Guardians

In the trunk of my car is a shovel and rope. Not for any particular reason, but I can see how one might think something. Something dark and sinister, something that I've planned, some dime pulp cover. But they're just there, they were there when I bought the thing and I guess I saw no real reason to take them out. Never know when you might need to dig, to tie something up real good.

I decided to do a bit of driving today when I saw how low the gas was in town. I used to go on drives a lot, just to think, clear my head, it was something people did and I always enjoyed it. Not much excuse for doing something as wasteful as that nowadays. But when I saw the price I figured I'd fill up the tank and go for a drive. Reminisce. Maybe I would reminisce just about driving, but I was going to reminisce.

People don't meet people in gas stations, that's just not how it works, not in any book I've ever read. Still, plain as day, there she was, standing there over by the drinks. She was reaching for some sugary thing, something terrible, and I told her as much. She said she didn't need me looking out for her, and I said we can never have too many guardians. That's not a view I typically hold. But in came out all the same. And in fact it passed my lips with such ease that I was no longer sure it wasn't something I had always known to be true.

She ended up in the passenger seat, without a drink but not completely empty-handed. I said I just wanted to go for a nice drive and she thought yes, that would be nice. I think she was relieved, that it was just a drive, although I could have been a liar and she wouldn't have ever known. I've been told when I say things, people believe them. I don't see why that's such a fantastic concept. People should tell the truth.

I got on the county road and we got to talking. Cheryl she told me her name was so I called her that. She asked me how long I'd lived in town and I said all my life. It was funny to her, because she said she'd lived in town her whole life as well and had never seen me. Strange, town's not that big, that we never passed each other. Did I know Michael, Laurel, or Dennis? No. Did she know Cooper, Sara, or Felicity? No. Didn't matter who owned what store or went to which of the four churches, there wasn't a man, woman, or child that intersected between the two of us. Our worlds couldn't have been closer together and further apart.

Soon I was well outside of town, over by the abandoned elementary school, the one that almost burnt down that they just left to rot. And that's when the tire blew out. She gave me a cock-browed, knowing sort of look, like she had finally caught on to the second part of my plan. Now, correct my if I'm wrong, but unless I'd shown up there beforehand and planted some sort of spike, or knew enough about tiny explosives, I don't see how I could have gotten my tire to blow on command. These things just happen. And I don't think anything of it when I assess the damage and go to get the spare out of the trunk. Isn't until I pop it and she looks inside does she know something's wrong. Isn't until I feel the knife in my side that I think to tell her anything. But I don't. I just feel the blade go in and out, in and out.

I don't know why I let her do it. I don't know why I kept my mouth shut, listen to her tell me how of course I don't know nobody in town, of course those names were made up, of course I take her to this half-burnt schoolhouse, that's probably where I take all of them. Probably more cemetery than school. And I just took it, gave her my blood and my car keys, and let her drive away.

Soon I'll have to rip this shirt, try to patch myself up, get back to town somehow. But for now I'm content sitting in the brush of the old elementary. The playground swings, the blackened Indian red bricks, the lockers I can see just inside. There's something kind of peaceful about the whole thing. The field has kind of grown up and in and around the school, taken it in and made it one of its own. And I'm glad to have something here to look at and quiet my mind for a time.