loving maio

Loving Maio

         “Come for a ride with me,” he said in broken English. Maio stood in my doorway tugging at his black Jack Daniels t-shirt. Faded converse tennis shoes stuck out of his flared jeans.
         “You won’t kill me, will you?” I laughed. Maio shook his head no, jingling the keys that dangled from his hand. With a compelling glance, he turned and walked down the hallway.

. . .

         We flew through alps as the sky darkened and closed in around us. Maio nodded his head in time to the music blaring from the stereo, drumming his black-painted fingernails on the steering wheel and harmonizing in his thick accent. The breeze from the open window blew strands of pink hair into his eyes. He shook the hair from his face and shifted gears, making the ancient Mercedes convulse and groan.
         “Not like America,” he shouted over chaotic music and the rush of wind.
         “Very fast,” I said, clutching the car seat.
         “Better cars here,” he said and pat the dashboard of his pride and joy. He procured a can of soda from somewhere in the seat cushions. Finishing the last gulp, he added it to the heap about my feet. The floor was already strewn with wrappers and bottles and punk albums; cigarette butts spilled out of the ashtray.
         “But America does have Route 66,” he added as an afterthought. Maio continued to tell me about his life dream: to drive every mile of Route 66 and sleep in his car. He talked madly, flailing his arms and giving the car more gas. I watched him in awe: he was fascinating.
         The night was black, and the villages we past turned into streaks of light out the window. We both fell silent. Maio stared straight ahead and played with his tongue ring. I leaned back and planned a road trip, following Route 66 and sleeping in my car.
         “Cigarettes,” Maio said abruptly, swerving off the road and cutting across a stretch of grass. The Mercedes ripped across the stretch, kicking up clods of dirt. Maio headed directly for a mound of gravel. He drove over it, sending us flying through the air, and landed in a gas station parking lot, tires screeching. He laughed like a madman and got out of the car.
         “Be right back,” he said and ran into the gas station.
         I waited for him in the car, still shaking from our joyride. Being with Maio was a terrifying thrill. He scared me. I was afraid to be with him and afraid to talk to him. I was afraid he would drive off a ledge and we would plummet to our death. I was afraid of his allure.
         Maio came out of the gas station with a carton of cigarettes and a case of soda.
         “Cola for my American friend,” he said, handing me a coke. He put the key in the ignition and lit a cigarette. My father would hate this boy. He made a jerky shift and we squealed out of the parking lot. I sipped my cola, Maio blew smoke rings, and we drove deeper into the night.

. . .