Part One and Part One-and-aHalf
HR didn't notice the bus increasing speed until they got to the part of the tunnel where it got narrow. We're going to die was his first thought. He looked up from his book, figuring that if he was going to die, he might as well watch. The driver was just starting to realize what he was up to. Murder. Suicide? Retirement.
HR was excited. A little. Maybe the driver would do it. All the women and children were off the bus. There was only one other person on the bus, and he looked like an asshole. HR new what he looked like, exactly what the bus driver saw when he checked the mirror. Big saggy maroon basset hound eyelids filled with
Nothing.
He was empty.
The bus driver had a heavy foot, and they were almost out of tunnel. If it didn't happen here, where they were perfectly separated from the other side of the road, it wouldn't happen there, in the neon, in the blue and purple, in the space and stars. It would have to be here, in the pigeon shit, among the broke glass, where they could be stars. Front page heroes like John Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe. One wheel turns, then the rest. Maybe it was just two. All these years driving and he never figured out which wheels did the driving and which ones just dragged, not that it mattered.
A black James Dean plus fifty extra pounds of washout ugly and three or four hundred pounds of stowaway, leather and denim all traded for a company jacket. Then nothing.
Like everything the asshole had on his mind that morning. Like everything that vase-man had in his eyes. Lightning. The biggest thing they'd ever done.
You'd be surprised.
The driver was so surprised he had to rub his hand across the sharp stubble on his neck just to feel real. The nothingman was so surprised he dropped his book. The asshole wasn't very surprised. Hell was just like he'd always imagined it. He actually did the recent turn of events one better, by dishing out a surprise of his own, and introducing himself, "Hi, my name's Bill," in a very non-assholish way.
He extended a hand to HR and the driver, who in turn introduced himself as Memphis.
They were three men, with nothing in comon. Well, nothing much in common. A few big things definitely, but nothing they were quite ready to address.
Up above, and I'm being heavy with the figurative in the use of both words, the sun was rising, and it would never touch their bodies again, no matter how hard it tried. If it rose in the West and just hung out all day, it would never see them. They would still go from a tunnel, to a body bag, to a morgue, to a car, to a funeral home to a coffin to a car to the ground, and maybe if the sun tried to burrow up through China or Australia it might find them, but it wasn't very likely.
It didn't matter that HR had money and Bill didn't, or the fact that Memphis made more than either one of them, but couldn't ever keep it. They were dead. and the sun had crossed over the horizon, and would never cros their path again.
HR was excited. A little. Maybe the driver would do it. All the women and children were off the bus. There was only one other person on the bus, and he looked like an asshole. HR new what he looked like, exactly what the bus driver saw when he checked the mirror. Big saggy maroon basset hound eyelids filled with
Nothing.
He was empty.
The bus driver had a heavy foot, and they were almost out of tunnel. If it didn't happen here, where they were perfectly separated from the other side of the road, it wouldn't happen there, in the neon, in the blue and purple, in the space and stars. It would have to be here, in the pigeon shit, among the broke glass, where they could be stars. Front page heroes like John Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe. One wheel turns, then the rest. Maybe it was just two. All these years driving and he never figured out which wheels did the driving and which ones just dragged, not that it mattered.
A black James Dean plus fifty extra pounds of washout ugly and three or four hundred pounds of stowaway, leather and denim all traded for a company jacket. Then nothing.
Like everything the asshole had on his mind that morning. Like everything that vase-man had in his eyes. Lightning. The biggest thing they'd ever done.
You'd be surprised.
The driver was so surprised he had to rub his hand across the sharp stubble on his neck just to feel real. The nothingman was so surprised he dropped his book. The asshole wasn't very surprised. Hell was just like he'd always imagined it. He actually did the recent turn of events one better, by dishing out a surprise of his own, and introducing himself, "Hi, my name's Bill," in a very non-assholish way.
He extended a hand to HR and the driver, who in turn introduced himself as Memphis.
They were three men, with nothing in comon. Well, nothing much in common. A few big things definitely, but nothing they were quite ready to address.
Up above, and I'm being heavy with the figurative in the use of both words, the sun was rising, and it would never touch their bodies again, no matter how hard it tried. If it rose in the West and just hung out all day, it would never see them. They would still go from a tunnel, to a body bag, to a morgue, to a car, to a funeral home to a coffin to a car to the ground, and maybe if the sun tried to burrow up through China or Australia it might find them, but it wasn't very likely.
It didn't matter that HR had money and Bill didn't, or the fact that Memphis made more than either one of them, but couldn't ever keep it. They were dead. and the sun had crossed over the horizon, and would never cros their path again.
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