One Saturday Afternoon

         The fist slams into my gut, causing the air in my chest to flee from the attack. Laughter provides the melody to the steady rhythm pounding in my head. Gasping, I look up at the two sadistic hicks that ran me off the road. My Mercury Tracer was no match for the jacked up pickup truck.
         “What the fuck is your problem?” I yell at the attacker while trying to regain my breath.
He stops laughing, and the faint glimmer of humor departs from his eyes, leaving only hate that makes my flesh crawl.
         “Ain’t no fucking Spic gonna step foot in my town and steal our women.” he growls.
         “What the fuck are you talking about?”
         “You’ve developed an unhealthy, at least for you, interest in my buddy’s sister.” My mind races for a way out of this situation. It figures that when I really need my intelligence it’s nowhere to be found. I decide to simply state the not so obvious truth.
         “I’m not even a Mexican,” I say, hoping that he believes me.
         “Nice try. God himself couldn’t get you out this ass-whippin’.” He takes another swing, and the barley and hops mixes with sweat into a suffocating attack of its own. This time I am prepared (for the attack if not the scent), and I parry, taking advantage of his momentum to sweep him onto the ground. He lands hard, and doesn’t move after face planting into the gravel.
         His friend, who up until now had just been leaning against the truck, springs to action. He looks at his fallen friend, and a lost look overtakes his smirk. It is obvious this guy isn’t used to calling the shots. He hops into the passenger seat of the truck and locks the doors. I see him reach for the CB and decide that maybe I should just get the fuck out of here.

         I pull into the driveway at 11:00 in the morning. Dan called me all excited last night telling me that he had someone I had to meet. Dan’s far worse than any woman when it comes to playing matchmaker. Unfortunately every match he has made crashes to the ground. I suppose to be fair most of them don’t even make it to take off. I don’t know why I think this will be any different. Maybe the artist in me strives for struggle. Maybe the hopeless romantic took over. More likely the way-to-nice-for-my-own-good-guy in me doesn’t know how to tell him no.
         Dan comes bouncing out of the door with the excitement of a five-year-old on Christmas morning. He rushes my car, and begins shooting off rapid fire sentences like an automatic rifle. The only difference is that Dan doesn’t need to stop and reload.
         “So how are you this morning are you excited I can’t wait for you to meet her she can’t wait to meet you either…”
         “So when do we meet her then?” I ask interrupting his monologue.
         “Ahh, anxious are we.”
         “I don’t know if anxious is the word.” I think back at some of his past attempts, and the word dread seems to be more fitting.

         Hours pass and the conversation finally lulls. I glance out the window to see the sun beginning its descent. She explains that she has some plans and needs to leave. I escort her out to her car and close the door. I get into my own car and pull out onto the highway never noticing the truck that pulled out right behind me.

         I take my frequent short cut across an empty gravel road. The pickup pulls off right behind me. By now I am beginning to wonder if the driver is pursuing me. This person has been following my erratic route home turn for turn.
         The roar of the truck speeding up breaks me from my thoughts, and I notice that it is finally trying to pass me. I slow down a little, and it matches my speed riding parallel to me on the narrow gravel road. I see the vehicle swerve towards me, and I pull the wheel to the right. My car careens along the edge of the ditch. It veers closer. I lose control.

         The gray cloud of dust heralds the arrival of the still self imprisoned hick’s reinforcements. The thunder of trucks with bad exhausts is growing louder by the second. I frantically pound on the gas peddle, praying to get out of this ditch. The tires on my car spin helplessly. I close my eyes and grip the wheel, hoping when I open them this will all be over.

         “That’s about the time that you guys showed up,” I say with a sigh of relief.
“It’s lucky for you that trucker just happened to have his CB on,” the officer remarks, handing me a glass of water.
“Thanks.” I gulp the water down in a futile attempt to wash the taste of gravel out of my mouth.
“The story he tells is a little different,” the officer remarks, eyeing me carefully. “He says that he twisted his ankle getting out of the truck and fell flat on his face.”
         “OK.” I say, drawing out each letter slowly.
He writes quickly across the form on his desk, and I sit in silence. He looks up satisfied and says “If that’s the case then I guess you are free to go.”
         I stand and walk out to find Dan waiting for me.
         “Are you alright?” Dan asks looking me over.
         “Yeah let’s just get out of here.”
         As we walk out to his car I reach into my pocket and pull out a crumpled napkin from the restaurant. I consider the days events and the options that I have.
         “Hey, Dan, can I borrow your cell phone?”









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