RUSH

[chapter][one][TWO][three][four][five][six]

High noon at the dead end of August, he stands with a cigarette stuck to his lip, waiting to see if it will just catch fire.

Nothing. He strikes a match.

Down to half a pack a day…

A gust of artificial cold moves past his shoulders as the automatic door slides shut. Another patron ambles away, a large crucifix bleeding through their sweat-soaked shirt. Soon the impression of the silhouette wavers in the heat, dissipating into vapors.

Big ass tattoo.

Beyond the greyed-out skyline of Minneapolis the western sky is a smoldering inferno of crimson hues, as if maybe the suburbs are ablaze. An hour ago a light rainfall shoved the humidity well beyond unbearable, but with these heavy clouds moving in, that shower was just a taste of what’s to come. A mile or so down the road, just outside the shadow of the storm, what moisture remains is visibly evaporating in the yellowish glow of parking lot lights as they flicker on. The rest of everything is turning black.

Best get on home.

His forehead itches with sweat. No AC at home. He pitches the pack through the open window and onto the dash. No AC in the car, either.

Takes a labored drag.

No nothing in the car, he smiles, except a killer engine. Couple seats. Not even a radio.

Still, he doesn’t really see the primer, the missing chrome, the temporary blinkers. He only sees the concept in his head, the goal.

Hell of an engine, though.

To no one but himself, he calls the project Hailey’s Comet.

A bead of sweat crawls down the bridge of his nose. With the smell of drying asphalt emanating around him, he reaches for his keys when his phone buzzes.

He keeps it on vibrate because he hates the idea of being the guy with the annoying ring tone, and they’re all annoying. With this phone he’d have to pay extra to download something that sounds normal, otherwise it’s a disco version of Beethoven’s fifth.

The display reads unidentified. He hits reject, shoves it back in his pocket.

His eyes trace along the hood to the deep set headlights, letting his mind fill in the missing grill and hood scoop. He doesn’t see the license plate wired to the air dam.

Cell phone vibrates again. Unidentified. Reject. And again. Alright already. He slumps into the driver’s seat and involuntarily puts the key into the ignition. Taking a final drag, he flicks the butt away.

“Hello.”

Nothing. He clears his throat, moves his thumb to hang up.

“No, don’t hang up.”

“Who is this?”

“Hello, Rush.”

“Look, I don’t do interviews or-”

“We… I need you to go home. You have a message.”

“What?”

“I’ll call again soon.”

“Why don’t you just give me the message now?”

The voice is young, and calm in a controlled way, like maybe an old college buddy playing a joke on him.

“That’s not the effect I’m going for, Rush, so…”

“Who is this?”

“…just head home.”

“Well how do you know I’m not home now? This is my cell, so-”

“Because right now you’re slouched inside that grey heap of a Camaro, door still open. Looks like you’ve just finished another ‘last’ cigarette,” the voice mocked.

Rush scans the surroundings and takes stock. A closed electronics store across the street, an old woman waiting for the bus, a couple unoccupied cars in the lot; no one on a phone in sight.

“Why are you quitting, anyway? Wanting to be a good dad? And how is Hailey, anyway?”

Nobody could possibly know about…

Rush’s senses hit high alert. He’s suddenly aware of the warmth of the cell phone against his ear, of a slight breeze rustling a plastic bag against the front of the store. The drip of a window unit air conditioner in an apartment next to the lot. A cat napping in the shadow of the BEER ICE CIGS GAS sign.

“Now that I have your attention, why don’t you head home?”

“Hey, just who the-”

“I’ll call again soon, Rush. And don’t worry, your paternal situation, it’s… been taken care of.”

Rush froze, “Excuse me?”

“So you can smoke all you want.”

*click*

* * *

© Anthony David Jacques MMX