dust; a gas chamber. Frantic boot-steps. A sweating face at his window.
Alan stared forward, didn’t move, trembling. He could jam the 928 in reverse, floor it; maybe there was room, maybe he—
“Get out!” Pounding window.
The engine died. Wouldn’t start.
The man came around, peered in through windshield. Alan looked down, avoiding, afraid. The man tapped with false calm; fingertip rain.
“Now.
”
“Go away.” Mouth dry.
The man became furious. Grabbed a big rock, smashed the driver’s window, reached through, opened the door. Yanked Alan out. Alan stood before him, paralyzed. Tried to get mad but couldn’t. Tried to fight back, resist; handle it. Wanted to talk reason; somehow be friends. But he couldn’t move, a terrified child.
“Don’t like the way you drive, asshole!”
A shaking voice. “… it was a mistake. I’m sorry. Please, let’s just—”
The man threw Alan against the hood, then dragged him over to the truck. Made him look into the truck cabin.
“Apologize to my girlfriend, you sonofabitch!”
A girl, nineteen, sat on the torn seat, nervous; embarrassed. Alan apologized but could see in her eyes how afraid she, too, felt. How impotent. He saw in her eyes what he knew she saw in his.
She looked like she might try to say something to make the guy stop, but Alan was suddenly punched in the gut, and stared up from ground at cowboy boots, coming closer. A boot was on his throat, the face started to put weight on it. Grinned, enjoying, glancing at his girlfriend for a praising look. But she had turned away, hating this. Alan couldn’t breathe; began to black out.
Alan’s eyes opened.
His body ached. He tasted blood and stared at a black wall with little raised words on it. Focused, realized it was his front tire. He rolled over, slow pain. Traffic whooshed in and out of the nearby tunnel. Horns echoed; teenagers.
He tried to get up, suddenly saw the truck was still there. Jerked back. Eyes searching. Was the Stetson waiting for a second attack? Went to take a leak? Come back and shove him over the side? Tie him to his steering wheel, cram a gas-soaked rag in his mouth, light it; push the car over the cliff? Alan crawled toward his Porsche, terror rising. Wanting to escape. Then, he heard it. Soft crying.
He stopped, stunned. Swallowed blood.
Legs protruded from bushes, beside the Porsche. Pants torn, red oozing onto boot embroidery. Alan slid toward him. He was bloody, unconscious. Clumps of his hair had been ripped out. Several fingers were bloatedblue; snapped. Eyelids swollen. One ear hung partially from the head. There were bite marks.
The girl sat cross-legged in dirt, cradling him.
Alan stared in confusion; didn’t remember a fight. Had she tried to stop it and the guy hit her? Did she stagger back to the truck and take a tire iron, fight back; totally lose it? He couldn’t think straight. Could only remember being knocked out.
He tried to say something to her and she looked up. Began to scream. She told him to stay away; threw a rock at him. She said he’d almost killed her boyfriend. Alan didn’t understand, then looked at his own hands; knuckles bloody. Skin and hair under nails. He felt sick; lost. It was impossible.
He’d never been in a fight in his life.
subtext two
S tare glazed. Fingers plucking sofa fabric. Voice trying to water down deep fires.
“… you know, these network people … they just sit there and expect you to solve every problem they’ve created for themselves. Their crops wilt and you’re the savior who’ll reverse their dead schedule. Correct their bad choices. It just offends me. But you can’t tell them. They’ll punish you … politically fuck you.”
A sip of water. Feeling dust crawl over tongue and gums. Feeling irritable. Sounding calm.
“I try so hard to be fair, you know? But what’s the point? It’s like … I mean, Andy Singer is a barely fertilized
egg
and he hasn’t got clue one about innovation or
Alan stared forward, didn’t move, trembling. He could jam the 928 in reverse, floor it; maybe there was room, maybe he—
“Get out!” Pounding window.
The engine died. Wouldn’t start.
The man came around, peered in through windshield. Alan looked down, avoiding, afraid. The man tapped with false calm; fingertip rain.
“Now.
”
“Go away.” Mouth dry.
The man became furious. Grabbed a big rock, smashed the driver’s window, reached through, opened the door. Yanked Alan out. Alan stood before him, paralyzed. Tried to get mad but couldn’t. Tried to fight back, resist; handle it. Wanted to talk reason; somehow be friends. But he couldn’t move, a terrified child.
“Don’t like the way you drive, asshole!”
A shaking voice. “… it was a mistake. I’m sorry. Please, let’s just—”
The man threw Alan against the hood, then dragged him over to the truck. Made him look into the truck cabin.
“Apologize to my girlfriend, you sonofabitch!”
A girl, nineteen, sat on the torn seat, nervous; embarrassed. Alan apologized but could see in her eyes how afraid she, too, felt. How impotent. He saw in her eyes what he knew she saw in his.
She looked like she might try to say something to make the guy stop, but Alan was suddenly punched in the gut, and stared up from ground at cowboy boots, coming closer. A boot was on his throat, the face started to put weight on it. Grinned, enjoying, glancing at his girlfriend for a praising look. But she had turned away, hating this. Alan couldn’t breathe; began to black out.
Alan’s eyes opened.
His body ached. He tasted blood and stared at a black wall with little raised words on it. Focused, realized it was his front tire. He rolled over, slow pain. Traffic whooshed in and out of the nearby tunnel. Horns echoed; teenagers.
He tried to get up, suddenly saw the truck was still there. Jerked back. Eyes searching. Was the Stetson waiting for a second attack? Went to take a leak? Come back and shove him over the side? Tie him to his steering wheel, cram a gas-soaked rag in his mouth, light it; push the car over the cliff? Alan crawled toward his Porsche, terror rising. Wanting to escape. Then, he heard it. Soft crying.
He stopped, stunned. Swallowed blood.
Legs protruded from bushes, beside the Porsche. Pants torn, red oozing onto boot embroidery. Alan slid toward him. He was bloody, unconscious. Clumps of his hair had been ripped out. Several fingers were bloatedblue; snapped. Eyelids swollen. One ear hung partially from the head. There were bite marks.
The girl sat cross-legged in dirt, cradling him.
Alan stared in confusion; didn’t remember a fight. Had she tried to stop it and the guy hit her? Did she stagger back to the truck and take a tire iron, fight back; totally lose it? He couldn’t think straight. Could only remember being knocked out.
He tried to say something to her and she looked up. Began to scream. She told him to stay away; threw a rock at him. She said he’d almost killed her boyfriend. Alan didn’t understand, then looked at his own hands; knuckles bloody. Skin and hair under nails. He felt sick; lost. It was impossible.
He’d never been in a fight in his life.
subtext two
S tare glazed. Fingers plucking sofa fabric. Voice trying to water down deep fires.
“… you know, these network people … they just sit there and expect you to solve every problem they’ve created for themselves. Their crops wilt and you’re the savior who’ll reverse their dead schedule. Correct their bad choices. It just offends me. But you can’t tell them. They’ll punish you … politically fuck you.”
A sip of water. Feeling dust crawl over tongue and gums. Feeling irritable. Sounding calm.
“I try so hard to be fair, you know? But what’s the point? It’s like … I mean, Andy Singer is a barely fertilized
egg
and he hasn’t got clue one about innovation or
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