Ruth walks into the office and watches Chief as he rolls back and forth across the keys on the floor. She counts the times that he rolls over a key before it pops up on the screen. Fifteen times, back and forth, before one letter shows up, and Chief's got three paragraphs going in an e-mail to James.
“I think that the stew's just about ready,” she tells Chief. He pauses and creaks to one side, listening.
“We'll take it over and then I'll drive you to Steve's. James told me to set a ramp up for you, so I'm going to get a two-by-four from his house, but I'll be right back,” she says. The tire continues to rock back and forth over a letter, and Ruth leaves.
“Are you sure you won't take him?” she asks James after she arrives at his house.
“I can't, Spoons.”
“It's uncomfortable for me to take him by myself. I still don't really know him. It's difficult.”
“I know it is. I know it is for just about everyone on this goddamned planet. But you know what's difficult for me? Watching a friend probably kill himself. I'm not going.”
“Will you wait by the phone in case we need you?”
“Yeah, I'll be here.”
“Okay. We're just dropping off the stew at the center and then we'll go to Steve's. Did you want to talk to Chief or anything?”
“I've talked to him plenty of times.”
“Okay,” says Ruth.
She drives down the highway and the asphalt is the color of the tire in her backseat. It's quiet, and it's lonely. It's uncomfortable, driving down a marginally unfamiliar highway with an unfamiliar tire in the backseat.
She doesn't even dare to turn on the radio, out of respect or a kind of fear. She wouldn't be able to tell if the tire were annoyed with her choice or not.
She pulls into the neighborhood. She glides in a shiny black SUV down the street, approaching her block, approaching the driveway. She pulls up and looks at the way the headlights paint the garage door. She wonders suddenly about the tires on her car. Do they work for her? Do they work for the manufacturer? Are they chained by hub caps to her service? She shudders and pops open her door.
“Are you coming?” she asks the tire, timidly. Of course, he doesn't like to talk. He doesn't respond.
over to Jame's house
She turns the handle of the door and hears the house moan. Her shoes make small thuds as she slips them off and kicks them to the side. The house screams in anguish. But it's not the house. Someone is in the basement, screaming. Ruth's heart starts to race and she stand in the open door, trying to figure out what to do. It's not her house. It's not her basement. If there's a burglar, who does she tell? The tire is sleeping. She slips her hand into the purse and dials James's number. It rings and goes to voice mail. She dials it again. Is everyone sleeping? The man in the basement screams again and Ruth can make out words, a weird rushing sound and a fwoosh-pop. She tiptoes through the kitchen and opens the basement door as quietly as she can. The light is on and she can see a pair of work boots on the bottom step. James.
She runs down the rest of the stairs and covers her mouth and eyes.
The fwoosh-pop is the sound of a welding torch that James is holding to the bottoms of shoes. He has cut all the seams and removed the soles. Ruth can't help but peek and watch as he melts a sole and sticks it to his bare arm, the melting rubber fusing with his skin, burning off his hairs. He screams as his skin dies and as his muscle is attacked. She screams as well, a long and releasing scream, but as long as she screams, she cannot release the fear that is welling up continuously inside her. It is like bailing water out of a sinking boat, and she will never succeed.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she screams, covering her mouth, her eyes,
bending over and dry heaving, wanting to puke, wanting to run. Wanting to do anything.
And then she realizes that she hadn't heard the tire creak-pop the whole way home, that Steve had to lift it into the backseat, that he waved goodbye with a solemn frown and a phone pressed to his ear. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING, JAMES?”
He presses a piece of melting rubber to his forehead and laughs. “Steve called.”
She glides in a shiny black SUV down the street, approaching her block, approaching the driveway.
She realizes that she forgot to switch her overhead lights to turn on when the door opens, but doesn't worry about it.
She screams as well, a long and releasing scream, but as long as she screams, she cannot release the fear that is welling up continuously inside her
captain.classy wrote:The only complaint I have is the transition between before Steve's and after Steve's isn't very clear. I had to go back and read over the lines a couple of times to make sure I was reading it right. Maybe make it a bit more distinguishable?