runaway

FOUR | JULIE

FOUR |  JULIE

Jett never does glance behind her, not even to double check the other's complete departure before she rounds the next corner. Proceeding two blocks, she walks purposely, with shoulders back and chin lifted and a persona of being untouchable, though no purpose exists. She turns the corner onto the left side street in search of some sort of amusement for the next few hours until her shift at the 40 Watt is to begin, Off The Record being closed on Tuesdays. If only she had proceeded one more over, she might have found it.

The car horn is familiar to the girl, far too familiar for her liking. Unable to suppress her curiosity, she slowly pushes the bowl of mac and cheese to the side, closes her laptop, and walks across the one-bedroom apartment, opening its only window to peer out onto the street below. Immediately, she understands why the car horn is too familiar for her liking.

"Hey! What are you doing to my car?"

The shout ricochets off the buildings on either side, rippling through the brick to the street level, though no one seems to acknowledge it. Not the passersby and especially not the young man bent over the her car, hood open wide for all to see its rusting bones.

It is a raggedy old thing, her car, a 1997 at the youngest, though she wasn't quite sure. Like a stray picked up on the side of the road, she loves the vehicle, though she knows just as much about it as any nineteen year old with less than no interest in cars could ever possibly know.

"Hey, asshole! I'm talking to you! Step away from Julie!" the girl shouts, a second failed attempt at encouraging the young man to abandon his task.

The car horn suddenly stops with a final beep, the hood abruptly closing with a hurried, yet soft slam. Only then does she notice the open driver door. The thief climbs into the seat, and within seconds, the familiar squeal of the engine followed by its protesting purr crawls up the building's side to reach her. She watches as her stranger-driven car reverses from the spot and progresses towards an unknown somewhere with the knowledge this is probably the last time she will see the vehicle.

She stands there in a state of shock, mouth falling agape in utter disbelief that the preoccurring events actually took place. Lost in the thought of wondering who would want her raggedy car in the first place, she struggles to process the loss further than wondering how she is to tell her father the grave news of his car, the one passed on to her, is now lost in the midday light to someone she did not know.

Sighing heavily with head held low, she closes the window, turning to face the rest of the apartment and resting her back against the wall. "Shit," she mumbles, dragging a hand through her hair.

The thought of calling the police flitters through her mind, but fleeting is all the thought can ever be. Of this, she is all too aware. Her name is too well known for any help to ensue. There's only one person she can ever count on to help her nowadays, and even that help is only reserved for special occasions. Still, she was carless and helpless, and it seemed the other was her only option.

Walking into the bedroom, she slips some sweats over her bare legs and Vans on her feet, barely bothering to tie them before she abandons the apartment, not bothering to lock the door because there is nothing worth stealing. Except her car, apparently.

Baffled, flabbergasted, incredulous, she walks down the same streets from where her car once rested. Old, yet youthful in its innocence, the poor car never stood a chance against the world, it seems. She simply hopes the same does not apply to her.

Carless and helpless, she is grateful the help which she seeks is only a few blocks away. On a normal occasion, she would still drive the miniscule distance, but alas, such is not possible in the present state. The walk is short, yet her breathing protests, and perspiration dots along her hairline, a ridiculous state for someone of her youth. The miles which she walks daily leave her eternally out of shape, especially when the Georgia sun beats down on her. Everyone on the streets appear the same as her, so she feels no shame as she walks towards the front door of the familiar record store, one which she frequents more than the manager desires.