Vapor Pressure

Warnings: profanity, threats of violence.

Also, the first part is a real-life event that happened to a friend.

Vapor Pressure

Monday, 7:50 AM

Everything happens for a reason. Always.

Rain – big-dropped summer thunderstorm rain – hammers the windshield. Flashes of white-hot lightning as my ribs rattle with thunder. I'm in the parking lot, impatient for the Restaurant Store to open in ten minutes. Suzie will be there, and I plan on finally asking her out. But not if I reek of sweat and chopped onions.

In the glove box, I find my body spray deodorant, uncap it and get to work – armpits, down my back, across my chest. My eyes sting from the propellant, bitterness on my tongue. At least I smell better.

With five minutes left, I tap out a Marlboro, pry my Zippo from a pocket, spark the striker.

A rib-cracking whump slams me. Crushes me. From every direction at once. Arms and head flash hot, eardrums pop. In a fraction of a second, my car unfolds in slow-mo. Roof peels up and away, windshield blows out, doors buckle open. Then the cool, drenching rain while my ears ring.

Dizzy, I slump over the wheel. Muffled shouts. Suzie calling my name, over and over. Hands shaking me. Later, I don’t know how long – sirens, and flashing red, white, blue lights.

One Month Later

I’ve grown weary of all the attention, all the drama. Yes, it’s a miracle I’m alive. Now can I please just get on with my life? After TV and radio interviews, two surprise “Thank God You’re Alive” parties from friends and family, I can’t stand it anymore. All Suzie talked about on our first date was how she watched in horror as my car detonated like a bomb. Her terror that I was dead behind the wheel. Listen – I’m no celebrity. Never been one for the limelight. I’m just a chef who loves to cook.

Yesterday, my boss suggested a week off, so I took him up on it. I need to re-center myself, gather my thoughts, decompress, be me again. Thursday morning, when I should be working hard by five AM, I take off in my new car, drive north of the city, to reach my favorite park, walk through the trees, feel the wind in my hair.

Just off the interstate, in a dense wooded area, I round a bend and see a guy thumbing a ride. Tall and skinny, looks to be in his twenties. Long, floppy hair, scruffy beard. Big army surplus-style bag at his side. Probably wants a lift to the bus station, ten miles further. I slow down and pull over, rolling down the passenger window as he relaxes his thumb, lowers his hand.

“Need a lift to the bus station? I’m already going that way.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he says. “Got a bus in thirty minutes.”

I pop the locks, tell him he can toss his bag in the backseat, then he climbs in beside me. God almighty, when was the last time this guy took a shower? A month? Holes in his jeans at the knees, grease and dirt smudges on his plain gray t-shirt and jeans. What are those dark crimson spots on his pants? Blood? His worn-out sneakers have untied hemp twine laces. He belts in, and I take to the road.

"Thanks, man," he says.

Then, out of the blue, he starts laughing. What the hell’s so funny, I ask him.

“Sorry, man,” he says after thirty seconds of hysteria. “I can’t believe you picked me up. I left my last ride only five minutes before you showed up.”

“Why’d they drop you in the middle of the woods? Ten miles from the bus station?”

“We didn’t get along. Old man said I’m too dirty. Said I stink. Then got all self-righteous about me not havin’ a job.”

“So he just pulled over and told you to get out?”

“No, man, I left him back there.”

“With your bus ready to leave, and you still ten miles away?”

“No man, it’s more complicated than that.”

“Well, how about enlightening me?”

“Drove his car off into the trees. Didn’t want anyone to find him too quick.”

“What do you mean? Is he hurt?"

"Worse than hurt," he mumbles, barely audible above the rush of air through the windows. My heart seizes. Adrenaline kicks in.

"You mean he's dead?"

He grins ear to ear, his pocked face flushing red with what? Embarrassment? I finally notice the deep scar running past his ear.

“The old guy put up a fight, that's for sure,” he says, and bursts again into laughter.

I panic, accelerate ‘til we're moving so fast he won't fuck with me. Gotta reach a public place, somewhere with other people – anywhere but these woods. We swerve around curves and nearly fly off the road. Please, Lord, just another five miles. I pray to see a police car coming the other way, so I can signal for help.

Around the next bend, black storm clouds swirl above the trees. A few big drops smack the windshield, so I raise the windows. It feels so much worse, being sealed in with him. Then the heavens open up.

“Ya know what?” he says. “Fuck that bus. I’m having too much fun. Just keep drivin, racer boy!” He motions ahead with his right hand, like he's giving me his newest orders. I swallow hard, the road swimming in front of me. My hands shake.

“But what about your bus? Isn’t someone expecting you at the other end?”

He tells me no one’s waiting. Took me up on the bus station only because I’d suggested it. Just a way to get into my car for a nice fun ride.

Rain hammers the windshield, wind whips, thunder booms. I have to slow down when the car fishtails on wet pavement. Then I've had it, and I snap. Maybe it's this storm, how it reminds me of the day I almost died. Whatever the reason, my terror flashes to rage.

“You’re full o’ shit! You didn't kill anyone." I say. “We’re three minutes from the bus station. Then you’re fuckin' on your own!”

I glance over to gauge his demeanor. Suddenly his eyes pop open, and he flinches. I snap my gaze back to the road.

Twenty feet ahead, a fallen tree blocks our way.

I brake hard, skid sideways, passenger side slams the trunk. He cries out, bounces hard against me until his belt catches. Somehow, airbags don't deploy, but my low tire pressure light pops on. Fuck!

I shift into reverse and floor it, then into drive, then back to reverse, but the wheels only spin. Tire’s flat and my car is wedged against the tree. He moans beside me, tries to open his door, but it’s welded shut from the collision. Then he chuckles and looks over at me.

My blood runs cold when his face morphs. That idiotic grin disappears, and his eyes darken, pupils dilate. He suddenly looks composed, malevolent, dangerous. Why the fuck don't I keep a weapon in the car?

He reaches down on his right and lifts up a large hunting knife, its blade still sticky-wet with blood. I release my seat belt and lunge for my door, but he grabs my right arm and yanks me back. He's stronger than I thought possible. Before I can throw an elbow at him, he brings the blade close and rests its flat side on my shoulder, the gleaming point an inch from my throat. My heart pounds, and I piss myself. Literally.

“Let’s sit here and talk,” he says calmly, and I realize his hysterical laughter was just a ruse. “We’re stuck here, together, and now you know too much.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” I say, my voice trembling, my stomach twisting as I fight the urge to vomit.

“Just your own dumb luck,” he says, shaking his head.

Then, an idea, a possible way out. It’s reckless as shit, but I'm at my wits' end. Probably my last chance.

“Then help me out here. You reek so goddamn bad my eyes are watering. Reach into the glove box and get out the car spray. Please? Do that for me at least?”

He glances to the glove box, then back at me, his eyes drilling mine. Then he grins, opens the glove box by feel, reaches blindly inside and extracts the can of deodorant. He briefly checks the can's label and passes it to me with his right hand, his left still holding the blade near my throat.

"Just don't spray near my face, or I'll slit you ear to ear," he says. And I know he means it.

I pop the lid and spray an overpowering floral scent about the interior. I cough and my eyes sting, bitterness on my tongue. Before he can protest, I reach on top of the dash and grab a pack of Marlboros.

“That's better," I say. "I’m havin’ a smoke. Care for one?”

His dark stare gives way to that manic, hysterical grin.

“Yeah, gimme one. And your lighter, too.”

I pass him a Marlboro and pull the Zippo from my shirt breast pocket. I hand it to him, my fingers trembling. He wedges the filter between his lips and looks pleased with himself.

“Please God,” I say under my breath.

He strikes the lighter…

---------

I awaken to a wailing siren. Bright white lights overhead. Two guys lean over me. They wear dark blue shirts. Paramedics.

“Sir, you’re in an ambulance. We’re taking you to the emergency room. You were in an accident, and your whole car exploded. But you’re going to be okay. Can you speak?”

I nod slightly, sensing a familiar burning sensation on my scalp, my neck. I have no memory of the explosion. It’s better that way.

“There was a passenger in the car with you,” the other guy says. “We found him dead at the scene. He was holding a knife covered in blood. Was he trying to harm you?”

My eyes fill with tears, and I nod. I stopped that son-of-a-bitch. Ended his serial murder spree. He'll never terrorize, torture, or kill another soul.

I start to weep while struggling to croak out a few words. The only ones that matter.

“Everything… happens for a reason.”