Approaching midnight on a smooth stretch of a remote county road,
the air was crisp; the stars shining hard and bright. Dash lights
glowing warmly Jake's truck lumbered and loped through a restless
idle. Parked on the center line he owned the abandoned road.
He stashed a pint bottle under the seat, pressed his mouth to his
shirt sleeve, and touched the radio volume up. The cab jangled
with a deathless sweet Clementine, the biscuits and gravy of
country-western song.
Headlights gleamed over a line laid out long and straight. It
was a perfect night to see what she could do.
Chrome plated the intake stood prominently through the hood. The
engine revved in bursts torquing the frame with promise. Jake
imagined the starter stepping up -- "On your marks" -- raising
a flag overhead; "Get set!" Answering, twin butterfly valves
opened onto a gaping throat resonating hollow and hungering for
air. The motor roared.
"Go."
Tires smoking, the '57 Chevy leaped forward pressing the driver
firmly into his seat, his fuzzy dice decidedly back. Jake
whooped. In half a moment the speedometer registered eighty,
ninety, one-hundred miles an hour... Jake whooped again.
Despite the engine being barely broken in, it couldn't have
waited another night. To the racing yellow clear coat and the
flame job rimming the fenders, she was proving true, truer than
true -- his chariot -- his wheels of fire. Pushing one-hundred
and twenty miles an hour the truck hauled its single-minded
existence down the road. Across the tailgate stenciled in bold
script was a sweet sorrow, "Let us never say goodbye."
Glowing gauges reported oil pressure and water temperature all
where they should be. Satisfied, Jake eased off the pedal and
patted the dash. Saturday night at the drive-in for a cherry-cola
and a little business will show the boys what's what. With pride
and not a little love he glanced over the gauges once more and
back to the road.
But it was too late.
A split-second decision followed a knee-jerk reaction, and the
tires barked briefly in favor of his keeping control, taking
the collision head-on.
But the collision didn't happen -- only a cold whoosh of white
that instantly passed. Checking in the rearview mirror there
was nothing. "What the hell was that?" he said.
At first a split second before the truck dissolved it it seemed
some large white animal barreling across the road. But somehow
that was not right. It was no deer, and it was no horse. That
it had jumped and run was clearly so. But no matter, apparently
it was only a puff of rolling fog.
Jake snatched a breath and blew hard. That what he'd seen proved
neither deer, nor horse, (nor cow for that matter,) he was glad
for the sake of his truck, its body, and the paint job. Reducing
his speed more he tried to put the matter behind.
What nagged was it was a clear night without wind or reason for
fog. The vision insisted on replay after replay in his mind. Jake
reluctantly became convinced the vaporous shape had been neither
four legged nor some rude patch of fog -- but something clothed
in fog and running on two legs.
Seeing himself step harder on the gas pedal scared him even
more. He eased off and feebly laughed.
"Come Jake, ol' boy," he said. "That would have scared the
buh-jeezers out of anyone."
This statement would have been true but for the lone exception
now sitting beside him, cold as ice and pale as death. She wore a
white prom dress. Jake sensed it. Then he saw it. The headlights
went crazy as his truck flipped and flipped some more.
When the truck finally came to a stop gasoline dripped and a
hub cap rolled down the asphalt.
Upside down in the middle of the road smoke rose from the truck
undercarriage. Jake regained consciousness. The radio was still
playing but he was alone now. It had to have been a dream; he
thought. He went asleep at the wheel, flipped the damned truck,
and now his left arm wouldn't work. He painfully hung upside
down by the seat belt. The restraining buckle wouldn't release
and there was the smell of gasoline then a woof of flame from
the rear of the truck.
Outside the smashed driver-side door, pale feet dangling below
the hem of a prom dress lowered upon the broken glass strewn
across the asphalt. She looked in on him struggling with the
seat belt. Flames rose higher behind the truck.
"Jake," she said.
Jake turned with a start, his heart withering to a prune. The
light from the fire behind illuminated the bushes on the side
of the road -- bushes visible through her face as she leaned
in for a kiss. He croaked, "You were always on the crazy side
Beth. You can't blame me for what you did. Please."
