Vital Signs

Part 8

Katherine inhales a long drag from her cigarette as she assesses the damage to my car. "Didja get the license plate?" 

"No." I squint toward the exit of the gas station lot as though my staring will magically conjure the truck. "By the time I could process what was happening, he was gone."

"The universe is a cold, cruel place."

"Should you be smoking out here by the gas pumps?"

"Never been a problem." 

A kid in a T-shirt and camo shorts climbs out of a little Honda on the other side of the gas pumps. "You need a hand with that?" He gestures to the fifty-five-gallon drum full of metal garbage on the hood of my car.

"I wouldn't touch that rusty old thing." She squints at the barrel. "You'll wind up with lockjaw or vitiligo or something."

I set down my box of Cheez-Its. "You got any kind of work gloves?" 

She shakes her head "no" then doubles over with a rapid-fire succession of coughs, her cigarette clenched in the corner of her mouth.

Before I can utter another syllable, I hear a painfully intense screeching noise. It's the kid lifting the metal barrel off of my hood. 

"Where can I put this?" he asks.

"Over there somewheres." She motions to the side of the building. 

I must be hallucinating. The kid is as skinny as a french fry. He can't weigh more than one-hundred-forty pounds. Maybe he's a street magician and this is one of his illusions. His legs don't quiver, his arms don't shake, his face isn't even red. He sets the barrel down with a loud crash and claps the rust from his hands.

"Wow. That was totally impressive. Thanks for the heavy lifting."

He shrugs.

"You want a Cheez-It?"

"I'm good." He crosses to his Honda and swipes his card at the gas pump.

"You ain't seriously gonna drive that thing," Katherine says between coughs.

"Yeah, I think I am. If it still runs."

I open the door, brush glass from the driver's seat and off my briefcase, then get in. I set my Cheez-Its on the passenger seat and start the car.

The kid gives me the "thumbs up."

Katherine shakes her head at me as I drive off the lot.

                                                                                  #######

You'd be surprised how intensely windy it gets when you're driving without a windshield, even at twenty miles an hour. I squint against the frigid airstream howling through the hole where my windshield used to be and I spit out a bug.

A young woman riding in the car beside me notices my predicament. She starts filming me with her phone. I duck down in my seat. Please don't let me end up on Instagram or Snapchat or Youtube. I need to get off the road before I attract more attention.

I survey the area for a place to eat, passing one familiar fast-food franchise after the next. I reach into my box of Cheez-Its and bring a handful to my mouth.

"Damn, what I'd give for a real sandwich on real bread."

And then, as if on cue, I spot a sign for Mak and Mike's Bar and Grill. It looks like an authentic neighborhood pub. Brimming with anticipation, I drive into the lot.