Your right hand searches blindly for your mini-cassette recorder. You glance to the passenger seat. There it is. The car veers slightly as you grab it. “Memo: remember to make that call June 3rd. No, June 4th. Best to make sure all is moved in and settled first.” Time is money right. You look down at your watch. Your appointment in Kelowna is in half an hour and you’re just passing Vernon’s Okanagan University/College campus.

But you’re still cool. You’re the fucking bomb cruising down hwy 97 at 120kph. You’ve got 1050am radio hits cranked in mom and dad’s Pontiac. What this car really needs, you think, is a kick-ass sound system. A big fucking subwoofer would do. You have no idea what size would do. You have no real clue about sound systems at all. But you know you need one.

You push the button to open the sunroof. You push the button to roll down your window. All is good. You’re even wearing your just-barely-name-brand-clothes (e.g. Levi red-tags, Adidas, Gap t-shirt). You’re $150 citizen watch sparkles in the sun. You take a sip of your Starbucks café latte. You are fucking a.

There’s a figure on the side of the road. Your eyes lock to the hitch-hiker’s as you speed on by. You’re passed her. You pin the brakes and yank the car to the side of the road. You’re cool. You’re not even close to the whole hitch-hiker/“counter-culture” scene but you support the idea of it. And yet, the idea of it confuses you. You are free. America/Canada is free. Why do these people think we’re not? No matter. They smoke pot, dread their hair, pierce themselves, and listen to rage against the machine. They can’t be all bad. You see in your right mirror the hitch-hiker running, struggling with her bag up to the passenger-side window. You unwind the window and unlock the passenger-side door with buttons that are on your side of the vehicle.

“Where ya goin’?” she says.

“Kelowna.”

“Alright.”

She’s not at all a hippy-type hitch-hiker. No, this one’s more like one of Marilyn Manson’s kinder-sluts. Suddenly 1050am isn’t a good station. You lower the volume. You apologize for not having at least a workable tape deck, let alone a half-assed sound system.

27mins to get to Kelowna, ditch the hitch-hiker, and get to your appointment. The car digs in as you mash the gas to the floor. The needle jumps. You’re up to 100kph. Only ten over the speed limit. You’re cool. And yet, cool in this case only means you won’t get a ticket. So the pedal goes down a bit more. The needle begins to quiver. 130kph. Oh yeah, now you’re cool. A thought enters your mind. You have absolutely zero money. You’re living off of mom and dad. You cannot afford to pay a speeding ticket. Your foot comes off the gas slightly. 105kph. That should be safe, you think.

You want to start up a conversation with her. What do you talk about? Hmm…. Not sports. Um… books are out of the question. Um… how about the social ills of society? Yes, that might do. In particular the forced cancellations of Marilyn Manson’s concerts. Fucking censors! You look over at her. Her ankle length, black skirt has fallen open just enough to see some of her creamy white thigh. Oh, and it is creamy. All thoughts vanish. You struggle hard to regain them. Oh yeah, watch the fucking road, you tell yourself. You start up the conversation. You’ve brilliantly formulated your words, your thoughts, and your ideas. She replies, “what?” Fuck, she didn’t hear you. Your words, thoughts, and ideas fumble out in what turns out to be the longest sentence in the entire history of spoken language. She smiles at your attempt but you’re too busy to be offended. No, instead you are looking at her sado-masochistic black lipstick; hair; tattoo; and eyebrow, nose, tongue, and ear rings. You’re clean cut. You grew up in the suburbs. Well, at least east hill in Vernon. That qualifies doesn’t it? Anyway, the point is: you’ve never been into kinky shit. But there is something about her um… coldness(?) that attracts you to her. She’ so powerful. Part of you wants to overpower her; part of you wants her to overpower you. You recall someone telling you something to the effect of: a partner with for example: intelligence, might be chosen because some sort of feeling of conquering will occur once the relationship has developed (i.e. people want to conquer, and therefore make less significant, qualities that which they do not possess. E.g. a relatively stupid individual might chose an intelligent mate in order to compensate for their stupidity. They will have conquered intelligence, or at least brought it to heel). Due to jealously perhaps and insecurity. Hmm….

Blue and red lights flash in your rearview mirror. Then the siren sounds. Fuck, you’ve been speeding too fast. Your foot comes off the gas. You are… disheartened. You are not cool. You are fearful. Fearful of the police. You fear their power. You hate them. You’ve been listening to too much anti-police propaganda.

“Don’t fucking pull over!” she says.

“Wha’?”

“Don’t fucking stop this car!” commands the hitchhiker.

You look over to her. No. You look over to something. What is it? It is a gun right in your face.

Your foot half-heartedly keeps the gas pedal depressed. “Don’t even fucking slow down!” she yells. She stomps on your foot as you’ve gone limp. Your arousal level has gone from extreme excitation/lust/attraction to nothing. You feel like you’ve let her down. You were cool. You were grade fucking a. Now you’re just a fucking tool. Her tool. You regain your composure. This just means your relationship is different. She’s in control you’re not. But you like to be in control. Who doesn’t? How can you regain control? Furthermore, since you are an ethical egoist, you ask yourself, how you can benefit from this situation?

You reach up on the dash and pick up your mini-cassette recorder. And turn it on.

“How about an interview?” you ask her.

“What!”

“An interview.”

“You’ve got to be fucking joking!” she says. “Just drive the fucking car.”

“I want to do both.” You stammer. “Come on, you’ll be famous,” you say coaxingly.

“Fuck you.”

“This will be great. This is Hardcopy. This is Natural Born Killers. This is a fucking Quintin Tarrentino movie. You’ll be famous. I mean, how many high-speed car chases are there? A lot. And how many of them have a live interview with questions asked by the kidnapped to the kidnapper? None. You’ll be the first. You’ll be famous. This’ll be great!”

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

“I’m sick? You’ve got a fucking pistol stuck to my temple! No! I’m a fucking student. I’m a fucking treasured member of society. You, on the other hand, are a sick fuck. What is in your bag? Drugs? Ill-gotten money? What are you running from? You’re the fucking Marilyn Manson wanna-be.”

“Okay,” she says, “have your little interview.”

“What is your name?” you ask.

“My name? I’m not fucking telling you my name!”

“Why? Because you want to remain anonymous?” you ask in astonishment.

“Yes.”

“What? You know that the majority of high-speed chases end up in incarceration. Also, at these speeds if I lost control, we’d be meat-waffles. Now, don’t you want to be a famous criminal or a famous meat-waffle rather than a nobody?”

“Fuck you! Just drive. This interview is over.”

“Okay, fine. Next question. What are you running from?” you ask. “You haven’t been identified. I’m a great driver. I’ll get you free. I have never been in an accident and I’ve never gotten a speeding…”

“Arson.”

“What?”

“I set fire to a building. My father worked there. I hate him.” She says in all calm.

“What does your father do?” you ask.

“He’s an C.E.O. of one of the local advertisement companies.”

“And you burned his business down because you thought he made shitty commercials?”

“No. I burned it down because he refused to help my mother and I. No alimony. He’s a fucking deadbeat dad.”

“hmm…. How old are you?”

“17.”

“Why don’t you just go to ‘juvie’? I mean, anything prior to age 18 gets wiped off your criminal record.”

“Two people died in that fire. I’d be tried as an adult. Don’t you watch the news?”

“Almost religiously. I don’t know where I was. Hmm…how could I have missed it?”

The amount of cars increases drastically as you enter Rutland. Fucking Kelowna, you say to yourself. You look in your rearview-mirror to see that there are two police cars chasing you, and yet they are at a bit of a distance. Perhaps they are backing off because you are entering a high-volume traffic area. “We’ll lose them in town,” you say. You pass Orchard Park Mall and make a left. Normally a left is almost impossible to make at this intersection, but the fact that there are now four police cars chasing you with full sirens on seems to have caused traffic to slow down marginally. Drivers are so stupid these days. Hardly anyone actually pulls over when they hear a siren. But, you slowed down and let the cops come right up behind you. That got everyone’s attention. They let you turn then. You crush the gas peddle to the floor and launch yourself down to Springfield. Then along Springfield to Gordon. Then a few quick turns and all cops are lost.

“Haha, what did I say!” you boldly state. “Told ya I’d lose the cops.”

“Fine. But keep on driving.” She retorts.

“Woa, I have such a rush right now. I am on top of this fucking world. I am the king. I am the master driver.”

“I have the gun. Fucking shut up!” she snaps.

“Um…where are we going?”

“Fucking shut up already! Across the bridge. Drive me to the border.”

Traffic hasn’t let up. But with no cops on your tail, you slow down and try to drive like an average citizen. Exiting the city and the traffic, you can’t wait to resume your interview.

“Wait, pull in there.” She directs.

“In McDonalds?”

“Yeah, I am so in the mood for a cheeseburger right now. Act fucking natural. Don’t say anything unnecessary. These things are great. I mean, the meat doesn’t taste like meat; the bun doesn’t taste like a bun. The whole thing is a fabrication of modern proportions. A marvel of technology, if you will. And most people say they hate McDonalds. I hate it too. But there is something about it. Could it be nostalgia?”

The burgers and fries are great. The steering wheel is a little greasy now though. Gas is a little low so you take the initiative to go get some. She questions you and where you are going, but you feel that you’ve gained some measure of her trust and go anyway.

At the gas station you hop out of the car and start filling it up. She remains in the car with the gun trained on you. You “pay-at-the-pump” with your almost-maxed-out visa and drive off. You slide your wallet back in your pocket and head off down the road cruising at 10kph above the speed limit.

“Um…to Vancouver, or Penticton? Which area of the border?”

Exasperatedly she says, “I don’t fucking care.”

“I’m just trying to help,” you say. As you head down the highway towards Vancouver, you pull out another mini-cassette tape, put it in the recorder, and press record. “Okay, we’ve got a fresh tape. You want to start this time?”

“My name is Mary”

“Are you a virgin?” you ask with silliness.

“No.”

“When did you lose it? How did you lose it?” You question.

“You sick fuck!”

“Well, is this a ‘no-holds-barred’ interview or not?”

“Not.”

“Oh, I’m sure Quinton will buy the rights to this then,” you say sarcastically.

“Fine. I was 15. He was my 16yr old boyfriend. It was after one of his basketball games.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“No. Can we move on?” she asks.

“Okay. So, you burn down a building killing two people. How does that make you feel?” “How the fuck do you think that makes me feel?” she says with conviction. “I am human, you know? Pull over!”

“You’re getting out?”

“I have to piss.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you do that at the gas station?” you ask.

“Because you would have driven off.”

“And I’m not this time?” you fire back.

“I’m taking the keys this time, and there is no one you can get to help. Pull off on that side road.”

Through the passenger side mirror, you see her squatting by the side of the road. Her creamy legs out of her dress. A steady stream of yellow liquid sprays the ground in front of her. You imagine her. What is her real hair color? You lose yourself in imagination. She returns. You straighten up, but your are as hard as a rock.

“Were you watching me? You sick fuck!” she says as she digs the pistol into your temple. You smile.

You start the car and head back to the highway. Soon, you are going 130kph again. You’re cool. The am radio stations play only static. You missed your appointment. Your deodorant failed about half an hour ago along with whatever coffee buzz you might have had. Your hands and face are dirty and greasy from the cheeseburger and fries. There is a bit of ketchup in the corner of your mouth. Your hair is a mess. But you’ve still got your sunglasses and your “just-barely-name-brand-clothes.”

The trip has become unending. Mary falls asleep. The cops come back. Mary is jolted awake. The cops have surround the car front and back this time. With no private citizens on the road, the police seem a lot more aggressive. They are going to pull you over. Mary looks around in amazement. “You want me to be famous?” she asks groggily. She pulls out her handgun and stands up through the sunroof.

“Don’t shoot at them,” you say.

“Why not? That’s the fucking point!”

You realize your thrill ride is coming to an end. In no way do you want to see human life lost. Any excitement you got from driving really fast, eluding police, and interviewing a criminal is completely lost. She fires a couple rounds into a cop car’s windshield. You hammer on the brakes. You see her fly out of the car in front of you. You cover your eyes, but you leave a crack in your fingers so you can still see her hit the pavement in front of you. You hide the tape. You will be famous.

Afterthoughts: North America is in love with the automobile and driving fast, music, dressing and acting cool, McDonalds, coffee, drugs and their affects, paraphilias (e.g. pissing fetish, and sado-masochism), asking and getting answers to lewd question, handguns, anti-police propaganda, the media, arson, and the viewing of human mutilation. My questions are: I like to drive fast. I enjoy music. I like McDonalds. I hate coffee and acting cool. I like marijuana. I have no paraphilias. Lewd questions can be fun. Handguns I’m not a big fan of. The anti-police sentiment that is part of our pop culture I feel we can do with less of. I have a love/hate relationship with the media. I like fire, although I don’t think I could burn a building for the heck of it.

Okay…. At what point does one become sick? Can we say that sickness can be measured on a continuum? And as such, we are all sick, we just have our degrees? And are all those degrees of sickness problematic? Or are they only problematic when they interfere with someone’s health or life?

Copyright Bruce Hatch