Short Story:
THE NEW YORK TO PHILLY TECHNO BLACKOUT BLUES
Or, A RANDOM ACT
By Shaun Stanert
Holly Cormac is struggling to focus sleep-deprived eyes on the dashboard
clock. It is almost midnight on a moonless August night in 1989 and
the humidity is opaque on the windshield of her Blue Isuzu Trooper.
The wipers push it aside.
She is on the last leg of a journey. Right now, by her own biased
assessment, she is in the middle of nowhere. She estimates it will take
at least another couple of hours to reach her Philadelphia home. And,
home is where she wants to be.
The humdrum of the roadside scenery pushes her inside herself. She
recalls her four-week photographic assignment and the images as they
blossomed on developing film: diaphanous and immutably stained on the
negatives by light and perceptive determination. She is transported to
captivating scenes of foggy morning Meadows, venerable trees, and
translucent leaves, silhouetted against the lusty rays of a setting sun.
Soon she is relaxed; too relaxed. As if in confirmation, a yawn seizes
the muscles of her heart-shaped face fleetingly rumpling flawless
features. It calls attention to an odd flavor that seems to have
settled on her parched tongue, an indescribable taste distantly
reminiscent of the morning’s breakfast tainted with a hint gasoline
fumes. She shakes an empty coke bottle roosting in the cup holder
between bucket seats…. not a drop.
The unpalatable impression remains.
She attempts to distract herself from weariness and thirst. She turns on
the radio. She punches the buttons. She finds a song that inspires her
to sing along.
When the news starts reporting the latest statistics on “carjacking,”
she shuts it off and listens to the wind lament as it squeezes through
the narrow spaces of her speeding vehicle.
She loves her work, but dislikes traveling alone. She is eager to get
home. She leans forward in her leather seat. She shifts toward the
windshield, as far as she sensibly can, scrunches her brow, and beams a
likeness of herself through the ebony sky. Her target is the townhouse
she shares with her tall tender husband, and their dog.
She smiles anticipating the exaggerated greeting her silver Alaskan
Malamute will give her, knowing that the wolfish, wiggling,
“wanna-be-person” will greet her at the door as if she's been gone a
decade.
She hangs on to thoughts of home like a child clutching a useless,
frayed blanket. She glides down the darkened roadway, past miles of
woods and open grassy pastures. She is so intent that she no longer
registers her true environment. She is absent, lost in a longing for
home and it in this altered state she bypasses a rest-stop gas station.
It is a mistake.
One that she remains complacently unaware of, as she continues,
blissfully tooling along Interstate 95, mesmerized by pleasant thoughts,
and the endless spectral glow of blurry taillights.
Soon, she is rudely summoned from her cozy self-induced trance by a
disturbing change in engine noise. The comforting hypnotic monotony of
the engine's predictable hum has been transposed into a discordant airy
rattle.
Without a glance at the dash, she knows that the Isuzu needs fuel.
Reflexively, her foot floors the gas pedal in a futile attempt to
outdistance destiny. Nonetheless, the accelerating engine will not be
fooled. Demanding the liquid treat it craves, it begins to buck and
cough until the needle on the r.p.m. gauge sinks soundlessly to zero.
With no choice, she steers and coasts until she feels the wheels bounce
onto the road's shoulder. She stomps the brake pedal, yanks the
emergency lever, and snaps on the emergency flashers. Extending a
dainty foot toughened by years of ballet training, she inelegantly kicks
the driver's door open, with an unforgiving force matching the ferocity
of her frustration.
She then exits, and marches back to the trunk. Leaning in she extracts a
worn white T-shirt from the musty depths of the rarely opened built-in
storage bin. She rips the Tee in half and ties the ragged remnant of
cloth to the antenna. She, then, tucks the other half into the pocket
of her knee-length summer dress, walks to the front of the Trooper and
raises the hood in the classic distress signal.
With that done, she wipes her hands on the listless cloth faintly
flagging surrender in the nearly breezeless night. Then sinking back
until cloth-covered thighs press hot metal, she unconsciously folds her
arms tightly across her chest in a symbolic self-hug, and processes the
dilemma.
Several interminable minutes pass.
Her thighs begin to sweat, and the sharp bits of road gravel pressing
into the flimsy soles of her well-worn summer shoes begin to feel like
nails. Their nagging fragmented presence underscores the inner voice
that is scolding her for neglecting to refuel.
For a few moments she remains, feet pressing gravel, punishing herself
with pointed discomfort, then relents. Guilty or not, it is safer,
wiser, and likely more comfortable, to wait for help inside the Trooper.
Still, she cannot shake the edge off her tension. In a flash of
stress-discharging volatility, She jerks open the driver's door. She
flings her body into the seat. She balls her small hand into a tight
fist and systematically hammers down all four door locks. Then, somehow,
somewhat relieved, she rolls up the windows sealing herself within the
Isuzu's now steamy interior where she sits, a damsel in distress,
awaiting the police. Awaiting and waaaiiting...................and
waaaattiiiiiiting!
Exasperation engulfs her; where is a cop! She muses about the way they
never fail to materialize when her tail light or turn signals
unknowingly fail to work. Still, if one shows up now, all past
transgressions are forgiven.
More than an hour passes. She is sweltering. Without the engine
running, there is no air conditioning, and the soupy heat heartlessly
seeps in claiming the once cool refuge.
Discomfort heightens her irritation. She cracks the windows. It gets
worse. Dampness tickles her forehead. She pulls the other half of the
T-shirt from her pocket. She presses it to her brow. Its soothing
cotton obligingly absorbs the perspiration wending a prickly path toward
her brown eyes.
Her solace is short lived as her stomach vies for attention in low rolling rumbles that protest a lack of food since morning.
She stretches to the side, foraging through the clutter of the glove
compartment for something to defeat her hunger, and catches a jarring
glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror. Her shoulder-length,
jet-black hair, sucking moisture from the air like a thirsty cactus, has
swelled into a frizzy halo around her pallid face. Her Mascara has
formed a dark ring around one eye in a way that reminds her of the
markings on the trademark RCA dog.
She looks away; too drained to fuss over her appearance.
A scene from a television show begins scrolling through her mind. In
it, a quirky, fiftyish, ad-agency boss is melodramatically sharing the
details of the near-fatal heart attack he suffered while driving solo on
a Philadelphia expressway. When he finishes, he pierces an associate
with an eerie gaze, and drawls condescendingly "Never let anyone ever
tell you a car phone is a luxury."
A cellular phone would be handy. As a barely employed photographer,
however, her perception of their usefulness was clouded by a lack of
cash.
She considers that perhaps no one can see her within the shadowy
confines of the Isuzu. Warily she opens the door. Reluctantly, she
eases a slim, athletic frame back out into the humid night air,
liberating herself from the suffocating lair.
Alas, there is no perceptible atmospheric variation within or without.
Her sheer dress begins to adhere to her skin like a wet gauze bandage.
She apprehensively peers down the murky highway and mentally wills the
welcome sight of a patrol car.
She is, countered, instead, with a carload of frisky young men. They
whiz past hooting, laughing and whistling. They hang their bare,
muscular arms out the open windows and playfully pound the side of their
red mustang. They rotate their forearms, Arsenio Hall style, and grunt
HOO HOOO! HOOOO!
The wake from their speeding sedan ruffles the delicate, bare-shouldered
sundress she now regrets wearing, and sends her scurrying for the
skimpy security of her locked Isuzu.
Inside her vehicle, sweat and panic fill her eyes. She tells herself
they were just having fun. Still, her blind probing fingers delve
beneath the passenger's side seat until they locate a heavy metal
crowbar stashed there.
She is choked with nameless dread. The muscles in her neck are taut as
steel girders, and her rapid breathing seems unable to secure adequate
oxygen. She is mortified by her fearfulness. She is tough; resilient; a
roll-with-the punches type. She runs her hand over the rough metal of
the crowbar. Its weight and substance offer her a modicum of security.
She allows the soothing click-clack of the four-way flashers to hush
the hysteria welling within.
The respite is temporary. Like an endless loop video, her imagination
repeatedly recycles detailed pictures of all the sinister things that
could happen. She presses her palms over her eyes, massaging them
gently, attempting to erase nasty thoughts.
She envisions empowering thoughts. Those thoughts, as slippery as
Hudson River eels, elude her concentration. Soon she is relentlessly
chewing her bottom lip. She brusquely stops when she tastes the saline
stickiness of her own blood.
Enough is enough. She will walk to the nearest indiscernible exit in search of help.
She moves to open the door. Simultaneously, a large truck barrels past
leaving her Trooper trembling fitfully in its dust. The eighteen-wheeler
smoothly hisses to a halt about fifteen yards ahead, its flashers
blinking in tempo with hers.
She is immobilized by suspicion. She strains to see the truck through
the fogged windshield. The sound of rasping metal ricochets off the
shadows, as its door swings open. A lanky man, with thick, partially
graying hair, agilely drops from its rugged cab. She can hear the crunch
and spray of burdensome work boots displacing gravel as he advances
toward her.
She peers through the darkness. He does not appear threatening. Still,
fearful of being trapped inside her Ute, she tucks the crowbar-wielding
arm behind her back. She eases out. She ascertains the level of force
to muster should the need arise.
She falters. Perhaps, It might be best to run, avoiding a tussle altogether.
The man is moving closer.
When he is near enough to clearly see Holly's fragile figure, he stops
abruptly. His tall body cartoonishly vibrates back and forth slightly,
as if blunted by an invisible force field.
Unexpectedly, she gains insight into the scenario from his perspective
and finds herself suppressing an urge to laugh. She controls the
reflexive reaction and appraises him with tempered empathy as he
appraises her.
She tracks his eyes. They take in her weather-wild hair, slide to her
heat-flushed face, and briefly take note of her attempt to conceal at
least one arm. She sees his shoulders stiffen, then relax, a hardly
discernible action. Slowly, almost too nonchalantly, his eyes drift back
up and settle on hers.
His expression is unreadable. Either he senses her fear, or he fears her.
He maintains a deferential distance. She finds it disarming. Then he
cups his hand to his mouth and using the measured, octave-raised pitch
usually reserved for lost children or full-grown lunatics, he hollers,
"Do you need help?"
"Yes," she bleats, startled by the swiftness of her response, but
pacified by his lack of proximity, she continues. "I'm out of gas." The
sheepish timbre tolling her words chafes already tattered pride. He
must think her a simpleton. A warm blush of embarrassment spreads up
her neck and face. For the first time this night, she is grateful for
the dark.
In response, a friendly chuckle bridges the space between them. "I've
done that a few times myself," he confesses. Gesturing toward his truck
and broadcasting his solution to her dilemma, "I'll use my mobile phone
to call a service station," he says, raising his hands chest level,
palms beseechingly facing out as if warding off a gunslinger’s bullet.
"I'll wait in my rig till help gets here, O.K.?"
Apparently, however, not needing an answer, he disappears into his truck, where he stays.
A giggle broods in her stomach and rises to her throat like an air
bubble surfacing in a pond. Is it a physical manifestation of relief,
or does she truly find the situation humorous? She is not sure.
Tentatively loosening the grip on her paranoia, she releases the weapon
and rests it on the hood, placed within easy reach although now she
intuits no danger.
Within fifteen minutes, a service truck sidles up. Its presence snuffs
any remainder of apprehension like a cap over a candle flame. Focused
on the immediate resolution of her problem, her attention is elsewhere.
Still, the intent to thank the trucker for his unconditional kindness
never leaves her.
While speaking to the attendant, a gear-grinding whine intrudes. She
realizes it is the trucker firing up his massive engine. Regret sinks
her heart. She feels the ground shiver as the long silver rig rumbles
onto the highway, but she can only see the broad back-end of it
lumbering away.
The knowledge that she now has no way to thank the driver wounds her.
Blinking away a haze of fatigue and disappointment, she scrutinizes the
departing truck for a clue to the identity of her modest Good Samaritan.
There is not one. Her gaze clings to the license plate and tries, but
fails, to read the rapidly diminishing numbers on the rectangular scrap
of metal. Passenger cars, dwarfed by the vehicle's mass, relentlessly
crowd the space behind it, still, her eyes continue to pursue the truck,
and she is overcome with a perplexing sense of helpless loss.
As she walks slowly along the roadside trailing the path of the lone
truck like a bewildered toddler, the attendant fills her tank and
processes her credit card.
Meanwhile, with nothing else left to do, Holly does the only thing she
can. With solemn determination, she directs her thoughts to the briskly
retreating vehicle. Slowly, she draws in a chest full of steamy night
air. She holds it in; she wills the tenseness from her body closes her
eyes and slowly exhales.
As she sets her breath free, she imagines it forming a cushion around
the hulking rig, an invisible, invincible bumper. She knows it is only a
thought, and few believe thoughts have power. Nevertheless, she
reminds herself, a thought is the only gift she has to give.
She dismisses self-doubt. She intensifies her aim. She expands the
image. She positions it in front of, behind, beside, above and below
the rig. She concentrates…. She connects…. She tucks the image into a
corner of her mind's eye and keeps it there long after the truck has
faded into the inky distance. .....
END
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