Project Writing # 4

I step towards my white Volvo, pausing briefly to unhook the keys from my beltloop. I press the button on the key ring and listen for the locks to raise, and only then do I continue my march. When I’m about five yards from my car I hear a man’s voice. The speaker tries to hide his grizzled tone, but the delicacy he applies is false. I don’t trust this utterance. I don’t trust this speaker.

“Young man, you look like a generous human bein’.” I hear the snake crawling through his esophagus. “You look like you’d help an old man out.” There’s venom in those words, or am I just too soft to obey?

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you out” I say, not looking. I inch forward and he follows.

“You haven’t even heard what I want, sir.” He wants my sympathy and my respect, but I’ve also frustrated him. I see him in the window of my car. I turn around to see if he’s really there.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go,” I tell him. Yeah, there he is. His face looks like a caricature of his voice. Hard leather trying too hard to feel soft. I’m neither surprised nor bothered by his bare torso. In the middle of a summer night, I often feel the urge to live shirtless, but I also realize his motivations are probably not his. “Excuse me.”

I reach for the handle on the Volvo and pull, fully expecting my visitor to understand the implication.

“You don’t understand. I just need you to help me out. I don’t need any money.” I hear the words and ignore their meaning. I crouch and enter my vehicle, positive he’s backing off. “Please, man.” There goes the delicacy. He places his hand on the frame of the car, preventing me from closing the door. I pull hard.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I raise my voice with each syllable. He tries to keep the car door open, pleading, but I keep pulling. I keep pulling. I don’t even know how scared I am. I don’t have time to know. I just pull until he gets the point. I pray to my god there’s some reason in his head. I pray to my god he gets the point. He backs off, apologetically. We share stares for an instant, then he turns away and runs down the ramp of the parking garage.

I sit in my car with windows closed. I start the car at some point and put it in reverse, but I keep my foot on the brake. Sitting. I press play on my ipod, pause it. Press play again, then release my foot from the brake. I back out and descend the three floors of the garage.

On the street I see two cop cars, lights flickering eternal. I see my monster in a backseat. He’d been taken. He’ll be tamed by a bigger beast, we hope. We, readers, are the bottom of the food chain.