Anyone can drive a car. In one sense, a nuisance; in another, insane. On a clear day you can see forever statistics that will shock you, studies that will reveal to you the secrets of the universe and the closest place to making Whoopee in your neighborhood. Anyone can drive a car. Maybe we can work something out. You folks go on out back with me and I’ll level with you. Let’s make a deal. Maybe we can drive somewhere, maybe we can make a deal, maybe we can feel like we belong, maybe next time our checks won’t bounce. This one wouldn’t make it in the military. Use this only if you have to. Another “terrifying” contradiction, another sentence to bear. Folds foster ruin in clean Dominican, a trapeze artist in blinding blue and white; Samhill, a Roebuck Scholar and close shaver; Roman, dissolving, rides the rest. There are no more buildings in the house we live in.
Next up is a chance to Like and Subscribe, one more moment for advertisements and tricks, an opportunity to say whether or not you feel America has lost its way. On YouTube, there are many buttons that will bring you to amateur parallel realities, moments in time and space that you feared you were missing out on. You were: this band played that song, this film played in this city, this author gave their last talk at this bookstore. These are the three things, the only things that exist. Roman rides the vestibule; Samhill takes the blade; Dominican swings up and down. The road to recovery ends here and another person becomes a number. Twelve years sober, four years divorced, six minutes dead. Roman raids the medicine; Samhill makes a mess; Dominican stands up straight.
Anyone can drive a car. Would it be a feat to put someone behind the wheel for the first time after such a scene? A certain amount of stress can invigorate the body for a short period of time; adrenaline plus downer should be enough. Roman thought, Samhill never thought, but he was ready to go. Dominican stood the corner—he would have to drive. The brothers embraced. “Like the Ludlows,” said Roman. “Like the Spikes,” said Samhill. What passed for intelligence in this family was a vague knowledge of super predators of the past, proper pronunciation or even ballpark spelling not required. Dominican slouched. “I will do this for you,” he said, and they went out back. No one saw them, and no one followed them. There was still a hole in the sky where their North Star once was; it abandoned them after their first attempt. “I have other places to be,” she said, all three brothers confidently identifying the voice of the North Star as female.
Dominican started the car. Samhill, backseat with body, was busy keeping everything tidy. Roman, too blind to see past his elbows, could only feel Dominican’s abominable progress down the road, and it was under duress of his screams and the expected but far more upsetting than expected noises coming from the back. “Why do we need him?” Dominican asked. It was true: they scored big, what was the point? There were no connections. Now anyone could see their mess. Roman watched the car weave down a one-way street as red, yellow, and blue lights flashed on the horizon, teasing to come closer but always disappearing in a blip. Anyone can drive a car. And Dominican didn’t hit anyone or anything—they made it home okay.
Right turns wet roads crossing, another sign of arrival: the freedom to take nighttime, my time. What’s wrong with a little safari? In my mind, this is my free time.
—Follow Nicky Otis Smith on Twitter: @NickyOtisSmith