What To Do

John generally knew what to do.  John knew what he was doing when he chose to go to school across the country just to escape from Augusta, John knew what he was doing when he took a job in a cubicle that put his philosophy degree to waste, John knew what he was doing when he married his wife and John knew what he was doing when he killed her.  However, now was one of those times when John didn’t know what to do.
         His eyes had trouble staying on the road, with Lucille in the backseat, wrapped in black plastic bags messily covered in masking tape to ensure that he never had to see his wife’s golden skin ever again.  He had considered putting her in the trunk, but he liked her being where he could see her.
         Before he had the balls to drive, John sat on the toilet seat cover for three hours, just watching Lucille exsanguinate in the porcelain claw foot tub she always adored.  She had looked hauntingly alive in her death, eyes agape, gazing into the ceiling and mouth slightly open as if she was looking at something beautiful.
         John let his eyes drop down to the fuel gauge.  The pointer was teasing the empty sign, and John hadn’t seen a gas station for something like one hundred miles.
         “Lucille,” he said to the lifeless lump in the backseat of his sixty-thousand dollar SUV, “you’re going to be the death of me.”
         In some sense she already was. She was the single drop of water that extinguished John’s old self, his youth, and his life.  After all, it was her that made him take that damn job in a cubicle in Helena.  Lucille ruined his life, and killing her was going to save it. At least, that’s as far as John thought, and this was strange, because he was one to think ahead.  John usually knew what to do, and he was comfortable that way.  But right now, he didn’t really care about what to do, because he knew that he wouldn’t get far, and he had the same knife he used on Lucille sitting in the passenger seat in case the police caught up with him or the guilt finally got to him.  Part of him wanted to die the same way Lucille had. He was almost remorseful, but mostly selfish.
         John broke his gaze from the rear view mirror to see himself approaching a gas station. His car had been sputtering the past few minutes, and he knew he probably couldn’t make it even another mile, so he coasted into the gas station, cursing his car for it’s poor mileage and hoping that it wasn’t one of those places you find so often in this part of Texas, where the buildings are always at least ten miles apart and the ones you find are usually long gone to the tumbleweed kingdoms and cactus nations.
         Fortunately, there were a few cars parked around the station, and none of them had missing wheels or broken windshields, so John allowed himself to pull up to a pump.  He turned off the car and held his keys in his hand for a few minutes.
         What am I doing? John thought, fidgeting with the cold metal reason between his fingers.  He realized that he had never felt like this before- so lost and hopeless. It was the first time since he killed Lucy that he was truly sorry, and this made him want to die.
         John knew he couldn’t die here.  He wanted go back to Maine and say hi to his good-for-nothing drunk mother and slit his wrists in the same bathroom where his four-year-old self hid when Daddy came home from the war slamming doors and yelling about what Mommy did with Daddy’s brother while he was in Vietnam. John thought that his mom would have enjoyed finding Lucille in the back of his car.  Maybe she would stop drinking for a while and realize how much she demolished everyone else’s lives. That would be great, John thought.
         Satisfied with his decision, John opened the car door and stepped out into the dry, thin Texan heat.  It’s different when you know that you’re going to die- everything you do is planned. John liked that feeling.  It didn’t even bother him when he had to look at Lucille through the car window while he was pumping the gas. He just kind of regretted killing her a little bit.
         After his tank was full, he walked into the station to pay for his gas and get some food because he hadn’t eaten since he made that life-changing decision to kill his wife yesterday morning.
         “Stop right there,” a voice demanded the instant John walked in, beating the cowbell on top of the door.  John looked up to see that the voice was attached to a twenty-something kid with a black t-shirt, ratty old blue jeans, and a pistol. “Stop right there and I won’t shoot you or any of these people.” At his feet was an old man with a flannel shirt and over-alls, his desperate tears dripping into the dusty floor. There was a lady down on the floor next to the counter closing her eyes and muttering a prayer that somebody promised would make the bad things go away.
         “Now,” said the kid, “is that your car out there? That fancy truck out by the pump?”
         “I guess so,” John replied.
         “Alright. You’re going to take me North and drop me off in the first town we see and not say anything ‘bout this here situation.”
         “Did your mother teach you to say please?”
         “Do you want to die?” The kid tightened his grip on the gun and tried to put on the most intimidating scowl.
         John thought about the irony of the question, and almost laughed. Instead he replied, “Okay whatever. I guess I’m going North anyway,” and turned around, walking back toward Lucille and his car. The cowbell rang on his way out and he left the kid still standing,, confused at what had just happened.  Unsure of what to do, the kid looked both ways and smiled, jumping over the crying man at his feet and started to walk victoriously to John’s parked car.
         For some reason, John smiled when the kid got in the car, told him to buckle his seatbelt, and began a conversation. “So how far away is this town up North you’re so anxious to get to?”
         The kid squinted at John, confused at his motives and still fingering the pistol. “I don’t know.” He finally figured that John couldn’t be up to anything bad, so he placed the unholy chunk of metal on the dashboard and pulled the stolen money out of his pocket, starting to count it as he continued the dialogue. “Forty… fifty… But you know, the further away the better… one hundred and twenty…’cause I’m on the run from the law.”
         John chuckled. “I guess we’ve we have something in common, then.”
         The kid didn’t find it as funny as John did.  He dropped the money and jolted for his gun, biting his lip with darting eyes, searching for some clue in the car.
         “Hey man, what’s going on? What the hell’s that in the backseat?”
“Calm down, man. It’s…” John paused, wondering whether to tell the kid the truth or not. He decided he couldn’t get away with almost any lie he made up, so he decided to confess. “That’s my wife. I killed her yesterday morning.”
“What? How is that supposed to calm me down?” The kid was panicking and screaming every word. The gun was beginning to slip between his sweating palms. “Stop the car right now and get the dead lady and get out or I’m going to shoot you.”
“No,” John replied coolly.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” The kid stared at John intensely, eyes beginning to well up in confusion and frustration. “Get out of the damn car or I’ll kill you!”
“Kill me, please, but not with the gun.” John turned towards the boy and told him, “I put the knife I used to kill Lucille in the glove compartment. I want you to stab me three times in the chest so I can die like my wife did- the same knife and everything.”
The tears forming in the kid’s eyes finally broke free, running down his cheeks.  “No, man,” he whimpered. “Just let me get out of the car or something. I don’t want to kill anybody.”
John turned the car an immediate 180 degrees and slammed his foot on the accelerator, going eighty, ninety miles per hour towards the lonely gas station from which they had just departed, three miles away. “If you don’t kill me, kid, I’ll kill us both.”
“No, No. Please, man, stop the car! Please!” The kid watched the station come closer as the car went faster, now one hundred, one hundred twenty miles per hour.
“I really want to die, man. This is what I’ve always been waiting for, dude!” John screamed insanely.
“Okay!” the kid screamed in defeat, and John slowed down the car, stopping about one hundred yards from the gas station. “Whatever. You’re so fucking crazy, man.”
John checked to see if it was okay to get back in the road out of habit, even though he knew there was no one for miles except for those people in the gas station, but he assumed they were still in the ground saying the Lord’s Prayer with the most meaning they’ve ever managed. That’s what fear does to you, John thought. It makes you feel.
“Yeah, I’m crazy,” John replied when he got back on the road, now looking for a nice place to die.  “I know what I’m doing, though.”
The kid didn’t respond. He just looked out the window like a pouting little child forced to go see some annoying elderly relative. He’ll thank me for this later, John thought, and continued driving to his own personal oblivion.
About twenty miles up the road, John found a place to die.  There was nothing for a one-mile radius except for the road and a single thorn bush. The bush was a bit of a walk from the road, so John dragged Lucille out and let the kid carry the knife and the keys to the SUV. John pulled Lucille backwards, and every time he looked up at the kid the kid wasn’t looking at him.  The kid’s eyes were fixed north. John didn’t know whether is was because he was looking forward to getting this all over with and starting a new life in a small town or if he was just afraid to look at the man he was about to kill. Either way, the kid was definitely not as excited about this as John was.
When they got to the thorn bush, John laid Lucille close to it so she could get the most shade. She never liked hot weather anyway.  John took off his shirt and threw it on the ground so he could feel the sun on his chest his last few moments.
“You know,” he said, squinting and putting his right hand over his eyes to keep out the sun, “I killed Lucille in the bed we used to sleep in together, so I’m glad I get to die with her next to me.”
“Awesome,” the kid said sarcastically, still gazing North.
“Alright,” John said, sitting himself on the ground and closing his eyes. “Remember to stab me three times, and in the chest. I want to die just like Lucy.”
It took a few moments after that for the kid to make his move, but when John felt the first cool stab into his chest, he knew he was doing the right thing.