Cops and Robbers
five
Braden.
The service engine light is on, the gauge is shouting that the car needs more gas, soon, the fluid that you wash the window shield with is gone.
That last gas station I saw was fifteen miles back and I should’ve stopped. But no, thanks to my insufficient funds, I figured this little car would make it the thirty-two miles right to the hotel I saw a sign for, I figured I would use an ATM when I got there and pull out some money to pay for food and hotels and gas until I made it to at least Georgia. But, nope, thanks so much God, once again, the headlights are going out and the car is officially only coasting along the highway.
It’s getting dark. There is smeared bird shit all over that same window shield that has run out of cleaning juice. I’m out of cigarettes. My life pretty much sucks.
And eventually the car creaks to a slow stop in the middle of a highway lane.
Eventually I find myself kicking the bumper until my leg throbs and there is a small dent.
Eventually I push the car two miles and stumble across some wicked biker diner.
Eventually a woman with, I swear to God, a handle-bar mustache, seats me in a small booth and brings me some coffee. Informs me I look like shit. Asks where I’m from, where I’m going, enlightens me that I’m a cutie and the coffee is on the house, along with whatever I want to eat. Proceeds to tell me there is a small motel, although rickety and worn-down, is suitable for a nights’ sleep and is right down the road.
Alas, it seems God has taken pity on my soul, and I eventually find myself leaving the diner with a full stomach and I take to shoving the stupid car another mile before I ditch it all together. The motel comes into view just as it’s getting so dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face; it looks like heaven right now.
I think of Mom and wonder what she’s doing, probably asleep on the couch where I left her. I think of Raleigh and the guys, they’re probably having auditions for a new singer. And Sunny, she’s probably fucking Dallas.
The motel does look like a piece of shit, but I’m so relieved when I step under a street light. There are three cars in the small parking lot, one of which has a guy leaning against it, a cigarette between his fingers. I nod at him and he nods back, I’m entering through the automatic doors and still watching him when I full on collide with someone.
“Jesus, watch where you’re going!”
He or she or you hiss, I’m about to brush the collision off when I catch sight of long hair glinting in the cheap-motel-overhead lights, and I’m just able to catch the retreating back of a girl exiting the building.
“Sorry,” I mumble, but she’s already out the door and heading towards the kid from earlier.
The service engine light is on, the gauge is shouting that the car needs more gas, soon, the fluid that you wash the window shield with is gone.
That last gas station I saw was fifteen miles back and I should’ve stopped. But no, thanks to my insufficient funds, I figured this little car would make it the thirty-two miles right to the hotel I saw a sign for, I figured I would use an ATM when I got there and pull out some money to pay for food and hotels and gas until I made it to at least Georgia. But, nope, thanks so much God, once again, the headlights are going out and the car is officially only coasting along the highway.
It’s getting dark. There is smeared bird shit all over that same window shield that has run out of cleaning juice. I’m out of cigarettes. My life pretty much sucks.
And eventually the car creaks to a slow stop in the middle of a highway lane.
Eventually I find myself kicking the bumper until my leg throbs and there is a small dent.
Eventually I push the car two miles and stumble across some wicked biker diner.
Eventually a woman with, I swear to God, a handle-bar mustache, seats me in a small booth and brings me some coffee. Informs me I look like shit. Asks where I’m from, where I’m going, enlightens me that I’m a cutie and the coffee is on the house, along with whatever I want to eat. Proceeds to tell me there is a small motel, although rickety and worn-down, is suitable for a nights’ sleep and is right down the road.
Alas, it seems God has taken pity on my soul, and I eventually find myself leaving the diner with a full stomach and I take to shoving the stupid car another mile before I ditch it all together. The motel comes into view just as it’s getting so dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face; it looks like heaven right now.
I think of Mom and wonder what she’s doing, probably asleep on the couch where I left her. I think of Raleigh and the guys, they’re probably having auditions for a new singer. And Sunny, she’s probably fucking Dallas.
The motel does look like a piece of shit, but I’m so relieved when I step under a street light. There are three cars in the small parking lot, one of which has a guy leaning against it, a cigarette between his fingers. I nod at him and he nods back, I’m entering through the automatic doors and still watching him when I full on collide with someone.
“Jesus, watch where you’re going!”
He or she or you hiss, I’m about to brush the collision off when I catch sight of long hair glinting in the cheap-motel-overhead lights, and I’m just able to catch the retreating back of a girl exiting the building.
“Sorry,” I mumble, but she’s already out the door and heading towards the kid from earlier.
♠ ♠ ♠
everyone blames someone for their problems.me, i blame whoever is closest to me. physically and emotionally.
braden, he blames God, but don't hold it against the poor kid.