School had ended a few days earlier. Our relationship had ended a few weeks earlier, as well, for reasons that would take too long to describe. It simply turned out that I was his savior, not his lover. And now he wanted to take me out because he was ready to cleanse himself, and he wanted me to be the witness.
He picked me up in his pure white Toyota Camery-which I never felt suited him. (He should have driven a black Cadillac, rundown like the dreams he created just to destroy.) I noticed a package in the back seat, which he briefly mentioned as a present to be delivered when he felt "ready." I had no idea where we were going, but he wanted to explain his sadness to me, why nothing was going to ever work for him. He could only do that on the road.
He turned the music up loud. We debated the meaning of all the songs. My rejecting his ideas only made him angrier as he sped down Dalecarlia, spun down Loughboro, and almost missed the turn onto MacArthur. The turn was sharp, the back of his car struggling to keep up with the madness in the front seat. He barely missed the curb. He talked about the music as if his driving was of no importance: He swore he loved acoustic versions of songs more than the actual cover versions because they were the stripped down version of the songs-the purity, the basics, the core.
He showed me a thrill in every turn. All I remember was watching the reflecting lights on the metal railing, warning the drivers of the mountain's edge on the other side. Every so often I wondered which one we were going to hit, which one was going to slow down the mad boy in the driver's seat. The lights of cars coming the other direction temporarily blinded me, but that blindness felt unexpectedly comforting. I huddled in the fetal position in shotgun. He laughed his mad laugh.
"Are you scared?"
"No," I said as I concentrated harder on the beat of the music.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't crash." He took another sharp turn. "Not with you in the car, at least."
It started raining. It occurred to me that I was in the passenger seat because he wanted to put me in danger just so he could save me. This was the only way he could save himself. Who was saving whom anymore?
I just listened. I was too petrified to say or do much more than that. I listened to him ramble about his sweet Angel, about his past year of becoming himself only within another being. His fall from grace came when he was unfaithful to her; he needed to satiate inner desires that he could not describe until he followed through with the adulterous deeds. Now he showed me where he broke the news to her, in the parking lot by the mountains he loved to climb. He told me each of the words he said to tell her he was through with this life; he told her, broke her heart, and was now revealing the murder site. I really didn't know what to think. Maybe that's why I didn't say anything.
He wanted to venture farther into the forest of familiar sites he promised not visit for a couple of months, but a cop car blocked the winding road. He cursed under his breath and made a U-turn to speed back. He didn't say anything more than that. The music seemed louder than ever.
"I always wondered what the 'warm machine' was," he said finally about the song that was playing on the radio. "This is the night. This is the sound. Here comes the warm machine," the radio blasted. His lips mouthed the words. I watched his lips because that was more soothing than watching the road.
Suddenly we were back on the familiar Massachusetts Avenue, where I immediately felt more comfortable with myself. He then took a left onto D____ Street to make the drop-off at her house. Now he admitted that he had wanted my support, my nonjudgmental presence, my warmth tonight. Now it was pouring. He parked a block away and sprinted to her front door, leaving Pandora's box on the stoop for her to find later that night. He reentered the car soaked and breathless. His head hurled back onto the headrest, and he sighed.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He turned the key in the ignition, and the car roared. With his foot on the accelerator, he flung us back into the real world as he sped down father down Massachusetts Avenue. He said nothing. I just listened.
Am I the only place that
you've left to go?--Fuel