An Opportunity

Author\'s Note: Something short that I wrote in my car. Tell me what you think.

I just reposted the chapter, making some changes and adding a little bit to the end.

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This friend of mine, Sean, told me about his future plans. No well adjusted person makes these plans. No person with a conscious. That must be why he’s my friend. It’s best to surround yourself with people even more fucked up than yourself. You will always be the ‘normal’ one in the circle. While standing next to Sean, no one would ever jab a finger at me, sneering, ‘HIM’. I could fade into the wallpaper. No one would notice. Not even Sean. He’s one of those ‘look at me…oh please god just look at me’ types. He hasn’t registered that while he wants everyone to just glance his way, they want him to just glance their way. They will never be happy. (maybe he has noticed, maybe he just doesn’t care. it’s still “look at me”)

We were sitting in his car in this market’s parking lot. I don’t even remember what we were doing there. He wanted something but never got out to get it. He told me that markets scared him. “One small step to carnies.” Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

“You know those shitty little fish soccer mom’s and Jesus fucks put on their cars? The ones that force everyone behind them to know just how many damn kids they have and just how much they fuckin’ love Jesus?”

“Uhh…yeah. Sure.” I tried to sound interested. It’s hard to continually sound interested. It wears a person down. (the mask just takes too much effort to keep in place)

“I’m gonna have some on my car. I’m gonna start stickin’ them on the back.” I have to lean against the door to avoid his swinging hand gesturing behind us.

Leaning as close to the door as possible, I stared at the airbag. Knowing what’s just underneath all that plastic. I wonder just how much force is necessary for it to pop. I really wanted to start kicking at it with my heel, just to see what happens. I don’t think Sean would mind. He’d probably join in. His car is a complete piece of shit. One of those vans that crap bands will tour the state in. Their own state. They never leave. I hate that word. The sound of ‘van’ makes my stomach roll.

“You don’t have any kids Sean.”

“Yeah, I know that. But I figure that sooner or later, I’ll start pickin’ ‘em off you know? One by one. Maybe a couple at a time.”

“Pick them off?” Never ask questions. Not of Sean.

“Yeah, you know. Suck them in through the back. Keep ‘em for awhile and then get rid of them. Get a new sticker for each one.” He says this like it’s obvious. I should have assumed. I should have already known what he was talking about. I can be such a fool at times. (maybe it’s all the liquor)

Still. I just can’t help myself.

“I fuckin’ hate kids.” He muttered, closing the discussion. That was all. That was it.

I didn’t say another word. I didn’t tell him that he was crazy or that it was a stupid idea. I definitely didn’t tell him that he would never do such a thing. Sean doesn’t back down and he sees everything as a challenge. He’d cut out and eat his own mother’s heart if it was a challenge. You don’t challenge guys like Sean. Besides, he will do it. Twenty years from now, I’ll turn the news on and see a mug shot of Sean. He’ll reach his goal. Probably exceed it wonderfully. He’ll need two vans.

I don’t know how long we sat there for. Eventually we left. He had said that he wanted to drive to the desert. He had heard about these wild flowers that were supposedly in bloom.

“They’re supposed to be fuckin’ beautiful man.”

Sean sees beauty in flowers and an opportunity in children.

After a little bit of driving, his enthusiasm for wildflowers rubs off on me and I began to look forward to it. The car was moving and then it stopped. He slammed on the breaks and told me to get out. Never looked at me. Just said, “Get the fuck out.” So I did.

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I’ve been sitting on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere for an hour now. Every car that passes darkens its lights for me and my thumb is frustrated. I know that I’ll never see Sean again, not until that news clip. I won’t even watch the whole thing. I’ll shut it off before I can see him smile.

I don’t know how much time passes. Long enough for me to pass out. That’s how I was awakened. With my face planted in the sod. The sound of a truck horn jerking me awake, and for a minute I just stare into the light. A stream of obscenities shoot through me. (fucking asshole…prick…piece of shit…fucking kill him) I don’t sleep in my bed. It’s too soft. Too yielding. I take sleep when it’s offered.

I do get up though. (what kind of guy goes out of his way to wake a sleeping hitchhiker?) I can feel wet dirt smeared across my face and when tongued, I can taste the grains on my bottom lip.

The trucker swings open the side door and motions with one pale arm for me to climb aboard his metal vessel. I try not to stare at the closest I will ever get to Adolf Hitler. The resemblance is striking. He ‘helps’ me by pulling me up by the arm. Shooting pain through my shoulder causes me to wince. I must have slept on it wrong. (any position that you sleep in on the shoulder of a highway is the wrong position)

Sitting in the seat, by the balding Adolf, I wonder if Sean ever made it to the wildflowers. I can imagine him sitting in the back of his van, doors swung wide open, legs dangling out. He didn’t want to share the beauty with me.

I drift through one conversation about prize-winning poodles and two conversations detailing Adolf’s last divorce. Complete with offspring and a kiddy pool.

He told me about the time he took his daughter’s arm floaties, still holding the stale breath of his failed marriage, and masturbated. It was a triumph. Compared to the other misses, they must come far and few between. He relives his past pleasure escapades. The pleasure, the joy, the thrill, of never having to see me again. He could tell me that after he played with his little girls’ floaties, he played with his little girl. I couldn’t do anything. (try not to stare)