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Frames Of Reference- Chapter 18

~nsequeira119

I imagine when the historians of the future evaluate my life, and the various lives of people like me, they’ll view it in small doses, only enough to record it but not enough to immerse themselves in it, because they’ll regard someone as wretched as me with the contempt a modern individual might bestow upon a haggard leper, and to be perfectly frank, I can’t blame them.

During this particular dose, my eyes are getting watery. I’m sticking my neck out the window of the Camry and we’re doing donuts in the parking lot of the Kmart near the intersection of I-25 and Highway 50. I’ve driven past it before, nearly every day on my way to work, but I haven’t considered before now what a marvelous structure it is, flat and expansive, providing the perfect background to cap off our evening of aimless wanton mayhem.

Three hours ago we bumped hickory off the dashboard in nice crisp lines, Eddie retrieved a plastic straw from his pocket, the neon kind with the fun bends in it, I almost laughed audibly when I saw it and how absurd it seemed, but he said, in that way of his-

“Hey, it ain’t coke, so don’t expect a hundred.” And God, how we all laughed at this, me and Nadene riding shotgun and Eddie in the back leaning forward with the raven hair falling loosely over his brow. We cackled hard, and then Eddie forcefully held my head down while the stuff coursed up my nostril and right into my synapses. I was already drunk, had bought a six-pack and imbibed routinely during the course of the day while Sheila was out, so it wasn’t very difficult to convince me.

After that it was a long marathon of heightened sensations, every wrinkle in the steering wheel grew pronounced, all the fine satin lines and the imitation stains on the wood panels, every single part of every single stoplight was brought front and center as we embarked on an excursion of complete symmetry, where everything had an equal and opposite counterpart of absolute perfection in an idealized world-

We didn’t swap consciousness too much, Eddie said we only need to do that if I really want to, and so I didn’t press for it, and it’s become somewhat monotonous and routine by now. The thrill has faded, it’s become like everything else in life. Only the prolonged arduous hyperfixation, the nervous jolt, can keep me sustained anymore.

I did switch once, though, with Nadene, while we were drifting around Bessemer and I had the idea. I looked over into her eyes, and she looked into mine, and suddenly I was in her petite frame, completely subdued and strung-out, and I looked over to see her take control, start driving up a ramp and into traffic near the southern border, I think we were headed south in the direction of Walsenburg, a few lights scattered ahead but nothing too heavy.

She slunk down into my ribbed jacket, leaned into my seat and pressed the pedal to the floor, and soon we were going in excess of 90. I felt like she was going too fast, and then she swerved abruptly- Eddie made an audible yelp and I cradled my head in my arms, and that somehow broke the link. I was able to right our trajectory before we plowed into the guardrail, and didn’t mention the incident thereafter. I didn’t want to make Nad feel too ashamed for what she had done, or otherwise spoil the mood. The mood was infectious.

So maybe that’s why we ended up at the Kmart, because I wanted to ramp up the fun but on my own terms, in my own body. I rolled the window down, stuck my head out into the winter freeze, just the experience the numbness on the tip of my nose and cheeks, the ringing sensation in my ears while inside Eddie was pumping his fist with vigor and egging me on to make the donuts narrower, and I obliged.

We roared in, and the lines of each parking spot became like points on a grid, white rectangles giving way to entire wholesale constellations of spilled paint, the Camry’s axles were tested as I initiated the descent. Nadene covered her mouth in abject nausea, but her sparkling grin betrayed her enthusiasm. Even vomiting can seem like an immersive experience on hickory.

I was hesitant to use the Kmart lot like this, law enforcement in the area is more stringent than they are in Denver and even in CS to a certain extent, patrol cars up and down the block all night, yet I remained dedicated to my goal and pressed on. The Kmart seemed like the ideal vista for such a jaunt, dead and shuttered as it is. A foreclosed property. If anyone asked, I was just turning around to get back out on the main road. I don’t know if police are trained to recognize the telltale signs of hickory use, and that’s probably because hickory heightens one’s innate perception to the extent that you could outsmart anyone.

I kept going in, hollering like a maniac into the night, not caring much who heard me, not that anyone necessarily could over the drag race noises I was producing by applying just the right amount of pressure. Exhaust jettisoned out the tail pipe.

There came a certain point where the circumference of the circle I was drawing became so tight that I could actually see the skid marks on the pavement where we had been just 15 seconds earlier, and I realized that our donut was now veering in toward the hole, it must have had a diameter of maybe fifteen feet, and soon we would be crushed by the velocity and the momentum, a spiral cascade towards death. I couldn’t make out their expressions, because I was looking up at the stars one last time before the crash.

It happened then, the engine made a sick grunt as the Camry flipped over onto its side. It wasn’t a long process, as these things go, just a swift movement where I held on for dear life, Eddie braced himself onto the seat and Nad grasped her seat belt, and I withdrew into the fetal position as we abruptly careened a full 90 degrees and the street in front of us turned sideways.

The hickory was wearing off by now, had been for a while, but still it came in kaleidoscopic slow motion, the lamps created domes of refraction as if my eyes were a double-exposed camera lens. The sound of the crash reverberated in chandelier continuity, and then we were left with the morass of our own thoughts to pick through as we skidded to a halt. I hung over Nadene, suspended only by my armrest, and with a great deal of effort I propped myself up out the window to avoid crushing her.

It was beginning to snow, a thin frost but one which rendered the parking lot icy, and therefore dangerous to walk on. I looked around, praying that no one had seen us, and sure enough the Pueblo night was completely dead, only the distant hum of the highways with no concern for us. I reached in to help Nad out, and Eddie popped the trunk before staggering out, rubbing his temple.

“You OK?” I asked with legitimate concern.

“Yeah, just a head bump.” I figured my rudimentary medical training could come in handy for once, he might even begin to respect my capabilities. I leaned in and spotted a nasty egg beginning to form, a swollen purple orb.

“You need to go to the hospital,” I said.

“Can’t. No record, lost mine a long time ago. No insurance.”

“Just fix it up,” Nad said. “Eddie’s a whiz with first aid. He helps me all the time with my- infections.” She pointed toward her stained pajama bottoms and shrugged.

“Maybe that’s so,” I leaned in further for a comprehensive look, applied a little pressure to the area and saw him visibly wince at my touch. His hair had parted. There didn’t seem to be any damage to his skull, or any broad ruptures. Just a lot of clotting. I rubbed my hands together, looked over my shoulder at the state of the car. Both windows on the passenger’s side were cracked, but the headlights remained on, and even better, the engine seemed to be purring.

“Can you give me a hand here, Nadene?” I left Eddie to lean against a light fixture, Nad came over and I told her exactly where to grab the frame. Her diminutive knuckles held the roof for as long as she could manage, and we got it about an inch off the ground before her muscles gave out. She was in no condition to help me.

“It’s fine,” I told her. “I’ll do it by myself.”

Using the last hickory-induced strength, which wouldn’t have been present otherwise, I got the entirety of my weight beneath the frame and heaved. It was extremely strenuous- the Camry isn’t a large vehicle by any means but it’s resilient and that means it’s packed with gear. So I probably ripped several critical tendons during the process, but sure enough it gave, and I was able to hoist it up and past the tipping point. No different than pushing it up a hill or onto a shoulder, at the end of the day. Needed to happen.

It sank onto the lot with a defeated rasp, the tires seemed to hold but there was no telling what damage I’d wreaked on the vital mechanisms. The frame was fine for the most part, both passenger doors were warped inward but I opened the latch of one and it seemed to open and close fine, and even to lock. I invited Nad over and she got in, rubbing her shoulders.

“Listen,” Eddie said, hand on my shoulder. “I need to get home and to sleep. I promised a client I’d help them out tomorrow, and that’s what I’m doin’. I need you to go to Walgreens with ‘er and get some isopropyl. And Advil. Lots of Advil.”

“Walgreens doesn’t open until 7 AM,” I said. He shoved a torn-up twenty into my palm.

“I know that. Drive her around, stay up a few more hours if you have to. I need that stuff by morning. I need to get home, go to sleep. Can get there faster without you.”

“I can drive-” but he was well past gone beyond the northern wall of the Kmart, trenchcoat trailing behind him, arms swaying back and forth. Despite how he could very much have an internal hemorrhage or some other life-ruining ailment, I was actually somehow convinced that he meant what he said, and that he was entirely capable of getting home on his own. When you spend enough time around him, you no longer have any doubts. His potential is apparently limitless, beholden to no law of physics.

“Where’d he go?” Nad asked as I crawled in beside her. She was looking at her toenails, which she had painted just a few days earlier. The polish was starting to flake off, and it reflected the falling snowflakes. I shook myself awake, fighting off the pressing instinct to sleep.

“Home,” I replied nonchalantly, feigning control. “He said we should go somewhere. Let’s have McDonald’s, my treat. Get you whatever you want, I could use some after all that.” I fidgeted with the key, turned the engine off and back on, and sure enough, it ambled forward. Not assuredly, mind you- on shaky wheels- but it appeared to function, for all intents and purposes, and that was enough for me. We descended out onto Elizabeth.

Twenty minutes later, she’s contentedly licking up an Oreo shake and I’m gnawing at a styrofoam patty for sustenance, I haven’t eaten this stuff in the longest time but it somehow seems appropriate considering the cold gathering outside and the gnawing weasel of sour discontent in my gut. Let it sink in.

We’re driving around now, somewhat aimlessly, to bide our time more than anything, and she’s getting this look in her eye as if she’s got a pressing question, the sort of look she usually only uses on Eddie when they’re in close quarters.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” Her focus remains locked on my hands and the control panel’s reductive icons.

“Drive, I mean,” she says. “How you drive. ‘Cause Eddie can’t drive. Not sure why, think he said we’d have to get it registered, but maybe he’s never even practiced. I know he used to hang out a lot with his cousin, but don’t think he had a car either.”

“That’s too bad,” I cajole. “Good to have. You should consider getting one sometime, toss the idea around with him and see how he takes it.”

“It’s not what’s impressive,” she barks, still obsessing over the way I steer the vehicle forward. “I mean that you can drive at all. How you maintain your impulses, your wants. I think- I think if I got a car, if that sort of power was placed in my hands- the first thing I’d want to do would be run someone over. You ever consider that? Just kill someone?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“It’s like this,” she explains. “Your body is modified, afforded extraordinary speeds and mass. You’re not powerless, small. You’re in this well-engineered tank, power to take life at your fingertips, a step over the common folk. A cut above. Well, you have to use that power somehow. Same with a gun. You know, people get a gun, they go on sprees. Eddie don’t have one, never needed one as he tells it, but I feel it’d be the same with a car. You get one, first thing you do is abuse the power you’ve been afforded, take out as many lives as you can.”

“That happens sometimes,” I maintain, unsettled by her chipper delivery. “Road rage, it’s called. I’ve seen cases of it. But it’s not all that common. Most people respect the rules and drive safely and nobody gets hurt. I never feel in danger, because if you break the law you wind up getting fined or sentenced.”

“You broke the law tonight. Not supposed to do stunts like that.”

“That was different. I wasn’t endangering anyone besides us. And even then I didn’t know it would flip. I really shouldn’t do things like that, anyway.”

“I think the difference,” she recites, “Is that a spree killer can turn the gun on themselves in the end. But a spree driver- well, it’s not so easy to find a way out, right away.”

I’m not sure how I’m meant to respond to this. Her expression is completely dead, she’s studying the lines of the road as they move past us, the cold beam of the headlights amid the reticent silence. I’m ready to bring the night to an end. I pull out the twenty and turn it over. The effects have completely died out, the patterns on the bill don’t strike me and I’m firmly back in base reality.

She’s sobbing, trying to hide it but failing. She rubs her nose beneath her unkempt locks, little whimpering noises as I pull into the lot of Walgreens, which going by my watch will open in twenty minutes. She pops the buckle of her seat belt and reclines, revealing bloodshot eyes and an exhausted temperament. She’s on the edge.

“It’s alright,” I reassure her.

“No,” she says. “Oh, no. Nothing here is alright. It’s all wrong.”

“You feel like that now,” I say, pushing my hand over hers. “But things will inevitably get better for you. I’m sure of that.”

“Please stop,” she says, grabbing my ribbed collar.

“Stop what?” I respond in shock as her tone shifts and her tears dry up.

“Stop playing games.”

She draws me in, plants her lips on mine, her weathered skin brushes across and I want to stop, but I can tell at the same time that she’s emotionally immature to an extent I didn’t even know was possible. Her development as a person, stunted for who knows how long, now climaxing in this embrace, this ascent towards passion. I know that it’ll be difficult, but my focus returns and I try my best to let her off easy.

“I have to go get the isopropyl,” I say, breaking the spell. “Be back in 5. You stay here.”

I grab the keys, lean towards the handle, push it out with a weary grunt, shamble out onto the median where a little bush grows amid a pile of pea gravel. I look back inside at her, she’s fidgeting with the window and leering dejectedly. I dash in, breathing heavily, unsure of what just took place or how to address it in the future.

Four minutes later, we’re rushing back toward Eddie’s place and nothing is said. I can’t decide whether that’s for better or worse, but ultimately she seems to have resigned herself to the inevitable, folding her hands neatly in her lap, looking down and absent. As the sun rises behind us, its rays piercing the veil of dawn, and a sliver of orange cuts across her, I take note of how many scars and wounds she carries around.

The air is clean and dry, brisk to the feel, and the snow has stopped but the cold carries on, the ground is a hard slab of marble as we jostle down the dirt path, along the ancient tracks and excavations, and the shack rises up from the horizon, unlit, silent in all degrees.

We pull in and I hand her the bag with the supplies.

“I got a candy bar for you,” I say. She says nothing, takes a quick peek inside at the contents, and quietly exits the Camry, the battered door making an unsettling squeak as she pushes it. She stands outside for a moment contemplating something, then bounds forward towards the porch. I throttle the ignition and back out, my mind a mess, desperate for sleep. It’s my day off, I have no obligations and I’ll spend the duration of my time holed up in bed watching tedium while Sheila, sweet Sheila, is out attending to the impaled and the immolated.

There’s something funny about winter in a desert, I realize. I can’t quite put my finger on it as I crest the hill towards home, but it’s something you never really consider the precise conditions of until you’re surrounded by it.

She’s already gone, of course, when I step in the door, having woken up unnaturally early to fulfill her duties, and I head into the kitchen to fix myself a bowl of cereal, after which point I’ll climb under the covers for a well deserved nap. I hope my bones manage to realign themselves after the crash, I’m lucky to be alive. I wander upstairs.

There’s a note at the foot of the bed. I can tell by the design on the stationary that it’s a page torn from her diary, the one I’ve always agreed never to look inside.

“I don’t know where you went,” it reads. “Please come back soon.”

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