2012/03/29 Comments Off
On the theme of David Lynch
Roadkill as Definition
“Gatorade. Fuck, no Gatorade,” Sanford mumbled.
She hopped in the ’78 Malibu and zipped to the 7-11 for red Gatorade, her libation of choice when as high as she clearly was.
God this is good stuff, she thought, then: Damn, I wish I had some porn.
Sanford was wearing sunglasses because it was sunny. She drove by three couples holding hands on the corner. Highschool love.
Fucking a-holes, she thought. Doing nothing but standing there, locking digits to prove co-nnec-tion … boning in ways that don’t even feel good … making claims to territory in some attempt to be someone since you’re with someone.
To be someone you gotta’ own someone, right? You have to be connected to stay afloat, stay high. Passion gives us the high – the dopamine-induced, theater presentation of love – that keeps us going on this fucking wheel. We play the parts we are told because our brains pump it into us to support the whole process so we can breed and spread and claim and own and be.
Passion without love would lead to chaos. Without love we’d be missing the claim and the associated protection. Passion is the prize, the high – but what is love?
Sanford pulled into the 7-11, one spot left.
Who the fuck are all these people at 7-11 in the middle of the god damn day? Nachos and Heavy Metal and underage smokers and some guy who needs shoe polish. Good fucking luck, asshole.
Gatorade and a lighter and a pack – two packs – of Camels. Camel Lights. I don’t need the penny. Yeah, thanks.
And off to the car. Sanford backed out easy because the edge had come on soon. The sound of trains racing.
Easy does it, cowboy. Breathe through and move this boat of a car outta’ here nice and fucking easy.
Sanford pulled her baseball cap down as she drove past the corner of couples and swung the Malibu around the strip mall, to the back streets. The quiet, bright, back streets of suburbia.
Fuck – what the fuck is that!!
Sanford kept her foot pressed on the brake. She could smell the tire smoke from the screech she’d just made. She looked straight ahead and there, in the middle of the street, was a possum who had been hit by a car. Its eyes were glassy and reflective and it looked right at her. It was barely able to move. There was a big patch of blood draining out of its right side.
It was huge. Much bigger than she had a possum would be. Bigger than a small dog even.
Her mind raced: I don’t know what to do… I can’t – it’s dying. It needs to die. It’s like it’s looking at me to be the one to save it… I’m not a farmer.
Sanford pounded the steering wheel while the animal teetered helplessly and stared at her.
With a snort and a hard slam of the gearshift into reverse, she threw her arm over the seat, looked behind her, and backed down the street,.
“Fuck fuck fuck!”
At the end of the street, Sanford turned back to the possum. It hadn’t moved. She slid the gear into drive and, with a grip squeezing her guts, she snorted the slime of coke down the back of her throat and slammed her foot on the gas pedal.
“Oh God, oh God!!” she screamed, her eyes pounding as her ears flooded.
The car gained speed before it crashed into the possum with a dull thud. She felt two muted bumps as the wheels drove over the now-dead animal.
Sanford’s heart ached. She took a deep breath and lit a cigarette.
“That,” she realized, “is love.”