Another story about paranoia and death that ends in sleep
It's 5am when I finally pull in, tired and beaten, inbetween the Toyota and the tool wall. One more night and then it's all over.
I don't like the garage. I don't feel safe there. I saw it on the news. They wait there under the car, with knives. Car jackers. Rapists. Thieves. You walk up. You walk out. You're looking for your keys, making sure everything's locked and they make their move. The best way to incapacitate a person is by slashing their tendons. Blood poors out, and you drop to the ground.
The old garage wasn't big enough for the car, so we used it for storage. Then someone set it on fire. It didn't take, so we didn't think about it. It's not like we had any enemies in the neighborhood. It was probably just a prank. Then someone did it again. This time it took. The tools all looked fine. We could still use some of it, like the crowbar. We used that to sift through the rest of the wreckage.
Driving down Sheridan at four, the world is alive. The bar crowds are just going home. The joggers and dog walkers are waking up and starting the day, but as soon as you turn off Sheridan, you'll find my block. Still dead and still dark. The garage door is open when I pull in. I never leave the door open. That's alright.
I pull down the visor, and press the button that closes the door. Then I turn off the lights and turn up the radio. It's alright. I turn up the stereo. The Beatles are playing. "Come Together". I like the Beatles. I pull out a cigar and light it, before long the car is full of smoke. There's a full tank of gas. I hope the battery lasts long enough.
It's light outside, I'm sure of it, but it's dark in the garage. I open the window to let out the smoke. I turn down the radio. I can't let anyone know I'm in here. It's probably noisy outside, now. All of the city must be up now but it's quiet in here.
Then there's a noise, a rustle, like some leaves being picked up by the wind, but there are no leaves, and there is no wind. I turn the radio off and pump the gas pedal. He knows I'm here. He knows I know he's here and there's no reason to hide under the other car. He emerges like a snake. He's tall and white and wearing a hood. He's quick, he's already rounding the back of my car to get to the door. He pulls the crowbar off the wall and smashes my window. With shards of glass sticking to my face, I don't flinch. He looks in my eyes and changes his expression. He knows I won't let him out, he knows I won't let him live. He's going to have to kill me. He raises the crowbar, and with my finger on the handle I kick the door open into his chest. It knocks him against the wall. Tools fall. I hit him again. And again. He falls. And again. The crowbar scrapes the door. And again. And again.
I turn the radio back on. The Ronettes are playing "And Then He Kissed Me".
I tug the lever to lean my seat back. I open my door into the guy's head. I'm taking him with me. Every few minutes I hit him again. He's interrupting my oldies, but it's not so bad. It's just like the commercials.
I hit him again, and I'm too weak to close the door this time. The fumes burn through my nostrils. I turn the radio up as loud as it will go. Aretha Franklin sings like a fat angel.
I close my eyes. I go to sleep.
[Currently watching "The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl in 3-D"]
I don't like the garage. I don't feel safe there. I saw it on the news. They wait there under the car, with knives. Car jackers. Rapists. Thieves. You walk up. You walk out. You're looking for your keys, making sure everything's locked and they make their move. The best way to incapacitate a person is by slashing their tendons. Blood poors out, and you drop to the ground.
The old garage wasn't big enough for the car, so we used it for storage. Then someone set it on fire. It didn't take, so we didn't think about it. It's not like we had any enemies in the neighborhood. It was probably just a prank. Then someone did it again. This time it took. The tools all looked fine. We could still use some of it, like the crowbar. We used that to sift through the rest of the wreckage.
Driving down Sheridan at four, the world is alive. The bar crowds are just going home. The joggers and dog walkers are waking up and starting the day, but as soon as you turn off Sheridan, you'll find my block. Still dead and still dark. The garage door is open when I pull in. I never leave the door open. That's alright.
I pull down the visor, and press the button that closes the door. Then I turn off the lights and turn up the radio. It's alright. I turn up the stereo. The Beatles are playing. "Come Together". I like the Beatles. I pull out a cigar and light it, before long the car is full of smoke. There's a full tank of gas. I hope the battery lasts long enough.
It's light outside, I'm sure of it, but it's dark in the garage. I open the window to let out the smoke. I turn down the radio. I can't let anyone know I'm in here. It's probably noisy outside, now. All of the city must be up now but it's quiet in here.
Then there's a noise, a rustle, like some leaves being picked up by the wind, but there are no leaves, and there is no wind. I turn the radio off and pump the gas pedal. He knows I'm here. He knows I know he's here and there's no reason to hide under the other car. He emerges like a snake. He's tall and white and wearing a hood. He's quick, he's already rounding the back of my car to get to the door. He pulls the crowbar off the wall and smashes my window. With shards of glass sticking to my face, I don't flinch. He looks in my eyes and changes his expression. He knows I won't let him out, he knows I won't let him live. He's going to have to kill me. He raises the crowbar, and with my finger on the handle I kick the door open into his chest. It knocks him against the wall. Tools fall. I hit him again. And again. He falls. And again. The crowbar scrapes the door. And again. And again.
I turn the radio back on. The Ronettes are playing "And Then He Kissed Me".
I tug the lever to lean my seat back. I open my door into the guy's head. I'm taking him with me. Every few minutes I hit him again. He's interrupting my oldies, but it's not so bad. It's just like the commercials.
I hit him again, and I'm too weak to close the door this time. The fumes burn through my nostrils. I turn the radio up as loud as it will go. Aretha Franklin sings like a fat angel.
I close my eyes. I go to sleep.
[Currently watching "The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl in 3-D"]
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