Talk to Leigh Pierce on the Fictionville blog
The days and nights start to run together in a modern day musical of high speed actions and faster thoughts. His car rumbles on, rambles over the uneven rural roads as he stares off into the night in a daze of sobriety and manic thought patterns. The windshield is tinted evenly in the beautiful color of Chain Smoker Yellow, matching the first two fingers of his right hand perfectly. His eyes focused and upholstered in dark gray fleshy fabric, but still unable to see through all the fog on the road. With his mind screaming and his voice mumbling, being by himself in a car resembles two elderly people trying to have a conversation and neither of them knowing what the other one is talking about, or that they are even talking at all. He can't help but smirk at the thought that keeps repeating itself in his head, "Sobriety is what you really need now, if you don't clean up... who knows what will happen to you?" Finally his smirk breaks into an eerie chuckle, proving that this particular thought might not be the absolute truth, partial truth, or even a good idea in any way, shape or form. Bells and whistles. He unknowingly fondles the garter hanging on his rearview mirror, the one that she gave him from their special day.
No longer is he playing the game that he used to when he was "a drinker" and out cruising around oblivious to his own danger. A drunken ghetto shooting game of sorts. Shot after shot. Every oncoming car was an enemy and every passing house was a target. Shot after shot. The bottle, his pistol. His lips, his trigger finger. A shot, a shot. Driving around shooting at oncoming cars and picking people off their porches during drive-bys. Shot after shot. Reload. Pulling his pistol from it's brown paper holster. Another shot fired. His throat stings from the muzzle flash off the end of his bottle. Shot after shot. But then the recoil of his game slammed him back into reality, at least for the time being it appeared that way.
Hours on end slide by unnoticed like his problem did for so long. Behind the wheel for what feels like days straight, he slips into a different kind of driving under the influence. It's just too much time by himself, with himself, alone with his thoughts. It seemed like such a nice situation at first, until he realized that he's a person who definitely should not be left alone with his thoughts for one reason and one reason only... his thoughts scare the hell out of him. With his head all fuzzy, or possibly clear for the first time in his life, his not so subconscious seems like a strobing scrolling film of clips that have no order or relevance to his current surroundings. He sees images flash before his eyes like a television set with a tourettes sufferer running the remote, and hearing sounds and songs like a car radio that is set on scan but can't quite find a station to tune into. He wonders when the last time that he blinked was, or if he even does that anymore. His eyelids grind together and slam shut briefly making the sound of the door to a jail cell when he attempts to blink. Attempt after attempt. Try after try. But to no avail. The strobing lights are still there in the corners of his eyes, flashing brightly in his peripheral vision.
His chain-smoking right hand rolls the cigarette between his fingers while his left hand taps nervously on the steering wheel. The sterling silver band on his left ring finger makes a repetitive clicking noise against the worn out steering wheel cover. Through the fog and smoke his mind seems to trail off into a few memories brought on by the clicking of his ring.
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Through the shadows thrown down by the trees and towering antique headstones, we see our not too together character standing over a new marker. He stares intensely at it, as if waiting for it talk to him first. He slowly crouches down and touches his hand to the headstone, gently, as if touching her face. Trying to come up with the words to explain how much he misses her, brings him to tears. He begins crying uncontrollably, almost hyperventilating. As he drags himself to his feet, he throws a penny in a small candle holder at the base of the marker. "Penny for your thoughts".
He climbs back into his car and lights a fresh cigarette off the one hanging from his lips. He puts the car in drive and heads to his very own final resting place. He pulls out of the cemetery and heads up the road thinking about how at least he still has things that he can do to relax. Because he sure as hell needs to do just that. Right now. He knows nothing has ever relaxed him the way a nice long pointless drive has. He feels it's about time to raise that old tradition from the grave. He puts his left blinker on and pulls into the liquor store for supplies.
Sudden changes in life can bring about sudden changes in people as well. Shot after shot. Rising smoke. Bells and Whistles.
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Being alone his car always comforted him, no matter how upset he was or what he was upset about. Falling back into the driver seat felt like a great big hug. The upholstery wrapping itself around him like a mother's arms. After a while it became hard to tell if it was the driving around that settled him down, or the bottle in his hand that did the trick. Drinking and driving. Hand in hand.
Sobriety has seemed to put a new spin on driving now. His head now feels fuzzier than his tongue does the morning after a one liter of whiskey night. Sobriety can be a beautiful thing, it's if done in moderation. Obviously he is a perfect example of that.
Everything seems to move except him as if he is on a treadmill. The car sits silently as the road flows by below and the houses scream by in a whisper. Floating on a cushion of confusion he tries to convince his own mind that everything around him makes sense. He feels like he is shut off from the world. He imagines big black and white barricades around him and the car, distancing him from everything and everyone. No one can touch him. Not physically, not mentally, not spiritually, not emotionally. Completely barricaded from the world. Just him inside of his steel beast to keep him safe. The fog and smoke grows thicker before his eyes. He reaches up and unknowingly fondles the garter again, accidentally moving the rearview mirror in the process. He glances at it and sees the empty car seat in the back. He wonders what the car seat is for and why it is even in his car. While he lights another cigarette off the already lit one in his mouth, his mind trails off again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Through the smoke and the haze, we see our character leaning against a long white wall, surrounded by people running around in blue outfits. His name is being called over and over again, but he doesn't seem to realize it. He pulls a bottle from his pocket and sneaks the last swig off right before the doctor comes up and tells him he just became a father. "It's a boy!"
He stumbles back out towards the sliding glass doors and heads for his car. Holding his bottle open and upside down, he realizes he needs to go get a refill before he heads in to see his bouncing baby boy. Slumping back in the warm hug of his car he pulls another bottle from the center console and takes another pull. He slides out of his car and heads in to see his son for the first time, drunk. The way his son would come to know and love him.
With a distant smile on his face he picks up his son and gives him a sweet kiss that smells of whiskey. A smell that his son would always relate to, the way that the smell of freshly baked cookies makes you think of mom.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
As he sits content in his car, everything finally makes sense to him. The only thing that still perplexes him is why no matter how hard he pushes the gas pedal, his speedometer won't move. His unsteady hand reaches for his insulated mug of coffee in the center console. He takes a long swig. The black and white barricades seem to disappear before his eyes. The fog and smoke in front of him clears up. The flashing disco lights vanish from his peripheral vision. The bells and whistles come to a screeching halt. Everything goes dark. And he finds himself at peace. For the first time in his life he is at peace.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
All night, every night she sits and wonders why he didn't just come home. She wonders what she did to make him feel like he had to to leave. She wonders what she did to make him stop caring. She worries about the kids. She wonders how they'll feel without a father. She worries that they'll feel just as abandoned as she does. She wonders what went wrong that night. She wonders why he would just sit there in the car with the steam rolling out from under the hood from overheating. She wonders why he would just sit there in the car, especially after it died on the railroad tracks. She wonders how he didn't hear the train coming. All those bells and whistles had to have been a clue. She wonders how he didn't see the train coming. All those flashing lights strobing in the corner of his eyes should have been a clue. The big black and white barricades he was trapped between had to be a sure thing he couldn't have missed. But most of all she wonders how this could happen to a person who was clean and sober.
And at that moment her mind created it's own reality to help explain how all these things were possible. "He must have been drunk again. Bastard. I knew he was lying to me again."
And at that very moment, her clouded thinking brought back a flood of not so fond memories. Like the time that drunk son of a bitch...