of the truck and it landed with the hollow clunk of metal against metal.
Maggie was wearing a dark green hoodie with a kangaroo pocket in it, and was hugging herself with her arms in the pocket. She was refusing to look at him. Jackson stood in the parking lot with his arms akimbo, looking at the little blue car and then at the pool cleaning van.
“Let’s just shut up and get the fuck out of here,” said Kelly. “I do not like that there’s another car here.”
“No shit,” said Jackson. “We should bolt.”
They got in the cab of the truck. Maggie said she didn’t want to sit next to Kelly, so she sat on the passenger side, Kelly drove, and Jackson sat in the middle. If they hurried, there would still be enough time to drop Jackson off at his grandma’s house, go home, wash up, swing by Kelly’s mom’s house to pick up Gabie, drop him and Maggie off at home, and then tear back up the highway to report to work. Kelly’s palms were wet. They were getting blood all over the seats. Maggie sat still with her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead out the windshield.
Kelly jingled the keys out of his jacket pocket, inserted them into the ignition, turned them, and prayed. The motor didn’t come on the first time, or the second time or the third or the fourth time. Then, it did. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t. The headlights came on and the engine groaned as Kelly pulsed the accelerator. The radio came on. It was playing “Friends in Low Places.”
I’m not big on social graces
Think I’ll slip on down to the O—asis
Oh, I got friends in low—places.
The song lightened the mood a little. (A little.) Kelly mouthed along to the chorus out of habit.
The truck’s fat, soft tires rocked over the dirt road, bits of gravel popping under the wheels. They crept down the hill toward the stop sign. The red octagon flashed in the headlights and went dark again as they passed it. No cars coming in either direction. Kelly goosed the engine and the truck rolled out onto the main road and died.
The truck died across both lanes of the road, without enough space on either side to drive around it. The first car nearly plowed into them at about fifty miles an hour. Tires screamed, the sulfurous odor of burnt rubber. The driver jammed a fist into the horn. Then another car coming from the other direction did the same thing.
Kelly kept trying the engine, and the engine kept making a chortling noise and then choking off, until it failed to start completely, and then there was just the sound of the starter clicking, and then that stopped too, and now he turned the key in the ignition and absolutely nothing happened.
A line of cars began to stack up around them in both directions. There were four or five cars on either side of them, then six, seven, eight, and then there were two long trails of headlights and winking red brake lights on either side of the truck. Idling motors panted up and down the hill like tired dogs. Horns honked futilely. A few cars peeled out of the line and turned around.
Kelly didn’t want to get out of the truck with all the blood on his clothes. He just kept trying to start the engine. He put the transmission in neutral and tried to coast out of the way, but the truck didn’t move much. It took up a lot of space, and the road here had no shoulder. Jackson and Maggie were talking to him the whole time, but Kelly wasn’t listening to what they were saying. Kelly’s vision seemed almost to be flashing with white light, and all he could hear was a thin, high-pitched, nearly silent whine.
Somebody rolled down a window and shouted, “What the hell’s going on here?”
It was a stupid question, and Kelly didn’t answer it.
Kelly sank his forehead into the wheel and prayed. He silently prayed to God to start his truck. Then he tried the ignition again: silence. The radio came back on, though.
Just wait ’til I finish this glass
Then sweet little lady
I’ll head back to the bar
And you
Maggie was wearing a dark green hoodie with a kangaroo pocket in it, and was hugging herself with her arms in the pocket. She was refusing to look at him. Jackson stood in the parking lot with his arms akimbo, looking at the little blue car and then at the pool cleaning van.
“Let’s just shut up and get the fuck out of here,” said Kelly. “I do not like that there’s another car here.”
“No shit,” said Jackson. “We should bolt.”
They got in the cab of the truck. Maggie said she didn’t want to sit next to Kelly, so she sat on the passenger side, Kelly drove, and Jackson sat in the middle. If they hurried, there would still be enough time to drop Jackson off at his grandma’s house, go home, wash up, swing by Kelly’s mom’s house to pick up Gabie, drop him and Maggie off at home, and then tear back up the highway to report to work. Kelly’s palms were wet. They were getting blood all over the seats. Maggie sat still with her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead out the windshield.
Kelly jingled the keys out of his jacket pocket, inserted them into the ignition, turned them, and prayed. The motor didn’t come on the first time, or the second time or the third or the fourth time. Then, it did. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t. The headlights came on and the engine groaned as Kelly pulsed the accelerator. The radio came on. It was playing “Friends in Low Places.”
I’m not big on social graces
Think I’ll slip on down to the O—asis
Oh, I got friends in low—places.
The song lightened the mood a little. (A little.) Kelly mouthed along to the chorus out of habit.
The truck’s fat, soft tires rocked over the dirt road, bits of gravel popping under the wheels. They crept down the hill toward the stop sign. The red octagon flashed in the headlights and went dark again as they passed it. No cars coming in either direction. Kelly goosed the engine and the truck rolled out onto the main road and died.
The truck died across both lanes of the road, without enough space on either side to drive around it. The first car nearly plowed into them at about fifty miles an hour. Tires screamed, the sulfurous odor of burnt rubber. The driver jammed a fist into the horn. Then another car coming from the other direction did the same thing.
Kelly kept trying the engine, and the engine kept making a chortling noise and then choking off, until it failed to start completely, and then there was just the sound of the starter clicking, and then that stopped too, and now he turned the key in the ignition and absolutely nothing happened.
A line of cars began to stack up around them in both directions. There were four or five cars on either side of them, then six, seven, eight, and then there were two long trails of headlights and winking red brake lights on either side of the truck. Idling motors panted up and down the hill like tired dogs. Horns honked futilely. A few cars peeled out of the line and turned around.
Kelly didn’t want to get out of the truck with all the blood on his clothes. He just kept trying to start the engine. He put the transmission in neutral and tried to coast out of the way, but the truck didn’t move much. It took up a lot of space, and the road here had no shoulder. Jackson and Maggie were talking to him the whole time, but Kelly wasn’t listening to what they were saying. Kelly’s vision seemed almost to be flashing with white light, and all he could hear was a thin, high-pitched, nearly silent whine.
Somebody rolled down a window and shouted, “What the hell’s going on here?”
It was a stupid question, and Kelly didn’t answer it.
Kelly sank his forehead into the wheel and prayed. He silently prayed to God to start his truck. Then he tried the ignition again: silence. The radio came back on, though.
Just wait ’til I finish this glass
Then sweet little lady
I’ll head back to the bar
And you
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