Author's note: Wrote this a little over a year ago in an effort to get over writer's block, stream of consciousness-style, while I was finishing Never Saw It Coming. It's largely unedited, unfiltered, pure and raw. There may be a few mistakes. Enjoy.I left home today with plans on getting lost; To find a Honda Road, if you will. I drove, simply for the sake of driving for nearly 3 hours. A half hour into the excursion, I turned off the stereo. Honda can do wonderful things with a four cylinder engine. I can do wonderful things with that four cylinder engine and a manual transmission. About one hour, forty five minutes into the trip, I was on an unfamiliar road in Western Vanderburgh County, not even sure of the name of it. I had that tachometer steady at forty-five hundred in fourth gear. This means I was going about sixty five miles per hour.
As I said before, unfamiliar road. My personal definition of a Honda Road is a twisty two lane road with little traffic.
A corner snuck up on me. I.E. the turn was sharper than it appeared. This alone, easily correctable, get on the brakes, don’t jerk on the steering wheel, down shift on the way out, you’re through, no problems. That’s how it should’ve went. The little matter of the apex of this sharper-than-it-looks turn resting on a land-bridge, or a small concrete span that covered a drainage ditch changed matters. The road surface changed, roughly, from asphalt to concrete. The bump and the road surface change was enough.
The back end of my Honda started to slide. At this point I noticed a freshly painted bright yellow concrete abutment and a little white wooden cross off the slide of the road.
As I said before, unfamiliar road. My personal definition of a Honda Road is a twisty two lane road with little traffic.
A corner snuck up on me. I.E. the turn was sharper than it appeared. This alone, easily correctable, get on the brakes, don’t jerk on the steering wheel, down shift on the way out, you’re through, no problems. That’s how it should’ve went. The little matter of the apex of this sharper-than-it-looks turn resting on a land-bridge, or a small concrete span that covered a drainage ditch changed matters. The road surface changed, roughly, from asphalt to concrete. The bump and the road surface change was enough.
The back end of my Honda started to slide. At this point I noticed a freshly painted bright yellow concrete abutment and a little white wooden cross off the slide of the road.
Somebody made this same mistake and died here.
I learned in every book I’ve ever read on the subject and through practice, in collision avoidance, never look directly at what you’re trying to miss. Human eyes are part of one of the most sophisticated guidance systems on the planet. In other words, your body tends to go where you’re eyes have settled. So I didn’t look at the little white cross or the concrete abutment, but believe me I knew where they where. I focus on a point away from the turn, where I want to go. I downshift, from Fourth to Second. Clutch in, clutch out. Off the brakes, on the gas. I feel the backpressure from the rpm spike through the car, through me. My little Silver Honda self-corrects from the slide, and I fire out of the turn.
I am not about to die. I do not get to experience side curtain airbag deployment, I do not have to explain to my insurance company why I was driving at twice the posted speed limit.
But my body reacted before my mind. My adrenal gland spit a measure of go-fast juice into my blood stream. In my bloodstream it’s found a way to my muscle structure and major organs. That full body tingle you feel after a good scare: That is a self-produced performance enhancing drug. Find a way to fire the adrenal gland at will and no athlete would ever shoot steroids again. I’m grinning with pupils dilated, nostrils flared, winding up through the gears with no more thought than breathing while sleeping.
A short time later I notice my car is handling a little mushy. My grin fades, I begin to look for the problem. It’s short search. I’m driving down a twisting two lane road, completely ignoring the center line, at a hundred seven miles per hour.
Time to slow down. Wasn’t ready to go home, pull over, light a cigarette. The world creeps back in, need to find a job, need to clean the house, got to go to the grocery.
I learned in every book I’ve ever read on the subject and through practice, in collision avoidance, never look directly at what you’re trying to miss. Human eyes are part of one of the most sophisticated guidance systems on the planet. In other words, your body tends to go where you’re eyes have settled. So I didn’t look at the little white cross or the concrete abutment, but believe me I knew where they where. I focus on a point away from the turn, where I want to go. I downshift, from Fourth to Second. Clutch in, clutch out. Off the brakes, on the gas. I feel the backpressure from the rpm spike through the car, through me. My little Silver Honda self-corrects from the slide, and I fire out of the turn.
I am not about to die. I do not get to experience side curtain airbag deployment, I do not have to explain to my insurance company why I was driving at twice the posted speed limit.
But my body reacted before my mind. My adrenal gland spit a measure of go-fast juice into my blood stream. In my bloodstream it’s found a way to my muscle structure and major organs. That full body tingle you feel after a good scare: That is a self-produced performance enhancing drug. Find a way to fire the adrenal gland at will and no athlete would ever shoot steroids again. I’m grinning with pupils dilated, nostrils flared, winding up through the gears with no more thought than breathing while sleeping.
A short time later I notice my car is handling a little mushy. My grin fades, I begin to look for the problem. It’s short search. I’m driving down a twisting two lane road, completely ignoring the center line, at a hundred seven miles per hour.
Time to slow down. Wasn’t ready to go home, pull over, light a cigarette. The world creeps back in, need to find a job, need to clean the house, got to go to the grocery.
Fuck thinking.
I’m back in the car and driving again, closer and closer to the edge. As close as I can get to that fabled Zen-no-mind state without chemical aids. The leaves are turning. Red, gold and brown, I see but it doesn’t register. Late October, not too cold, windows down, radio off. Speedometer creeps higher and higher, I’m still heading west. I don’t know this road, but I do. Blind curves without slowing, downshift for the hairpins. Puffs of blue-white tire smoke as I stomp the accelerator again. Each turn, every shift, I leave the real world and its real problems further and further behind.
I don’t know and don’t care where I’m going, I’ve got a full tank and a fresh pack of cigarettes. The only thing at matters is out the windshield, the mirrors could fall off of my little silver Honda and I wouldn’t care. I’m not looking back, and they’re just extra drag anyway. I don’t think about the girl I almost gave up on, or whether or not I was right when I tried. I don’t think about my next car payment, I’m not even worried about getting the speeding ticket I richly deserve at this point.
The edges between the little Silver Honda and I blur, the steering wheel moves as easily as my fingers, I shift without thinking, I don’t even have to listen to the engine, let alone check the tachometer. I just know when to shift. The brake and gas pedal connect me to the tires, and the seat tells me about the road. Just drive, as automatic as breathing.
Hairpin ahead to the left, Truck in my lane. Too slow. I Am Not Slowing Down. I scan through the trees that would actually be quite beautiful if I stopped to look at them, no oncoming traffic, I dive under the truck, into the opposite lane at the apex of the turn, and I’m through. The road straightens out, and I push the pedal down. Over the wind and engine I hear his horn blaring. He’s probably flipping me off. I don’t look back, because he’s behind me, and therefore, doesn’t matter. The road forks off ahead of me, I go right, no idea how fast I’m going, but apparently to was too fast for the bird that couldn’t quite clear the windshield. I hit it with a thump and a spray of feathers. Too bad. Thousands more, quick S-turn, I fire through it. Death was waiting for me behind that concrete abutment on the side of that nameless road that no longer matters. Now he’s riding shotgun and looking to fill his quota.
I’m not thinking about Student loan papers or committing myself to more debt in a lousy economy. Heading back to school isn’t even on my radar here. Just drive, Keep Driving. The bird, now just feathers and meat, doesn’t matter at all. I’m not thinking about rejection letters or not getting called back. I’m not worrying about the roommate that doesn’t like paying his part of the bills or the neighbor that routinely lets her dog shit in my yard without bothering to clean it up. I’m not even thinking my dickhead ex-boss, Dan. He doesn’t seem to merit the kick in the teeth I’d love to give him for running his company into the ground and leaving twenty of us high and dry. I’m not thinking how we all poured heart and soul into his business and tried to make it work while he was taking long lunches and playing golf. I refuse to think about Rob and working with him for five years. Before we showed up that morning almost a year ago and found the doors locked. Dan hadn’t even given us a heads up. Before the bank foreclosed on Rob’s house and his bitch-wife left him the same day the status-symbol his and hers Beamers got repossessed. Before Rob kissed his pistol goodnight. Before we buried him, all of us quaking with grief, rage. The bitch-wife and Dan had the nerve to show up. I am not thinking about wanting to kill them.
The road ends in a T-junction. I have to stop. Indiana 69. The sign reads.ßMount Vernon
New Harmonyà
I take a left, because not thinking is growing tiresome. The road is straight and flat and I am driving too fast, no longer melded with the little Silver Honda. Near the red-line in fourth gear, I see a sign flash past. It reads Bellefontaine Cemetery. I stomp on the brakes and put the car in neutral, before cranking the wheel over and pulling the handbrake. My Little Silver Honda seems to enjoy the abuse. She spins around just over one hundred-eighty degrees, and billowing a cloud of tire smoke. I slam the shifter into first and stomp on the gas. The tires spin, throwing loose roadside gravel, chipping paint. I never would’ve done this to her a year ago. Not thinking about her not being mine next month.
If Death is still riding shotgun, he knows this place as his scorecard. Me? Nineteen years ago we buried my grandpa here. Two years ago, we buried my grandma beside him. Six months ago we buried Rob here. Alone. It dawns on me that I know this cemetery far too well. I park my little Silver Honda, and get out, it doesn’t take long before I find the big marble headstone with “Seals; John F. August 3rd 1919- July 19th 1990 and Mary V. January 15th 1924 to June 17th 2007.
The big marble rock has two pennies sitting on top of it. My dad left them there when we buried Grandpa, and he told how Grandpa always kept loose change in his left hip pocket. Grandpa was a wry man with a dry sense of humor. If someone offered unwanted advice or said something just plain stupid, he’d fish around in his pocket and give them their two cents back.
There isn’t a lump in my throat. I am not blinking back tears. I am not walking to the back of the cemetery, at the top of the little hill, under the big oak tree with it’s red-gold, brown and green autumn foliage. I am not stunned to see the grass hasn’t fully reclaimed the earth behind the stone that read Robert B. Kellerman; May 7th 1978- February 14th 2009. Tell the same lie to yourself long enough, eventually, you will start to believe it.
Rob was my best friend for nine years, He was my roommate in college, got me on with Dan’s company. We worked together, pulled off the impossible, bagged accounts together. We drank at Smitty’s on Monday nights, not watching the game. I don’t think about helping him move into the house the bank took. I don’t think about the breakneck drive to the hospital when his little girl came two months early. I won’t think about horseshoes and lawn darts, backyard cookouts. I don’t think about bachelor’s parties, his and mine, both of us stumbling drunk. At least he had the guts to actually go through with it. I won’t think about the speech I gave at his wedding reception, or holding the rings and pretending to look frantically for them at the altar.
I realize I don’t even know what the ‘B.“ on the headstone stands for.
I am not thinking about the gun under the driver’s seat in my car.
I look past the stone, to the little retention pond at the back of the property. A hand painted sign reads “Private Property, No Fishing.” and something under that I can’t make out. A great Blue Heron is stalking the reeds along the bank, blatantly ignoring the notice, and a Mallard duck chuckled a warning to it’s flock, somewhere unseen.
The heron stopped, still as a flagpole, watching something in the water, then quick as lightning, he’s swallowing some poor fish. Death filling his quota.
If the Heron had lips, I think he would’ve been smiling. Then he flew off.
I look down at Rob’s headstone, still not blinking back tears and I grin.
I reach in my pocket and fish around. Find two pennies, light myself a cigarette. I smoke it slowly, not sobbing like a little boy. Then I head back to the car. I reach under the seat, and notice a red light flashing on my phone. My gun in one hand and my phone in the other, I check my messages. Four missed calls, three new messages, all text, all from the girl I almost gave up on.
“Where are you? Call me.”
“Why aren’t you picking up? Everything okay?”
“We still on for tonight? Love you.”
I’m not crying. I’m not laughing. I am putting the gun back under the seat. Death will have to fill his quota elsewhere.
I text her back, because I don‘t want her to hear me like this “Yeah, still on, running a little late. See you in an hour. Love you too.”
I left the pennies on Rob’s headstone.
It was a stupid idea, anyway.
I don’t know and don’t care where I’m going, I’ve got a full tank and a fresh pack of cigarettes. The only thing at matters is out the windshield, the mirrors could fall off of my little silver Honda and I wouldn’t care. I’m not looking back, and they’re just extra drag anyway. I don’t think about the girl I almost gave up on, or whether or not I was right when I tried. I don’t think about my next car payment, I’m not even worried about getting the speeding ticket I richly deserve at this point.
The edges between the little Silver Honda and I blur, the steering wheel moves as easily as my fingers, I shift without thinking, I don’t even have to listen to the engine, let alone check the tachometer. I just know when to shift. The brake and gas pedal connect me to the tires, and the seat tells me about the road. Just drive, as automatic as breathing.
Hairpin ahead to the left, Truck in my lane. Too slow. I Am Not Slowing Down. I scan through the trees that would actually be quite beautiful if I stopped to look at them, no oncoming traffic, I dive under the truck, into the opposite lane at the apex of the turn, and I’m through. The road straightens out, and I push the pedal down. Over the wind and engine I hear his horn blaring. He’s probably flipping me off. I don’t look back, because he’s behind me, and therefore, doesn’t matter. The road forks off ahead of me, I go right, no idea how fast I’m going, but apparently to was too fast for the bird that couldn’t quite clear the windshield. I hit it with a thump and a spray of feathers. Too bad. Thousands more, quick S-turn, I fire through it. Death was waiting for me behind that concrete abutment on the side of that nameless road that no longer matters. Now he’s riding shotgun and looking to fill his quota.
I’m not thinking about Student loan papers or committing myself to more debt in a lousy economy. Heading back to school isn’t even on my radar here. Just drive, Keep Driving. The bird, now just feathers and meat, doesn’t matter at all. I’m not thinking about rejection letters or not getting called back. I’m not worrying about the roommate that doesn’t like paying his part of the bills or the neighbor that routinely lets her dog shit in my yard without bothering to clean it up. I’m not even thinking my dickhead ex-boss, Dan. He doesn’t seem to merit the kick in the teeth I’d love to give him for running his company into the ground and leaving twenty of us high and dry. I’m not thinking how we all poured heart and soul into his business and tried to make it work while he was taking long lunches and playing golf. I refuse to think about Rob and working with him for five years. Before we showed up that morning almost a year ago and found the doors locked. Dan hadn’t even given us a heads up. Before the bank foreclosed on Rob’s house and his bitch-wife left him the same day the status-symbol his and hers Beamers got repossessed. Before Rob kissed his pistol goodnight. Before we buried him, all of us quaking with grief, rage. The bitch-wife and Dan had the nerve to show up. I am not thinking about wanting to kill them.
The road ends in a T-junction. I have to stop. Indiana 69. The sign reads.ßMount Vernon
New Harmonyà
I take a left, because not thinking is growing tiresome. The road is straight and flat and I am driving too fast, no longer melded with the little Silver Honda. Near the red-line in fourth gear, I see a sign flash past. It reads Bellefontaine Cemetery. I stomp on the brakes and put the car in neutral, before cranking the wheel over and pulling the handbrake. My Little Silver Honda seems to enjoy the abuse. She spins around just over one hundred-eighty degrees, and billowing a cloud of tire smoke. I slam the shifter into first and stomp on the gas. The tires spin, throwing loose roadside gravel, chipping paint. I never would’ve done this to her a year ago. Not thinking about her not being mine next month.
If Death is still riding shotgun, he knows this place as his scorecard. Me? Nineteen years ago we buried my grandpa here. Two years ago, we buried my grandma beside him. Six months ago we buried Rob here. Alone. It dawns on me that I know this cemetery far too well. I park my little Silver Honda, and get out, it doesn’t take long before I find the big marble headstone with “Seals; John F. August 3rd 1919- July 19th 1990 and Mary V. January 15th 1924 to June 17th 2007.
The big marble rock has two pennies sitting on top of it. My dad left them there when we buried Grandpa, and he told how Grandpa always kept loose change in his left hip pocket. Grandpa was a wry man with a dry sense of humor. If someone offered unwanted advice or said something just plain stupid, he’d fish around in his pocket and give them their two cents back.
There isn’t a lump in my throat. I am not blinking back tears. I am not walking to the back of the cemetery, at the top of the little hill, under the big oak tree with it’s red-gold, brown and green autumn foliage. I am not stunned to see the grass hasn’t fully reclaimed the earth behind the stone that read Robert B. Kellerman; May 7th 1978- February 14th 2009. Tell the same lie to yourself long enough, eventually, you will start to believe it.
Rob was my best friend for nine years, He was my roommate in college, got me on with Dan’s company. We worked together, pulled off the impossible, bagged accounts together. We drank at Smitty’s on Monday nights, not watching the game. I don’t think about helping him move into the house the bank took. I don’t think about the breakneck drive to the hospital when his little girl came two months early. I won’t think about horseshoes and lawn darts, backyard cookouts. I don’t think about bachelor’s parties, his and mine, both of us stumbling drunk. At least he had the guts to actually go through with it. I won’t think about the speech I gave at his wedding reception, or holding the rings and pretending to look frantically for them at the altar.
I realize I don’t even know what the ‘B.“ on the headstone stands for.
I am not thinking about the gun under the driver’s seat in my car.
I look past the stone, to the little retention pond at the back of the property. A hand painted sign reads “Private Property, No Fishing.” and something under that I can’t make out. A great Blue Heron is stalking the reeds along the bank, blatantly ignoring the notice, and a Mallard duck chuckled a warning to it’s flock, somewhere unseen.
The heron stopped, still as a flagpole, watching something in the water, then quick as lightning, he’s swallowing some poor fish. Death filling his quota.
If the Heron had lips, I think he would’ve been smiling. Then he flew off.
I look down at Rob’s headstone, still not blinking back tears and I grin.
I reach in my pocket and fish around. Find two pennies, light myself a cigarette. I smoke it slowly, not sobbing like a little boy. Then I head back to the car. I reach under the seat, and notice a red light flashing on my phone. My gun in one hand and my phone in the other, I check my messages. Four missed calls, three new messages, all text, all from the girl I almost gave up on.
“Where are you? Call me.”
“Why aren’t you picking up? Everything okay?”
“We still on for tonight? Love you.”
I’m not crying. I’m not laughing. I am putting the gun back under the seat. Death will have to fill his quota elsewhere.
I text her back, because I don‘t want her to hear me like this “Yeah, still on, running a little late. See you in an hour. Love you too.”
I left the pennies on Rob’s headstone.
It was a stupid idea, anyway.
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