Joyriding

The emergency brake issued a ratchet-like sound to indicate its engagement. Although still quite busy, the engine idled. Dash lights glow. Four speakers transmit low-volume music. Hands grip the steering wheel at ten o’clock and two o’clock. Eyes observe. Dirty yellow lines divide. Cars sit still and dark. Rainbows in pools of oil wait for careless feet. Small groups of people walk together. Security lights protect them from darkness. A building stretches out the length of a city block. A straight concrete path along the front of the building conveniently helps patrons discover the route to shops located in the plaza. To the right, a red and white awning hovers above doors, declaring an identity. The Matchbox.

Ardoren parked near the back of the lot, between an F-250 and a customized Chevy Van. They should already be in there. 10:22. They should already be here.

Dome light, flip open the mirror on the backside of the visor. A little pale, but good. Wrist twist back, ball up the keys under the pinky and ring finger. “Let’s go see.”

He moved at a leisurely pace, avoiding the oil slicks, placing the keys in his pocket just so. Scanning, scanning. Older ladies pushing shopping carts toward their large older cars, young couples heading into the cineplex, a group of teenagers gathered around a late eighties Mustang being loud because they could, and one family leaving the Matchbox. The mother was first, several steps ahead of the first boy. Then the father, far behind.

His neck went slack as he began to watch the movement of his feet. Casual black shoes. You know, when you watch your feet while you walk, you only see the foot that is in motion. As soon as the active foot reaches its limit, the other foot swings out. Amazing. It’s almost as if you never touch the ground at all. But you do. The entire time.

Once at the end of the row of vehicles, he stood, poised to cross the little street that separated him from the plaza. But first, the double-check. The pack slid easily out of his pocket, followed closely by the Bic with the picture of the earth taken from outer space. He thumbed open the lid, chose one, and lit it up. Now he could turn around and see if he was correct.

The smoke floated away slowly, triggering memories of so many other nights, warm and clear like this one, standing in a parking lot somewhere.

Basically the same large group of people had surrounded Gandy since high school, some close, some on the fringes. Friends and friends of friends. Shifting occurred regularly, in and out, new faces appeared and familiar faces slid away. Flux. It took careful attention to know where to reposition oneself.

Most were inside, but he leaned against a column, chatting with the a girl who wore a short black skirt and a white blouse. Chatting with a girl who wore windbreaker pants and an Adidas T-shirt. Chatting with two girls, one heavy-set and quiet and the other thin and pretty. Chatting with a girl who wore jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. After awhile, they went inside to get something to drink and sit down. Standing in line at the counter, standing in line at the bar, the girl’s attention was focused on him as she stood close enough to let him know, telling him things he really did not care about. His eyes strayed from time to time, catching sight of the others sitting in booths or standing around in groups. Sometimes he caught them off guard, sometimes he would see one of the guys looking at him. He had always enjoyed that, but as he remembered it now, he noticed something in the way they looked at him. Had he never seen it before?

Interesting how you can act as the director in your memories. Replaying scenes, adding lighting, slowing things down, zooming in or zooming out. This is what Gandy did now: zoomed in.

They were standing near the bar, he and Jessica, he and Amanda, he and Angela and Melissa, he and Julie, and she was telling him about what Jack had done last week at work, about what happened last weekend, explaining how she didn=t like the color pink, how it took her so long to get ready in the mornings, how she’d failed that test, when he looked up and saw the group of them across the room. Zoom.

Two faces filled the camera, turned slightly toward each other, eyes in the direction of Gandy. Exchanged words. What did they say? Too quick to understand. Rewind, and this time slow it
down. There it is. There it is. The first guy says, "I hate that guy.” The second guy replies, “Yeah, I know.”

Head cocked, slitted eyes glowered toward the Matchbox windows. One moment, maybe two. His shoe tip snuffed out the cigarette while his hands found the pack and took out another. With the filter cozy between his left thumb, pointer and middle fingers, the same fingers on his right hand grasped it and placed it between his lips. In a flash the journey back to his car began.