We cross through the tunnel at 12:01. My dog and I enjoying the greatness of the night; him with his head out the window, me with my mind. The cool breeze coming in, smelling of beautiful mist and reinforcing why it is that I love to drive. I’m in the zone, feeling the vibrations of the wheels rolling on the pavement, the soft whirring of the engine as we cruise down the street. Almost home. We come to a stop at the corner; the traffic light paints the street red, and just like the children’s game, nothing moves. The constant tick-tick-tick-tick of the blinker as I look both ways before making a right is the only sound around. I proceed to make the turn and now the sweet sound of the steering wheel gliding through my hands fills me with calmness. I don’t know what it is but that sound has always soothed me; leather on skin, oh what a great combination.
Instantly that feeling is gone, but the stillness that blankets the neighborhood remains. Standing in front of me, waiting just down the road, is the angel of death. Dark and cloaked the way it’s always described, but much greater, much larger, making it’s presence unavoidable. I look to the passenger seat and see Timmy staring forward with intent, focused on what lies ahead.
“Well, let’s see what it wants”
We continue on ahead. The closer we get the more human it becomes, but no less evil. It’s morphing, becoming something much more recognizable. Now just a few feet away there is no denying what the figure is. A man in a wheelchair, dressed in rags, dragging a dog by the leash. My headlights provide the only light source, for the streetlights seem dim as if they too don’t want to bear witness to what’s going on. He positions himself directly in front with his back to me, giving me no way to pass. I am stuck. Almost home. I honk, for maybe he just didn’t realize I was there. It’s no use. The wheelchair keeps rolling, the dog keeps dragging. What choice do I have but to follow him.
Halfway down the street, he starts to swerve. Ah, access granted. Yet I give him time to see what he will do next. The wheelchair begins to turn. 90 degrees. 120 degrees. Now he’s headed towards me, but also back in front. This is my chance to go home. I accelerate. I swerve. I pass, but as I do, I receive one last farewell.
“Fuck you! You got something to say mothafucka!”
I turn to catch a glimpse of the man. I don’t answer, for words are not necessary. The images were enough, the emotions were plenty. As I drive away, I look back through my mirror and realize I do have something to say. Thank you, for that was a hell of a ride.