was
interrupting sitcoms.
“Now what?” he said, for the sound of it. Aluminum and iron, injectors and water pumps, all ticked and cooled beneath deep, dented green. Nothing. Nothing to say, nothing worth saying. He sat and wondered in his car on that tarmac ledge between the caves of damp coniferous and the vast potential below. He couldn’t stay here; he was prey. He’d ditched a chopper, for Christ’s sake. No one ditched the chopper.
The road hugged the edge of the escarpment, damming up the heavy moss of the forest. The moaning trees twisted in the grip of the cold front, pushing the storms east. A dandelion seed barrelled in through the window and settled on the dashboard. It probably wanted an autograph.
Soon he realized that he needed to piss. He might have held it all day—he hadn’t been paying attention. He slithered from the car, his cartilage creaking as the rear strut did. The sheet metal there deflected inwards to conjure police-issue ram bars. He tried to cross the wire fence that girdled the ditch but it was loose with age and wavered as he stood
on it. He imagined falling and shooting himself and the image brought hints of irony to his mouth.
He’d never owned a pistol, and he was wary of it. He also noted that wedging it in the front of his pants was probably not helping, but it stayed.
Leaping, he pushed his foot into the post and it crumbled under his soles. He started to swear then hit the ground hard. Finishing the curse and tossing in several others, he brushed the mud and needles from his hands, revealing the fine wisps of scarlet meteors across the butt of his palm. The throbbing pain along his side persisted but he repressed it, breathing deep to pull in the howl of the wind and chill the blood that wept from his hand, stigmata of an unconvincing Christ.
He moved into the forest until the rush of it surrounded him. If the car were spotted, he at least wouldn’t be caught with his fly down. By now, the warmth of his body had begun to flow back into the grip of the pistol and the metal seemed to fuse with skin until he pulled it out to avoid shooting his dick off.
As the sodden evening shivered, he loitered. The smells of exhaust, gunsmoke, and blood were gone from his nose but they were dusted across his brain. And suddenly he was strolling in the woods.
Sitting on a dry log, he thought about smiling and stared some more. The storm had saved him
earlier. Lucky break. Now the humid air chilled him and drew his thoughts to warmer places. He thought about shooting himself, for prudence’s sake. There wasn’t really a choice but he held up the gun anyway, taking it in his hand and cycling the action. The unused bullet flew silently into the moss. As he levelled the sights, the setting sun risked a glance through the ragged clouds and dripping leaves, igniting the crooked birch and forging little diamonds on its paper dress. Fate, babe. Bang.
There were holes in the back of the Mustang. Little ones where the patrolman had aimed. He doubted that it was protocol to open fire during high-speed pursuits, but the holes had no comment. He had a thought and dove to the pavement to check for leaks: clear, red, green, brown. Now would be too soon—he’d made it this far and he wasn’t done yet. Satisfied, he wiped the oily road water from his palms and lowered himself back into the leather bucket seat.
“You’re still with me, right?” He was talking to a car. The breeze sent the little fluff of dandelion flying out the window. Some sign.
Calvin had called the Mustang Stacy. He realized again that he hadn’t said goodbye. He muttered something under his breath that shook past a lump.
In time he took a breath and placed his hand on the key and turned. The eight cylinders grunted to life. She was ready. He was ready. Easing out the clutch, he headed off to die.
