The DeLorean

Flick. Spark.

“You know I hate it when you do that,” he said.

“And you know that’s exactly why I do it,” she replied.

He sighed, tapping the gas pedal, allowing the car to speak for him. It shot forward down Highway 103, a two-ton silver bullet carving its way through the night. Were they going anywhere in particular? It was hard to say.

“Do you enjoy making me uncomfortable?”

There it was. Blunt as ever, yet at the same time more delicate than a house of cards. Nearly a minute of silence.

“What do you mean?”

The safe answer. A delay really, or a sidestep more than an answer. Enough time to gauge where she’s at tonight.

“You know I hate it when you go fast.”

“This car wasn’t built to go slow.”

“Then go somewhere in between! You always do this–”

He held up a hand. The other one white-knuckled the steering wheel, the skin nearly the same color as the narrow tan line that wrapped around his ring finger. If he looked over, tilted his head just a few degrees, he’d see an identical tan line on her same finger. She made no attempt to hide it, holding a decaled metal Zippo lighter before her eyes. With her other hand she flicked the flame on and off, eyes lost in the depths of the blaze.

Flick. Spark.

If he looked over, past the tan line and the flames, he’d see the gentle curve of her lips in an expression he’d seen thousands of times before. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the road in front of him, scanning everything in the yellow cone of headlights from left to right and back to left again.

His hand rests on the door handle. The lighter. He pats himself down, starting with the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. Half a pack of smokes, some loose change, nothing else. He moves on to his jeans, Old Navy, once jet-black, now faded with time and wear. Just the essentials–phone, keys, wallet–and tucked behind the wallet (a slim brown Bellroy) his fingers find the unmistakable steel of the Zippo. His fingers trace the decal, an Ace of Spades, before moving to the keys.

Should he lock up? Nobody would be awake at this hour. He decides against it and steps out onto the porch. It’s a picturesque American home, straight out of a 50’s nuclear family pamphlet. White picket fence, a porch swing for those cool autumn evenings, and even a detached garage painted the same baby blue as the house. Even in the dead of night, it draws a picture that would be incomplete without a loving wife to keep everything in order until he returns.

He holds the door open, listening for the familiar sound of footsteps. What would she want tonight? To go with him, or to convince him to stay? It used to be nothing but the former, though somewhere along the line it became exclusively the latter. Tonight, it was neither.

A strangled sound, maybe a groan, erupts from his mouth. His hand falls to his side, letting the door swing shut on its own. Inside, nothing but silence. All of a sudden, it becomes too much. He clears the porch steps in a single leap, sprinting towards the detached garage. His bare fingers fumble with the keys, but only for a moment. Once inside, it takes a moment more to find the chain and pull it.

A dusty, pale lightbulb illuminates the single resident: a silver 1981 DeLorean DMC-12 in pristine condition. Has it really been a month? It’s parked close to the far wall, giving just enough room for the drivers’ side gull-wing door to open without hitting the light. A passenger would have to crawl across the center console, or wait until he pulls the car into the yard. Tonight, that’s not a concern he has.

“We’re doing it again.”

He waved his hand once to emphasize his point before returning it to the wheel, then continued: “If you want to have this conversation, we should’ve stayed home.”

“Would you have stayed?” The softness of her voice contrasted with the illumination of her words, revealing him just the same as the moonbeams on his face. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. They both knew what he would say.

They took the next few miles in silence. On his solo drives, he’d crank the radio, but it had slipped his mind until now. Though it could hardly make things worse, he left it off. Not for the atmosphere, but for the memories. No song was worth ruining by tying it to a night like this.

Iron Maiden’s “Déjà Vu” blasts from the radio as he pulls the DeLorean into the yard. The windows are down and there’s a slight breeze. A couple of comfortable turns later, he’s at an intersection he knows better than anyone. Left? Last time he went left, he had a passenger. Right? To the heart of town, bars and crowds and poor decisions galore. He doesn’t need the DeLorean to go right, the Ford would’ve been fine. The headlights swing to the left as he taps the gas, jumping away from the intersection. The recognizable voice of Bruce Dickinson briefly echoes in the air, then the dust settles and the street is once again quiet as the grave.

70.

He greeted the speed limit like an old friend who’s long since moved on. A couple of pleasantries, then a mutual departure.

80.

If any cops patrolled this road, they wouldn’t know it as he did. They might be able to make some ground on the arrow-straight sections, but when the arrow snaps, he’d lose them on the turns. He’s done it before.

85. It’s as high as the speedometer goes. Everything past this blends into one, man and machine becoming indistinguishable.

If he were Marty McFly, he’d be in 1955 by now. He’d never driven this fast with her before, even years ago when they’d go out once or twice a week. She liked fast, but not like he did. In the beginning there had been heavy breathing, maybe a firm hand over his, nails carving into his knuckles until he eased up on the gas. Tonight, she chose a more passive approach. The higher the needle climbed, the more she flicked the lighter. The flame danced in his peripheral, igniting an unspoken stubbornness between them.

She was burning through the fluid, she’d hurt herself on the spark wheel, she’d wear out the springs–he bit off the words before they could leave his mouth. He wouldn’t be telling her anything she didn’t know, anything he hadn’t mentioned dozens of times before. She was smart, she knew him better than anyone else. Six years together will do that to you. To make it to seven would take a miracle, and God seemed content to do nothing more than watch tonight.

He wouldn’t consider himself a patriot, but he never left home without his American Spirit. He dug one out, stuck it in his mouth, and tilted his head.

Flick. Spark. The lighter burned where it was.

Rolling his eyes, he yanked the cigarette out of his mouth, thrusting the end into the flames until it caught. One drag was enough to calm his mind. He was in the driver’s seat, his safe place. Nothing could catch him. All his problems were left in the dust, waiting for him to return when he was ready. Yet the person he always returned to was sitting in his passenger seat, for the first time in years. How can you escape your other half?

Why would you want to?

He has no second half tonight. He is both whole and shattered simultaneously. His insides are jittery, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle as a child shakes the box. He’s doing a hundred now, though he hasn’t noticed. His mind is in the same place but not the same time.

American Spirit, a short-term solution that creates long-term problems. But he’s not thinking long-term. One hand is on the wheel now as the other digs through his jacket. He finds one, rolling up the windows to ensure its survival. He switches hands now, digging through denim to find his silver treasure.

Flick. Spark.

He sees a flame. Nothing more, nothing less. It takes a special kind of person to see more, or maybe to connect the flame with something beyond. It takes the kind of person who would never ride in the car again.

One drag, then two. The CD has restarted by now. Track Two, Wasted Years. Easily the most well-known on the disk, the interstate of songs. He prefers familiarity to popularity, so he hits the glowing red “Skip” button. The stereo system was the biggest modification he’d made to the DeLorean, and he’d added it against the recommendations of everyone he knew.

They see it as a way to tank the car’s value and originality. He sees it as a way to combine music and speed. You can’t have one without the other, like peanut butter and jelly. The whole is greater than the parts. Memories of a college classroom, piles of homework and “Logic 101” written on the board in white chalk. And sitting next to him, holding his hand under the desk–

Another drag dispels the memory. A green road sign to the left appears and vanishes just as quickly, leaving no time to read it. He doesn’t have to, he already knows what it says: “Walker Ln.”

Just a few more miles until The Turn.

“Can you please put that out? You’re stinking up the car.”

Normally he’d be offended at the request. But she was the first one to break the silence, meaning he’d won. A rare victory these days. He rolled down the window and held the cigarette out. The wind extinguished the American Spirit, but his own was higher than it had been in a long time. Opening the window had a second, unforeseen side effect. Her hair, dirty blonde, nearly two feet in length and unrestrained, whipped around in a blinding halo. She hurriedly put out the flame and tucked the lighter away, though she made no effort to fight the wind or restrain her hair. He let the moment linger, tucking away his grim satisfaction at her discomfort into some dark corner of his heart. Only when he finally rolled up the window did she pull out a rubber band and attempt to restore some order.

“This is what it takes to make you happy?” There was no malice in her voice, only sadness.

“I’m driving the car I love, on the road I love, with the woman I love.”

Two truths and a lie. How long had it been a lie for? “Too long” was the only right answer.

She sighed. Finishing up with her hair, she tentatively reached a hand over, laying it on his shoulder. He stiffened, a rush of emotions flowing down his spine into every corner of his body. Separate beds, separate rooms, the paperwork nearly done, and now she’s touching him again?

“Let’s just go home.”

In a week, that word would mean something different to both of them. Home, one of the last things they shared. They had to go back. He always went back.

“Not yet.”

Her fingers tightened, digging into the flesh of his shoulder.

“You still take The Turn?”

Actions speak louder than words. His foot remained on the pedal.

The Turn is why she stopped riding with him in the first place. He’d discovered it quite by accident on his own one night in the early days. There was a gravel section on Highway 105, maybe a mile long. The final turn before the pavement was a sharp corner with a recommended speed of 35, according to the dull yellow sign that was The Turn’s only indicator. He hadn’t seen the sign that first time, and he had only a split second to react. He threw the wheel to the left, threw his hands back, and slammed both feet on the brake. The DeLorean had whipped around, skidding on the gravel for a heart-stopping second before tires found pavement again. He’d sat there for nearly ten minutes that first night, waiting for the adrenaline to subside. His first question was whether he was still alive. His second question was whether his maneuver was repeatable, or just dumb luck.

He’d drifted The Turn five more times before he felt confident enough to take her with him. He’d given her no forewarning that drive. It was the only time he’d ever heard her scream. On subsequent drives she was ready for it, even if she didn’t like it. Every other time blended into one; they could’ve gone on three drives, or a dozen, or a hundred. Only that first time taking The Turn stood out, and the aftermath. She’d thrown herself into his chest, hammering at him in terror and anger. The blows landed softer as she regained her cool, and gradually turned into something else. He had quickly pulled the car over, letting it stall as she had climbed into the seat with him. It was a night neither of them would forget.

Funny how their first drive and their last were the only memorable ones, albeit for very different reasons. The Turn is close now, signified by the crunching of gravel under the tires. The last time he took it was the fastest he’d ever taken it. The speedometer couldn’t confirm this, but he knows it the same way a quarterback knows he’s made the perfect throw right as the ball leaves his hand. He’s not going as fast now. He has nothing to outrun.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He knows.

“You have nothing to prove.”

He knows.

She went quiet then, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. For the first time that night, his eyes left the road. There was a look of quiet resignation on her face. A familiar thought breaches his mind:

What if he doesn’t brake?

He’s considered it passively dozens of times, just as someone chopping carrots inevitably acknowledges at some point the knife could be used on more than vegetables. It’s always been an intrusive thought, shut out immediately by waves of guilt and shame. Yet tonight, it lingered. Whether in spite of her or because of her, he did not know. He wondered whether she was thinking the same thing. If she was, she’d left the decision up to him.

The realization hit him like a bag of bricks. The DeLorean danced on the gravel, barely in control. He held on to the gas until the last possible second before repeating his familiar, gut-wrenching maneuver. Jerk left, let go, both feet on the brake. As they rounded The Turn, he looked past her face, into the wooded abyss he was simultaneously horrified and eager to embrace.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence.

He’s bumping along at a casual pace, not even going 70. At this speed, the turn didn’t even deserve to be capitalized. He shakes his head, taking one final drag before rolling the window down. The butt flicks out into the night, winking at him with one ember-red eye before fading out.

Music and speed. Can’t have one without the other. He cranks the volume knob, causing the haunting strains of “Déjà Vu” to play for the second time that night. The Turn is upon him in an instant as time slows to a standstill. He’s in the backseat of his mind, watching his own actions play out through his eyes like a movie. There’s no changing the channel or flipping the script. He’s done it before, a hundred times. Jerk the wheel to the left. Let go of the wheel, throw your hands back. Both feet slam on the gas.

He’s flying now, his eyes closed. There’s no end credits or closing scene. There’s no life flashing before his eyes. All he sees is an ethereal flame dancing on the end of a lighter. One light, pale and orange, stretching from this moment to eternity.

Flick. Spark.