The Horn Screamed
Fiction|Horror|Fantasy … Part III
The Dude they pried from the driver’s seat, airbag embedded in his ear, seemed intent, no desperate to point out that I was at fault, and though a busted jaw and sideways grin prevented him from articulating what had happened, his single digit salute in the direction of my crumpled Kia, seemed sufficient to convey to all around, that he was not the cause of this mishap. That fault, though far be it for him to lay blame to someone whose body had a steering column piercing its chest, lay elsewhere and everyone should be so informed.
It seems my friend was as ill amused as I, and shook his head slowly from side to side, as if to note, that this fellow, this dude who rides a red pickup with a large breasted woman, would be on his list of souls to procure in the not too distant future. Amen to that.
But where did all of this leave me? I felt lost, eerily misplaced and tossed aside in a universe I had just been an active participant within. Here I “stood”, bereft of impulse or anticipation of what might come next, for in truth, I was no more. How could nothing feel, or no one think? How was I to contemplate my existence when there was no point of reference, no maps, no bloody policeman standing on the corner in white gloves and hat, gesturing this way and that, directing traffic towards the hereafter; or a booth, bannered in broad strokes and gold leaf claiming, “Guide to the Afterlife.”
The clamor of broken metal, hydraulics and idle chatter about death and its inherent inconvenience faded as the participants in my final moment returned to their lives, their families, their continued existence, leaving behind nothing more than stained pavement, yellow tape and discarded Starbucks cups and brown paper bags. I watched and felt hollow inside, like a bone sucked clean of its marrow and tossed aside for compost. I cried, but felt no tears. Wept inside the mind that was still mine to possess and grieved for a life, a silly one at times, often apologetic and frequently dysfunctional as it was, but mine, and god damn it, I missed it already.
I turned savagely and unleashed a kick at the head of the “man” that had shadowed me since the first millisecond of death and missed pathetically. Gone, moved or otherwise displaced, I unleashed nothing more than my own frustration at empty airspace, and lost the unnatural balance that kept me propped up, fifty feet above the ground; falling now, crashing more than not, into on and around the spot where my beloved Kia had once been. I assumed pain and the crunching of bone and felt nauseous before anything actually occurred. Then the realization of immortality struck, that loose fitting concepts that one talks about in church-like whispers while watching the parade of sinners move toward the alter with hands clasped and mouths already beginning to open.
Struck cold and hard and somewhere just north of the groin, leaving me breathless and excited and in a state of complete exhaustion; limbs sagging by my side, eyes wide and tear filled, hope escaping from me like air from a lifeless balloon — where the fuck was I and why was this ugly son of a bitch still watching me? He looked haggard and old, like it was my fault that he was up late and in need of sleep. Yet his eyes had changed. They no longer stared at me with empty indifference, a Budweiser poster glued to the inside of a liquor store door. Something had changed.
Who are you?
He moved away uneasily, perhaps wary of personal comments and interactions with his intended victim. He stopped no more than six inches from two ladies still talking about the accident and unaware that a creature of a different and diverse dimension was hovering millimetres away; close enough to smell the fragrance on her neck, to see the sunlight shimmering off her eyelashes, to be tormented by the warmth of flesh it could touch but never have, want but never need. He looked at me as if I should know and understand the depth of his torment, when all I could think of, was who would get my clothes, money and long list of Star War collectibles, cataloged and stored in my Aunt Rosie’s garage? Who would mourn for me when news of my demise would spread, slowly at first and then rapidly through a list of six or seven people who might actually give a shit about my passing; that might actually grieve?
Who are you?
The ladies took their last look and parted. He, who had not yet been named, lingered in their wake, breathing deep the scent of their lives and returning his gaze to me, as if to say, it is time. As if I would know what he meant and immediately fall in line. Little did he know, or maybe he did, I was not ready to leave, not ready to relinquish my life and pass on to the next, having zero knowledge of what that meant or if I could change my mind.
This is fucked.
I kick at a cup with all my might and lifted it all of three inches, into what must have been a stiff headwind for it fell back, exactly into the same spot. Albeit on its side and not standing straight up as it had been before. So, was this a harbinger of things to come? A glimpse at a world of impotent frustration and endless near misses, where nothing would be, as it seemed.
My friend said nothing but I heard him loud and clear.
Stop fucking reading more into this than there was. It was just an accident. It wasn’t your “time” or your destiny. The Dude was more interested in Daisy’s boobs than good driving and there it is.
A simple logical explanation of life and death was not what I was after. I wanted some deeply religious, truly philosophical statement about why lives interact in such violent ways. Why people give lip service to peace and equanimity and then drive drunk or drugged and play grab ass on Ventura Boulevard on a Sunday morning. Provide me with a reason for having one’s life snatched like an apple off a fruit stand. I wanted fucking answers.
There isn’t one.
The last policeman on the scene walked out of the Starbucks with a vente Iced Frappachino in his hand and eyed the scene of the accident one more time before getting into his car. It drove off without incident or anything cinematic and I was left “standing” in the middle of the street, watching the taillights blink one, then twice, as it turned off and headed for the 134 Freeway.
There must be.
A stray dog was licking what was left of an Iced Caramel Macchiato on the sidewalk and came toward me sniffing anything and everything between it and me. It stopped inches from my feet and looked up into my eyes, tail wagging, nose twitching, recognition registered somewhere within. It began to lift its leg and stopped, changed its mind and walked away. I felt relieved by that simple act of kindness; renewed you might say that not all things were meant to go awry.
I joined my friend and we left the scene. The stained pavement, the yellow tape, the few remaining cups, now being swept up by Jenny and placed into a plastic bag. Life would go on, somehow, somewhere, just not in my Kia Sportage.
Joe Luca is writer and editor for ILLUMINATION and a published author and writer of children’s stories, short fiction, non-fiction articles, screenplays and poetry. Publications include Child’s Life, Children’s Playmate and others. There are some other articles below — have a read. And thank you for stopping by.
