Friday, January 25, 2013

Final Destination

  “Come on,” he finally said out loud, “let’s go.”
   He let out a hefty sigh and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles fainted white. His leathery cheeks turned maroon and he scratched the side of his head.
   “I don’t have all day, guy.”
               The sedan in front of him flashed its brake lights.
               “Good Lord, not again!”
               He stomped on his brakes, and then swerved to the right of the sedan, attempting to pass. The right lane was disappearing into the left. His voice became louder as he talked into the windshield, swerving back to the left.
               “A one lane road behind you? God, help me!”

               “Get off my butt,” he murmured, glancing up into his rearview mirror every few seconds.
               He tapped the brake pedal again, trying to get the guy behind him to slow down.
               “I’m going the speed limit. It’s forty miles per hour. You are speeding. I will not speed. I won’t do it,” he said to the rearview mirror.
               He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, letting out a small sigh. His thin arm lifted up to fix his collar.
               “I hate driving.”

               “I can play your game buddy,” he yelled, “Oh, I can play it!”
               He sped up his car until it was merely feet behind the sedan. The long, empty road lay before them.
               “How’s it feel? How’s it feel to have a car right up your butt, huh?”
               He flipped on the air conditioning, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
               A flash of red filled his vision. The brake lights, again.
               “Oh my God,” he screamed, slamming on his brakes, “Drive faster!”
               Shaking the steering wheel, his knuckles turned white as milk, his cheeks red as fresh blood.
               The road came to an end, and they both turned right. The sedan came to its destination, arriving at the gas station on the right, its close gas pumps making it hard to shimmy around the small parking lot. The car turned in behind him.

               “You’re kidding. We are both coming to the same place? Well, this is awkward,” they said to their steering wheels.
               He sat in his sedan, looking at his trembling fingers.
               “Please don’t be someone I know, please don’t be someone I know.”
               His fragile fingers opened his door, slowly, and he made sure to keep his eyes glued on the gas pump. Without notice, his curious eyes glanced toward the car next door as the door opened and the man stepped out.
               “Pastor Paul?” he leaned forward, peeking around the corner of the gas pump.
               The name caused the man to glance up, eyebrows rising in shock, his body rocking back and forth.
               “Father Pete?”

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