“Fuck this fucking piece of shit!” Cedric cursed, slamming his fist on the dash.
The radio had never worked well. In a Wal-Mart parking lot, some year, year-and-a-half ago, the car’s previous owner had hesitated a moment before tuning the knobs, hoping to avoid the inevitable demonstration.
Static. More of it. And then, success — shortly before it again emitted fuzz.
The man had turned back and offered a greasy smile. “Look at the clouds! Can’t help that. Kid like you’se gonna put in an after-market anyway, right? Whatd’ya need the radio for?”
He brought down his price and Cedric forked over $900.
The subsequent degradation had been gradual, the audio system eventually getting so fussy and inconsistent that even in the best of weather he didn’t bother with FM. Talk was good enough; better than silence.
Cedric eyed a passing mile-marker. He was over halfway now, and he wanted to be in Newburgh by sundown. He had been in Pennsylvania since last night and despite his impatience, he knew it would not last forever. He just had to keep going.
He’d spent the night in a roadside motel. It had been modest at best, but it had given him a chance to rest and catch his breath. Once he had room keys, he’d fallen, exhausted, on the too-firm mattress, and put up his feet. For a half-hour he’d flipped around the television, and, finding nothing of interest, eventually took a lukewarm shower.
He’d slept well, all things considered, and continued on his way early the next morning. The complimentary coffee offered at the desk had been sour. But by the time lunch rolled around, his mind was elsewhere.
The needle on the dash shook and rotated to the right as the engine rumbled audibly, struggling to maintain speed. But he hadn’t touched the shifter.
The radio was whispering, so he struck the dash.
“—WHP 580 AM, Harrisburg’s news, talk, and sports leader. It’s 3:31 PM on Tuesday, June 23rd—”
Cedric returned his right hand to the steering wheel, cautious of a neighboring car deviating rather dangerously from its lane. Driving had become old hat, but he wasn’t used to such long stretches of time, and the voice began to chatter in fragments —
“—mob boss— (…) —day in federal court— (…) —51-year-old Gambino family crime leader, once dubbed—”
The static made the report nigh unintelligible. Cedric veered away from the offending car but attempted to stay carefully within the lines.
“—racketeering, extortion, jury tampering, obstruction of—”
He gently steered the car to avoid the intrusion and continued on, depressing the accelerator.
“—tax evasion, murder—”
Cedric flipped up the sunshade.
“—wore a proud face as he stared down the end of—”
The radio transmission struggled for a few seconds, threatening to fade, and then the voice was completely drowned by crackling nonsense.
Cedric shook his head, exasperated, and returned his eyes to the road.
The weather was clear and the progression had been steady. His old atlas and several free maps he’d picked up along the way cluttered the passenger seat. His bags, numbering just two, had been banished to the back seat. He’d stowed a few small boxes in the trunk, still skeptical they had been worth the effort.
He had a decent idea of where he was going, having researched the route. The signs consistently reassured him that he was proceeding in the right direction. And yet, he found himself checking and re-checking the map every time he made a pit stop. Something in him compelled him to step back, to think again, to — doubt. This all had been too easy. Just one misplaced step and it could blow up in his face.
Last night, as he tried to collapse into a borrowed pillow, he’d been convinced someone was going to burst through the barrier and end this little excursion. They’d kick the door open, clamp the cuffs on his wrists, and take him back to where he’d come from. Maybe they’d deliver some pithy one liner to really seal the deal.
‘This ends here.’
But he hadn’t broken a single law, …had he?
The two lanes were congested. Despite the Cavalier occasionally rebelling against his commands, he tried to get in front of the trucks, hating to be stuck in their shadow. But it was futile; where there was one, there would be another. And though he hadn’t counted many cops or troopers, he didn’t want to get caught speeding, not now when he needed so desperately to pass unnoticed. Some daredevils would tempt their fate, but that was their decision. He would not.
Without the radio, his thoughts raced. He wondered what was going on back home. He knew these anxieties served him no purpose and yet he could not resist their siren song. Had his mother yet realized that he hadn’t come home last night? When day had broken and he had not come to her beck and call, perhaps she would have assumed he was at work for the day. She shouldn’t have any reason to think otherwise; he had long since ceased sharing with her the specifics of his engagements. But when he would not return for a second night in a row —
It was only a matter of time until she would go looking for him.
She would have to tidy up, make herself presentable, if she were to leave the house. She would procrastinate about doing that, telling herself she was making a big deal about nothing, and that the boy would return home soon enough. He was a flighty, disobedient teenager and that’s just the way they were — No respect. His clothes were here, his bed was here, and his beloved boom box still sat on the dresser. He wouldn’t leave home without that.
…Would he?
After several days, she might get antsy and confused. She might even get —
Lonely.
Cedric felt his heart sink. He could not ease the tension in his legs; he had to keep driving. He knew these projections and models did not serve him, and yet nothing else that presently floated at the periphery of his consciousness was loud enough to distract him from trying to predict the future. Old habits die hard.
He kept on, anxiously keeping a safe berth from the tractor-trailers.
Her laziness and disbelief would only last so long. He knew there would come a day when she would do something. Something over which he would no longer have any control or influence. And by then, she would be angry — very angry.
She would not like to go to Diana’s house but perhaps she would start there. She did not like their new cars or their smarmy attitudes or their fancy bottles of red wine or their ironed napkins. She did not like the pretty little photographs on the mantel or the stench of their flowery name-brand candles. She did not like how they always smiled with their pretty little teeth and asked how she was doing and mentioned the stupid weather and wasted time with saying she had such a pleasant son who always volunteered to cut the grass or take out the garbage or shovel the snow or salt the walk or whatever other stupid shit he offered to do.
But most of all, she did not like the way they made her feel.
She might wait a while, hating even the mere thought of those wretched people. If she avoided it long enough, she might think, maybe it would go away.
But it wouldn’t go away.
Eventually, that anger would drive her to their house.
They would say they had no knowledge of her son’s whereabouts, that they hadn’t heard a word, didn’t know a thing. Perhaps Diana would be there too, home for the summer, hiding behind her parents in the wood-trimmed foyer and looking guilty as sin, hoping that the woman who burned red-hot in fury would not see into her telling eyes. Diana’s mother would attempt to shield her daughter from that rage, offering platitudes and sympathy to the woman on the welcome mat.
To no avail.
His mother would notice quickly that they made no offer to assist in locating the boy. Have you called his work, they might ask. Perhaps his car broke down, have you driven around town; did he leave a note?
Bullshit.
It would be all too obvious: they knew something she did not. Something he had concealed from her. But not from them.
Cedric adjusted his acceleration and straightened his left leg, trying to quiet the thoughts and keep fear at bay. But just the thought of his mother — her snarling face leering over his mind’s eye — the knowledge that humiliation would consume her, cause her to stampede about in a berserk frenzy, in turn consumed him, becoming his curse.
She would have to let herself sober up before she could present herself downtown to file a missing person’s report. And then she’d be in withdrawal. She wouldn’t feel at all herself. She would fear running into that fat pig with whom she’d had an altercation several years back, so she wouldn’t go right away to the station. Maybe she would have a cigarette or two or three to try to calm down before going out, but she would overdo it and get shaky and irritable.
That would make her even more angry.
Cedric hoped she wouldn’t even bother. Maybe she would just give up.
He hadn’t brought much with him. Packing his belongings had been a task he’d dreaded for months, and yet, when the time came to actually do it, as if propelled by force, it had simply happened. His old t-shirts, a couple pairs of jeans, underwear, socks, all of that. Just enough to get him through. He’d have to find a laundromat eventually; he’d dug some of these things out of the pile. But he didn’t need to wash the stuff just yet. Who gave a damn whether he smelt like roses and fresh linen?
On that day, his mother had been watching a talk show. It had droned on with the sound bites and theme songs he’d heard a hundred times, now imprinted in his mind against his will. Awash in that panacea, she probably hadn’t heard the sounds from the other side of the house: zippers noisily announcing themselves, dresser drawers scraping open and closed, clothes fluttering into place. He’d left the stereo muted — somewhat suspicious if she’d thought to notice — so he would be aware of the commercial breaks in the living room. That would be the only time she might rise from the chair. If her footsteps came thump thump thump down the hallway, then he could quickly stuff the bags underneath the bed before she opened the door. It wasn’t a glamorous plan, but it was a plan.
But it hadn’t happened that way.
No, she’d been just as engrossed in the television as she usually was, one of her few sources of comfort in an increasingly uncomfortable world. She’d left him completely alone yesterday afternoon while he prepared to leave. She had instead kept company with her beloved boob tube, oblivious to what transpired beyond her walls.
The absolute essentials had been simple enough. After the clothes, he packed a few razors, shaving cream, soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste — these auxiliary things fit into the side pockets and left room to spare.
He looked about his room.
He had a few posters that had long been friends in his solitude, but they seemed so safe and secure in their current positions, tacked up with mismatching pins. It would take effort to remove them from the walls and he expected they wouldn’t make it to their destination intact; even rolled up, they would likely get crushed or bent amidst the jostling contents of the Cavalier. And if his mother came wandering down the hallway toward his room, well — he could stuff the bags in the closet, but the bare walls would be a dead giveaway.
Maybe it was just an excuse. And yet, he felt a refusal to remove these images. He mourned the prospect of leaving them behind, feeling a bit of an ingrate to their years of service, but all-the-same he could not bear the thought of their fate once untacked. He would have to leave them.
The books he owned outright were few and nothing special; their text could be retrieved again from any library in the country. He’d read and reread them many times before but he did not want to read them now. No, it all seemed distant, esoteric, fantastic. Stuffing these tomes into his bag would just make weight and bulk he could do without. Several comic books he’d been holding on to for more than a decade begged attention, and yet, they too seemed childish and irrelevant. He hadn’t opened them in years. The art was exaggerated and the dialogue was cheesy. They had meant something to him once, taken him to places he hadn’t been able to imagine on his own, but those memories seemed to dissolve into dust as soon as he tried to grasp at the tendrils.
He’d never had many toys, and even fewer of them remained here on display as he neared the end of adolescence. A Rubik’s cube, a hand-me-down G.I. Joe, some Matchbox cars — surely there had been more than just those things — where had the green army men got to?
Maybe it was all packed away in the garage or hidden in the crawlspace. Maybe the stuff had been sold or given away to some other little child while he’d been tucked away at school. He didn’t know any more. He just knew he’d never have another moment in this room. What he left behind today was gone for good.
He heard the television blare on the other side of the house.
Looking around his sparsely decorated bedroom, iterating over every detail, he desperately wanted to be done with this. The empty space at the top of the open duffel nagged at him, hinting at his future regrets. It would be cruel to leave them to this bleak fate. He could always chuck them out later if he took too much. But he wouldn’t have that luxury if he didn’t take the opportunity right now.
He’d put his mixtapes in the car days ago. That was done. The rest of his music collection, as paltry as it was, would come with him too, stowed away for the day when he acquired a device that could play them. If he had no option, he could always sell the cassettes.
The whole process was becoming unbearable. He knew he would miss something and lament having surrendered what he could never get back. But what was it? His heart pounded, sweat dampened his shirt. He listened for any cause for alarm. He didn’t even know what she was watching. Something bright, something loud. It must be Monday, so maybe it was Oprah, or maybe Roseanne, and he realized he wasn’t even sure what time it was—
Listening to a voice that ignored these fears, Cedric reached into the bookshelf, past the weathered paperbacks he had already abandoned, and retrieved a small plastic man with blond hair standing about four inches tall. Something about that black uniform had spoken to him on the big screen all those years ago. That man, that quest: Perhaps it was not so far, far away as it seemed.
Cedric slipped a fistful of marbles and a couple of dice into his pocket and considered the task complete.
Crossing the Delaware was not as glorious as it might have been for others in the past. Cedric drove steadily over the bridge, trying to keep his eyes from straying too far to the right. There was a wall there, a protective barrier, and as long as he kept his hands on the wheel, he’d keep going on this trajectory, straight and narrow, east as far as the eye could see. Yes, it was possible for him to lose focus and careen off into the open air, and the fear taunted him, as it always did. But he tried to remember:
‘Not today.’
He passed safely over the river and read a plain sign.
WELCOME TO NEW YORK
THE EMPIRE STATE
The sun was behind him and the sky was still bright. He could keep going, he thought, and certainly it followed his usual inclination to keep hurtling on, barely breathing and completely spent by the time he crossed the finish line. He looked down at an indicator on the dashboard.
‘Half a tank.’
He didn’t have to stop, he could keep going. He could get gas later. He didn’t need it now. Purely optional.
But his right ankle was stiff. Or maybe it was his knee, he could barely tell. Too long on the gas. Up down up down faster slower faster. He thought maybe he should stand up and stretch and get a little fresh air. Fill up. Take a piss.
Maybe get a new map.
Still proceeding at a good clip, Cedric drove for only a moment before Exit 1 for Port Jervis forked off to the right. He let off the accelerator, switched into a lower gear, and left the highway.
Driving through town always highlighted the issues with his old Cavalier. Getting into first gear was a persistent difficulty and required him to fiddle with the mechanism to jimmy it into just the right position before it would lock into place. The car often resisted this process and he’d have to reengage the clutch and try again. Sometimes the vehicle seemed to have a mind of its own. What worked once was never guaranteed to work again; the only constant was inconsistency.
He looked left, and then right, intending to follow the suggested direction for the closest gas station. The light turned green and he followed traffic, thankful that the engine had decided to stay awake.
‘It didn’t always.’
Down the road rose a modest fueling station branded in some well-known name. Approaching the establishment, Cedric failed to avoid a large divot in the road and the jolt stuttered through the car, troubling the suspension. He winced inwardly, having violated his commitment to take care of the vehicle. He couldn’t afford to make stupid mistakes like that.
The first pump on the right was open so he recovered his composure and slid the car into place. In front of him, an old woman stood refueling a white Cadillac. She dug into her purse, festooned with fixings in false gold, shining in the sun. She locked the door and went inside to pay.
Cedric turned off the engine and left the car. He looked at the signage. Regular was noted at $1.11/gallon. A brisk wind brushed his cheek as the numbers entered his consciousness.
‘…All ones.’
He opened the little hatch on the side of the car, unscrewed the gas cap, removed the dispenser from the pump and engaged the mechanism.
The gasoline gurgled through the tubing for a minute or so and he stewed in the silence of his own mind, hand on the contents of his pocket, until the trigger kicked back. He jiggled the nozzle for a moment, removed the spout from the car, and placed it back on the pump. He secured his car by locking the door and crossed the valley to pay the bill.
The woman who had fed the Cadillac exited just as he entered, clutching her handbag. She avoided eye contact with him, seemingly oblivious, or worse — offended — by his existence.
Maybe it was the tattered jeans.
A bell on the door announced his entrance. Cedric looked around the shop, his body now surrounded by bright wrappers and neon. Hunger pangs clawed at his innards. He supposed it had been a while since he’d eaten. He hadn’t really been thinking about food. Had he eaten breakfast?
Of course he had, but it all seemed so estranged to him now. The very thought of the gritty coffee sickened him.
He grabbed a Slim Jim and wandered over to the refrigerated case. Colorful names and saccharine promises leapt out at him. Coke, Diet Coke, Snapple — It was all the same crap.
But he needed something. Yes, he supposed, he was parched. His eyes wandered from row to row, spying nothing he wanted, until —
He opened the glass door and removed a YooHoo. He knew it would be just as sweet as the rest of the trash littering the selection, but this one, with the clear glass and yellow paper, made him think of places and times long past.
‘Maybe this won’t be so bad.’
He thought of his grandfather, the man who gave him the old Buck knife he kept in his right pocket. There hadn’t been much time to get to know him before he had died, but those times felt good in the recollection. Sweet, but not too sweet — chocolatey, not yet bitter.
Cedric walked up to the counter and pushed his choices underneath the plastic barrier.
“I’m on pump number four.”
The man looked at his display and keyed into the register. He spoke with a gruff tone. “Anything else?”
Cedric looked around, revolted by the candy and gum, and then back to the cashier. “I’m headed east, around the airport. Do you have any of the free maps?”
He grumbled. “Out of those. They’re gone as soon as I put ‘em on the shelf. I got Rand McNally.”
That brand was expensive, but what choice did he have?
“I’m going to Newburgh.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “You got a flight outta Stewart or something? Seein’ a friend?”
He paused for a moment, then spoke before Cedric could respond. “You headed to the city?”
Cedric moved his hand toward his back pocket, the cold chain providing some solace as he lied. “Yeah, visiting a friend.”
But the man didn’t believe him. He pushed a paper map across the counter.
“Stay at the airport. Nothin’ in Newburgh, not for you. Hasn’t been for years.”
Cedric looked up at the man, ruddy and unshaven. He wasn’t sure what to say. He had little intention to alter his plan; no kernels of local wisdom were going to dash his house of cards.
Sensing the young man’s defiance, the cashier changed the subject. He didn’t even glance at the merchandise while pushing it forward across the counter. “Bag?”
Cedric waved his hand in refusal. “No, thanks. That’s it.”
“$12.40.”
Cedric frowned at the total and opened his wallet to remove several wrinkled bills, unhappy about the parting.
‘He rounded up.’