The Center Divide
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It was only vaguely sunny, but comfortable. The guy that works on his kit cars was working an Aston Martin, and, as per usual, the promising husk was blocking about a third of the two lane subdivision’s road.
I never really minded swinging by him. In fact to the contrary, I had a quiet admiration for his work. A few months ago -weather permitting- he was building a fucking hot Boss 429 Mustang. But having not come down this road for some time, I never really saw the project anywhere near completion.
Still, the Aston Martin looks pretty cool already.
The fact this obtrusive hobbyist was blind wasn’t much of a secret; it was obvious by his seemingly cavalier attitude toward roadside traffic. Even now, his legs, surrounded by tools, stuck out from the skeletal underside as autumn leaves swirled in skittish somersaults across the faded concrete -a scant five feet from the center divide.
If constructing cars wasn’t enough, it was rumored Hal worked for NASA. I swear to god. Not working on rockets and such, but something to do with the concession machines; he got in on some kind of handicap program. Single and without children, his income provided an enviable house, and an even more enviable hobby.
Little of this registers to me consciously as I swing by wide in the light traffic.
The security key would doubtlessly be changed by the second shift, and the locks would be reconfigured.
While not particularly rushed, it would be of no value in a matter of hours.
A serious thief would feel more pressed for time; I regard myself as more of a passing opportunist.
An explorer if you will.
Malls, most people don’t know, have separate entrances for their employees; concrete catacombs providing unrestricted access –I learned this from my first job, hawking smoothies at one. Sure they’re monitored by video cameras, but I look a lot like my brother, and I’m wearing his uniform. He’ll be mad if he finds out, but if he finds out I’m fucked anyway –I’m using his car.
And fuck his car, I’ve got his badge and his gun too.
But the plan is only to “explore.” A short pop in and out, copping my brother’s look if you’ll pardon the pun -acting like this unwieldy utility belt is second nature
Like I’m doing something boring yet somehow relevant.
Should a bicycle or a pair of sneakers appear in my car, well, what can I do? It’s not like I could return them. Those people would then prosecute, and the need to go through prosecuting people is a big pain in the ass.
Nobody wants that. I’ll just keep them.
My mildly amused grin goes away fast when I realize the key isn’t working. And even as my mind locks into the unexpected issue, I hear the interface pop.
“Stay there Mallory,” squawked the durable-looking gray cube. ”We’re coming out.”
Fuck, I thought.
I started sweating immediately –probably even before I began the brisk trot to the car. My hand seemed to instinctively hold the pistol grip despite the unfamiliarity as I ran, and from what seemed a million miles away I wondered optimistically if they would think my brother was suddenly dispatched on a call.
My mind raced as I started the roaring engine, while simultaneously slamming the door.
Should I have bluffed it out and stayed?
Thinking ahead, I had tactically parked for a fast exit: the tires screamed into the pavement hard, and I fishtailed slightly in the unexpected thrust.
When I saw the flashing lights in the rearview, and all hope of my brother not finding out melted. I was, for lack of a better word, fucked in Fuckville at fuck o’clock.
Still, maybe if I got the car back on our property they wouldn’t tow impound it.
Maybe if I tell him “I’m sorry,” my brother will forgive me sooner.
-And panic stricken, I forgot about poor ol Hal.
[LOBO]
It was only vaguely sunny, but comfortable. The guy that works on his kit cars was working an Aston Martin, and, as per usual, the promising husk was blocking about a third of the two lane subdivision’s road.
I never really minded swinging by him. In fact to the contrary, I had a quiet admiration for his work. A few months ago -weather permitting- he was building a fucking hot Boss 429 Mustang. But having not come down this road for some time, I never really saw the project anywhere near completion.
Still, the Aston Martin looks pretty cool already.
The fact this obtrusive hobbyist was blind wasn’t much of a secret; it was obvious by his seemingly cavalier attitude toward roadside traffic. Even now, his legs, surrounded by tools, stuck out from the skeletal underside as autumn leaves swirled in skittish somersaults across the faded concrete -a scant five feet from the center divide.
If constructing cars wasn’t enough, it was rumored Hal worked for NASA. I swear to god. Not working on rockets and such, but something to do with the concession machines; he got in on some kind of handicap program. Single and without children, his income provided an enviable house, and an even more enviable hobby.
Little of this registers to me consciously as I swing by wide in the light traffic.
The security key would doubtlessly be changed by the second shift, and the locks would be reconfigured.
While not particularly rushed, it would be of no value in a matter of hours.
A serious thief would feel more pressed for time; I regard myself as more of a passing opportunist.
An explorer if you will.
Malls, most people don’t know, have separate entrances for their employees; concrete catacombs providing unrestricted access –I learned this from my first job, hawking smoothies at one. Sure they’re monitored by video cameras, but I look a lot like my brother, and I’m wearing his uniform. He’ll be mad if he finds out, but if he finds out I’m fucked anyway –I’m using his car.
And fuck his car, I’ve got his badge and his gun too.
But the plan is only to “explore.” A short pop in and out, copping my brother’s look if you’ll pardon the pun -acting like this unwieldy utility belt is second nature
Like I’m doing something boring yet somehow relevant.
Should a bicycle or a pair of sneakers appear in my car, well, what can I do? It’s not like I could return them. Those people would then prosecute, and the need to go through prosecuting people is a big pain in the ass.
Nobody wants that. I’ll just keep them.
My mildly amused grin goes away fast when I realize the key isn’t working. And even as my mind locks into the unexpected issue, I hear the interface pop.
“Stay there Mallory,” squawked the durable-looking gray cube. ”We’re coming out.”
Fuck, I thought.
I started sweating immediately –probably even before I began the brisk trot to the car. My hand seemed to instinctively hold the pistol grip despite the unfamiliarity as I ran, and from what seemed a million miles away I wondered optimistically if they would think my brother was suddenly dispatched on a call.
My mind raced as I started the roaring engine, while simultaneously slamming the door.
Should I have bluffed it out and stayed?
Thinking ahead, I had tactically parked for a fast exit: the tires screamed into the pavement hard, and I fishtailed slightly in the unexpected thrust.
When I saw the flashing lights in the rearview, and all hope of my brother not finding out melted. I was, for lack of a better word, fucked in Fuckville at fuck o’clock.
Still, maybe if I got the car back on our property they wouldn’t tow impound it.
Maybe if I tell him “I’m sorry,” my brother will forgive me sooner.
-And panic stricken, I forgot about poor ol Hal.
Comments
But it's true it seems darker on a blog generally geared toward "humor." When Heavy Metal (that retrospectively horrible 80's cartoon) came out, they hadda take that movie to the chopping block to avoid getting an "X" rating. There wasn't really anything over-the-top about it, but the people that issue the ratings were twice as harsh because it was a cartoon, and cartoons up to that point were all Disney-esque kid vehicles.
Adam Carolla got an "R" for The Hammer on similar terms -the raters were gunning for the former Man Show host. It was flagged for "bad language and violence." The bad language is laughable -there are curse words (I can remember one offhand ... that's all). But violence? It's a movie about olympic boxing for Christ's sake. By that logic kids should be allowed to watch the olympics -or any of the Rocky movies.
Apolonia: And people think I have a dark side.
(Although I could punch it up and put the guy in a clown outfit. Hmmmm ...)
Anon: Most published writers I've talked to don't seem to profit as much as you might guess, and I suspect being a writer is one of the most difficult modern-day careers there are to make a living at. I think I might if I could get someone else to flip the tab on it -or maybe if I could climb onto some already-existing corporate machine that would take over the promotion, et cetera. It's a lot of time and energy and headache to consider, and I'm not in a position to do it for free. Couple this with the increasingly rarified number of people that actually buy books, and I don't know how it gets done at all anymore.
-That said, I do enjoy it despite the vast pitfalls. If I could at least break even on the project, it would be pretty cool to see my own paperback on the shelf at Barnes an Noble or whatever.
I don't know if you could call and Aston Martin a "kit" car? And to be honest, I'm a mechanic and I'll be damned if I could figure out the diff between a 16 and 17mm wrench with only my sense of touch!
But-good story, in premise. Death (collateral damage) as a product of narcissism. I'd like to hear how the narrator gets out of this fix...!
Karl: Funny you brought this up. "Hal" is actually based on a real person ... a pretty amazing guy that lives in Florida. He is in fact blind, retired from NASA, and -don't ask me how- builds Willy's Coupes as a hobby. I wasn't sure if anyone would know what Willy's Coupes are anymore, and just started pulling famous car names out of my keyster.
As far as Hal and this character go, that's where the similarities end: "Real Hal," while suffering from diabetes, is alive and well as far as I know.
But thanks for the insight. It was intended to be kind of a one-shot short story ... the original draft ends abruptly with "The Narrator" putting the revolver in his mouth, but I figured this way the reader can imagine a shootout or whatever and dropped the paragraph. I wrote it a few days ago never intending to put it up here, but a crappy week had me in a particularly black mood yesterday.
And thank you very much BTW! I'm really encouraged by the feedback so far -maybe I'll try working on some larger-scale projects in the future.
(Shhh! Don't tell anyone. Maybe they won't notice!)