life through a windshield

life through a windshield

or

the camels back

          Punk music purred through the speakers of the tan 1996 Mitsubishi Lancer, just loud enough to recognize the lyrics. Sipher didn’t bob his head or tap his foot to the tune he knew. He looked straight ahead, gazing at the wet, black asphalt of the divided highway, on his way from one side of the city to the other. The setting sun blazed into his eyes, unblocked by sunglasses. He glanced to the passenger seat, where he usually left them, and wished for the tenth time he hadn’t lost them. The visor helped with the blinding light somewhat.
          The speedometer needle sat at fifty-five miles-an-hour; cars glided by him in the passing lane. Sipher glared and frowned at one, a Jaguar, as it did. That used to be me, he thought. He turned his anger toward the two speeding tickets on the passenger floorboard he’d gotten a month earlier. His frown deepened.
          As Sipher drove, the Lancer drew closer to the car ahead. “Amazing,” Sipher grumbled aloud, “someone driving slower than me.” He changed lanes, passed it, changed back.
          The car in the rearview mirror sped up. It veered into the passing lane, barely missed the Lancer. Sipher’s head snapped to look over his shoulder, eyes wide. The black car, an old model Mustang, blew past. Sipher stomped on the brakes. The Mustang veered back into Sipher’s lane, nearly clipping his bumper, cutting him off.
          He punched the horn long, sneered at the car speeding off from him. “Stupid people lose their freaking heads when it snows.”
          The Mustang’s brake lights glowed. It started to slow.
          Sipher groaned. “I don’t believe this.” The words Memphis Ave. – next right flashed past on a sign. “About time. Now I can ditch this retard.” He pulled into the turn lane, sharp, not using his blinker. With a jerk, the Mustang skid, almost lost control. It followed him onto the off ramp, riding his tail.
          “I don’t freakin’ believe this.”
          Sighing, slouching in the seat, Sipher pulled into the first place to his left, a bank. The parking lot lay empty as darkness fell. He stopped, turned the stereo down, and got out of the car.
          As his foot crunched in the snow, Sipher ran his hand through his mid-length black hair. His unzipped brown coat let the frigid air clench his chest underneath a yellow t-shirt. His jeans didn’t hold any warmth either. The cold didn’t bother him. He looked around.
          The first snowfall of the year left the small lot solid white; fresh as a swim in a lake, smooth as lips after a kiss. The Mustang spoiled the scene with a rev of its engine as it skid to a halt behind the Lancer. The car turned off.
          Out of the car huffed a muscled man in a dark blue turtleneck and khakis. Veins bulged at his temples. “What the fuck you think you’re doing!” He paced to Sipher, got in his face. He topped Sipher’s six foot height.
          “I just passed you…”
          The man poked Sipher in the chest with a finger. “Like fuck you did! I should fuck you up right now for the shit you pulled…”
          “Look, I don’t understand…”
          “You want me to lay the law down right here, horse-shit?” The man stepped back, hands raised a bit from his sides in challenge. “I’m not fucking with you.”
          Sipher put his hands up. “Why don’t…”
          “What, you gonna fucking cry or something? Get the fuck outta here. You don’t want any ‘a this.”
          Sipher bit his lip, glared the man in the eye.
          He continued, “You think you’re a big man or something, do whatever you fucking like? Huh? Drive like you own the fucking road?”
          Sipher bent down into his open car door and reached over. “That’s right, get in your fucking car, drive off.” He straightened up out of the car, and leveled a semi-automatic pistol at the well dressed man. The man shut up. His eyes almost popped from his head.
          Sipher spoke. “Who’s the big man now? What, nothing to say?” He walked toward the man, gun pointed. The man backed up. He backed up until his butt bumped against the side of his car and he could go no further. Sipher touched the barrel of the gun to the man’s chest.
          He said through grit teeth, “Listen good, asshole. I want you to go home tonight. Go home, and remember that you could have died, but you didn’t. Your life was spared.” A pause. “Now. Get out of my sight.” He stepped back.
          The tall, terrified man’s eyes never left the gun. He opened the door, slid inside, slammed it shut. The engine turned over and he skid getting out of the parking lot. Sipher looked at the lot, marred by tire tracks, and sighed.
          He got in the car, gun in hand, resting in his lap, and stared at it for what seemed a long time. The CD he listened to ended. Fat snowflakes started to fall on the hood of the car. Still he sat, holding the weapon.
          Sipher hefted the gun, felt its weight. I can’t stand it, he thought. He placed the barrel of the gun against his temple and pulled the trigger. It clicked soft. He said out loud, “I wish you were a real gun.” He turned the gun on its side and read the engraving. FunSafe Airsoft Gun.
          Sipher sighed and tossed the air gun into the back seat. He pushed play on the stereo, left the bank lot, and drove the speed limit to his original destination.
          The library parking lot was empty, only a few tire tracks criss-crossed it. Sipher grunted, parked in front of the entrance, got out. It was still snowing.
          On the door was a sign. It read, The library will be closed November 11th due to Veterans Day. We will re-open on the 12th. We hope this doesn’t cause any inconveniences. Thank you!
          Sipher stood there for a moment, the snow spattering him. He turned, got back in his car, left the library. “Damn Veterans Day. I just want to use the computer.”
          He drove to the highway, merged onto it, headed back home. He looked at the clock in the dashboard. 6:02 PM. He thought about the food he had at his apartment; a box of Spaghetti, bologna sandwiches. He frowned. He thought about the money he had, or didn’t have, to spend on a good meal. His frown deepened.
          A mile down the road, he saw a sign advertising Hardee’s. His stomach gurgled. “Screw it.” He took the exit, drove straight to the restaurant, ordered a half-pound hamburger with fries at the drive-thru. Paid with his debit card, even though he could ill-afford it. As he turned out of the lot, he popped a long fry in his mouth, and regretted it.
          He winched in pain and grabbed his jaw. A curse flew to his lips, the pain from the forgotten open cavity in two molars driving the words back down his throat. Another thing he couldn’t pay for. He groaned, swallowed the fry whole, slowed at the stop sign, had the gap in traffic, then turned a hard right onto the larger street.
          The Lancer’s tires spun in the slush. Sipher fought for control, clenched the wheel, yanked it left, right, left again. The tires finally found grip and Sipher straightened it out.
          Through the thickening snowfall, flashing read and blue lights caught his eye in the mirror, then a burst of a police siren. Sipher dipped his head, not looking at the road, ready to throw in the towel. He whispered, “Man, I don’t believe this. Not again.” He looked back up. Firmer he said, “Not again.” The frown hardened with the rest of his features. He pressed his foot on the accelerator. “So much for finals.”
          The siren kicked on again; not a burst, but the long drawn out wail of full pursuit. In the tan Lancer, Sipher shot down the road, missed the on-ramp to the highway, went through the underpass. The cop followed.
          Flying down the road at a hundred miles-an-hour, weaving through traffic, Sipher didn’t know where he was going. He was simply going, trying to escape something inside, undefined. But he needed to escape somehow.
          Down the road, Sipher saw another police cruiser, sitting, waiting for traffic to clear enough to turn right. He made a snap decision.
          He lifted his foot from the gas, drifted the car into the right lane. He pressed the brakes. The cruiser waiting to go hadn’t noticed the speeding car or the blazing lights yet.
         When he did, it was too late. The cruiser peeled out, moved a few feet. At the last instant, Sipher jerked the car to the right, slammed it head-on into the back fender of police car. He didn’t blink. Glass shattered, scattered everywhere. Metal attacked metal, grinding and twisting in an ear-rending chorus that lasted one second.
          The police car hit the curb broadside, smashed a streetlight post. It creaked, broke, leaned, and toppled onto the roof of the cop car. The pursuing police cruiser slid to a stop, almost hit Siphers rear end.
          Covered in glass shards, bleeding from the knees and forehead, Sipher pushed open the door and spilled into the street, collapsing in the freezing slush. He sat up, leaned back against the Lancer’s side. Tears mingled with blood trickled down his cheek. The falling snow stuck to him.
          The pursuing police car’s door flew open, the officer popped out, aimed his gun at Sipher over the door. “FREEZE! Get your hands where I can see ‘em!” he shouted, breath puffing in a huge cloud.
          Sipher turned his head only, looked at the man in uniform. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears flowing freely. Sliding his back up the car, he stood, turned around, and laid his head on the car roof. The cold burned his face, his gashed forehead more, but he didn’t care. As the officer ran to him, grabbed his wrists, put them in handcuffs, he realized he couldn’t escape. Nothing got better, it would only get worse. Tear drops froze as they hit the roof.


written December 12-13, 2005






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