She’s driving the fucking car with her left hand. I fucking hate when she drives the fucking car with her left hand, it’s like she’s expecting me to lovingly grasp onto her right hand, or suck the fingers, or pray to fucking Jesus (in whom she believes) that such a fucking hand is at my side. Her fucking hand. Take it up and pray for the both of us, and our unborn children. I fucking hate her. And she’s expecting it, right, and then we’d pretend like it’s spontaneous. Oh, ha ha, look, I took your hand, ha ha.
“Honey, how about Wendy’s?”
“Wendy’s sounds good,” I say. She looks at me with this smile, like, I’m glad you like my idea, I came up with it all by myself. I smile back, like, yeah, I did like your idea. Really fucking brilliant. You know I hate McDonald’s, bitch. It’s just, of course she doesn’t notice that second part.
“I really like their salads,” I add.
What I’m thinking is that while she’s looking over at me, smiling, maybe we’ll slam into another car. She’s not the best at multi-tasking, no matter what she’s read in her Cosmo. I’ve read that when you slam into another car, those who can go limp have the greatest chance of survival. She couldn’t go limp worth shit. She’d get that tight face and do that tooth and lip thing she gets when she’s stressed, or having a fat day, or having a talk with me, and she’d fucking fly through the windshield like a wrench. I’d go limper than a piece of uncooked bacon and flop around, dashboard, seat, dashboard, seat, all loose as she’s skidding to pieces on the sidewalk. Limp like I was last night. Take that, cock-monger.
Yeah, the worst I’d get is a face full of broken nose and tooth-bits. But they have surgery for that kind of shit. And I could probably take a month (or two) off work from the trauma, and her parents would buy me a new nose, and they’d bring me movies and beer and think I’m not crying for their daughter out of shock. And I’d get shining new teeth and could go back to sleeping past noon.
She’s humming again. A fucking country piece of shit song, you can hear the hick-god-fearin’ twang even in her whistling, and she can sing it with a goddamn straight face, her eyes all sparkling. She’s trying to get into the right lane. We need to turn in. She’s showing about as much coordination as she does in bed, white arms that thicken up by the day, all flapping around, and such a look of concentration on that little face, like she’s such a little hero. She actually looks like a stunned hamster. What’s the matter, hard when I’m not fucking doing everything?
“People are all driving so fast today,” she says. And her brows are all knit up!
“Yeah, they are, hun. Be careful getting over.” Be careful, all right. Maybe I should take the wheel and swing us right off the road, into that thick pole by the strip mall. Her bright bright blue eyes would fly right away like her country-luvin’-soul wants to and splat all over the Starbucks she loves with all her heart. Maybe they have an Italian word for ‘bloody glass.’ Or a hot pink body bag (she’s wearing pink shoes). Shake up her little Starbucks, that’s right, that’s right. Then she really would have given me her heart har de fucking har. And I get my new teeth.
“Could you please move your head back a little? I can’t see the right lane.”
Yeah I’ll move my head back. All the way out of the fucking apartment, and all the way out of your miserable life.
“Don’t take this right, the next one will be easier,” I say supportively. If only she could feel the acid.
“I’m not even going to make this right.” Damn straight you’re not going to make this right. Maybe if you had paid a little less attention to your little love song you might have noticed that there was a car in your blind spot. Or that I fucking hate you.
“You still have time,” I say, cheerfully. And you might actually think I’d said that cheerfully, too.
Time. You have time, all right. How about you make some time to pull over nice and quiet, and stop making such a scene, God, your world caves in when Jamba Juice is out of fucking Vita-Soy Booster. Or better yet, how about you find the time to pull over right here, I’ll have you give me some nice fucking head right here in the parking lot. Don’t make me do this you’ll say don’t make me do this you won’t make me do this if you love me. And what’ll you do if I say if you fucking love me you’ll do this for me, because our hearts can only understand each other, because my heart can hear the beating of yours, what do you have to say to that? No country song about that yet, so then what’ll you do? Maybe you could make one up when I’m taking you up your skull!
“How about we make the next right and then turn around, hun?”
I should have said: Don’t you have at least one fucking talent in that barren brain of yours besides memorizing reality tv show plots and dreaming about babies, you whore?
If only I could catch her cheating on me. If only she’d cheat on me.
“Oh, I’m going to make it!”
“Nice move, sweetie.”
Yeah, nice move, let’s all buy party hats and party streamers because you finally did something right. I can see this coming up when Jen calls, your awesome fucking move into the right lane in the middle of crazy, crazy afternoon traffic, and I’ll just have to choke down the orange juice and try not to throw the glass at you.
Or poke a hole in the condom then run off to Canada.
”Jen has a nice ass.” I said it, I actually said it!
“What’s that? What?”
“I said, ‘Jemma Ice Grass.’ I was just reading a sign.”
“I can’t hear you, can you get the music down?”
“Yeah, we’ll have to order soon anyway.” Yeah, order soon. Some more fries is exactly what you need. It’s either you order the goddamn fries and complain to me for five fucking hours about how much oil there was and how they were just empty calories, or I have to pep-talk you into getting a salad and then deal with you being hungry all night. How bout you just learn to throw up like a good little girl? Or better yet, remember how to do it.
“A sign.” But she’s not even paying attention – please, pedestrian, please pedestrian come out now, give them a reason to lock this bitch away.
“Do you think we’ll need gas?”
Do you think we’ll need gas, do you think we’ll need gas, do you think we’ll need gas, do you think we’ll need gas, do you think we’ll need gas.........
“No, I think we’re cool.”
“You’re kind of quiet today.”
We’re pulling up, let me get something so fucking big I can ignore her all meal, stay quiet. But then she’ll fucking want to talk about it, about why I’m so closed up, that’s what they advise in those magazines she reads, and then she’ll do that tooth thing, and it’ll end up with me lying and say it looks like she lost weight, oh you look so fucking good. You don’t want me to tell you what I really think about your little Jesus and your little cross, either, or about your mother still thinking she could attract a blind pirate who had been locked in a cellar for twenty years, or how short your dad is. By what I’m feeling, you mean what I can say to appease your expectations of life. Or maybe I can get chili and then fake food poisoning, hole myself in the bathroom. Sleep on the bathroom rug.
We’re moving up, so chili it is? Moving up.
And.......
“My cell, wait a sec.” She turns the volume down with inhuman speed. She’s not going to answer it, is she? We’re driving up to the drive-thru. She is! She fucking is! And the ordering screen is right here! Holy fuck!
“Hello? Oh, hi dad.” Perfect. Now she can pretend some more like she’s the daughter he actually wanted. And he can pretend that he’s proud of her. What’s that? Didn’t get into Dartmouth five years ago, you dumb bitch? And they had to act surprised.
“No, I’m just driving. We’re just setting off for the park to meet you guys…” But I can’t listen to her anymore! Not one more little laugh!
And we’re at the fucking order screen! What the fuck are you doing? Why couldn’t he leave a goddamn Jesus-ass-banged message, and why couldn’t you just drive up and order without a fucking phone like a normal person? People leave each other messages. We can pull over after we get our food. You could call him back in five minutes. Oh God, two cars are pulling up behind us.
“Honey, could....”
“SH!” she hisses at me, her eyes blaze up, she does the tooth thing, “Dad, no, I think we’ll be there at about six.” Oh, bitch, I’ll...
“But honey, don’t you think that we could....”
“Hello, welcome to Wendy’s, can I please take your order?”
Fuck!
“....but dad, I know exactly what you’re saying, it’s just that....”
“One large chili!” I shout. She glares back at me, but can’t fucking say anything, her dad’s talking. Then she looks forward and laughs a little more as if we’re not even sitting at the head of a drive-thru line.
“Hello? Sir? Can I take your order? Sir?”
She panics a full panic though she still laughs a little for her father, she rips forward, we’re against the seats, skidding past the ordering window, and we bump the front right tire against the sidewalk. The car stops.
“Yeah, I think we’ll be there at about six.”
I’m in a prison, I’m in a fucking prison. A prison, and it’s all just words, even when we get there, and even after and after that. I’m alone and it’s just these words and mine sicken me far more than hers. And I still don’t say a word but I promise myself I will, some day.
“Sure, dad. No, we’re just in a parking lot.”
“Honey, how about Wendy’s?”
“Wendy’s sounds good,” I say. She looks at me with this smile, like, I’m glad you like my idea, I came up with it all by myself. I smile back, like, yeah, I did like your idea. Really fucking brilliant. You know I hate McDonald’s, bitch. It’s just, of course she doesn’t notice that second part.
“I really like their salads,” I add.
What I’m thinking is that while she’s looking over at me, smiling, maybe we’ll slam into another car. She’s not the best at multi-tasking, no matter what she’s read in her Cosmo. I’ve read that when you slam into another car, those who can go limp have the greatest chance of survival. She couldn’t go limp worth shit. She’d get that tight face and do that tooth and lip thing she gets when she’s stressed, or having a fat day, or having a talk with me, and she’d fucking fly through the windshield like a wrench. I’d go limper than a piece of uncooked bacon and flop around, dashboard, seat, dashboard, seat, all loose as she’s skidding to pieces on the sidewalk. Limp like I was last night. Take that, cock-monger.
Yeah, the worst I’d get is a face full of broken nose and tooth-bits. But they have surgery for that kind of shit. And I could probably take a month (or two) off work from the trauma, and her parents would buy me a new nose, and they’d bring me movies and beer and think I’m not crying for their daughter out of shock. And I’d get shining new teeth and could go back to sleeping past noon.
She’s humming again. A fucking country piece of shit song, you can hear the hick-god-fearin’ twang even in her whistling, and she can sing it with a goddamn straight face, her eyes all sparkling. She’s trying to get into the right lane. We need to turn in. She’s showing about as much coordination as she does in bed, white arms that thicken up by the day, all flapping around, and such a look of concentration on that little face, like she’s such a little hero. She actually looks like a stunned hamster. What’s the matter, hard when I’m not fucking doing everything?
“People are all driving so fast today,” she says. And her brows are all knit up!
“Yeah, they are, hun. Be careful getting over.” Be careful, all right. Maybe I should take the wheel and swing us right off the road, into that thick pole by the strip mall. Her bright bright blue eyes would fly right away like her country-luvin’-soul wants to and splat all over the Starbucks she loves with all her heart. Maybe they have an Italian word for ‘bloody glass.’ Or a hot pink body bag (she’s wearing pink shoes). Shake up her little Starbucks, that’s right, that’s right. Then she really would have given me her heart har de fucking har. And I get my new teeth.
“Could you please move your head back a little? I can’t see the right lane.”
Yeah I’ll move my head back. All the way out of the fucking apartment, and all the way out of your miserable life.
“Don’t take this right, the next one will be easier,” I say supportively. If only she could feel the acid.
“I’m not even going to make this right.” Damn straight you’re not going to make this right. Maybe if you had paid a little less attention to your little love song you might have noticed that there was a car in your blind spot. Or that I fucking hate you.
“You still have time,” I say, cheerfully. And you might actually think I’d said that cheerfully, too.
Time. You have time, all right. How about you make some time to pull over nice and quiet, and stop making such a scene, God, your world caves in when Jamba Juice is out of fucking Vita-Soy Booster. Or better yet, how about you find the time to pull over right here, I’ll have you give me some nice fucking head right here in the parking lot. Don’t make me do this you’ll say don’t make me do this you won’t make me do this if you love me. And what’ll you do if I say if you fucking love me you’ll do this for me, because our hearts can only understand each other, because my heart can hear the beating of yours, what do you have to say to that? No country song about that yet, so then what’ll you do? Maybe you could make one up when I’m taking you up your skull!
“How about we make the next right and then turn around, hun?”
I should have said: Don’t you have at least one fucking talent in that barren brain of yours besides memorizing reality tv show plots and dreaming about babies, you whore?
If only I could catch her cheating on me. If only she’d cheat on me.
“Oh, I’m going to make it!”
“Nice move, sweetie.”
Yeah, nice move, let’s all buy party hats and party streamers because you finally did something right. I can see this coming up when Jen calls, your awesome fucking move into the right lane in the middle of crazy, crazy afternoon traffic, and I’ll just have to choke down the orange juice and try not to throw the glass at you.
Or poke a hole in the condom then run off to Canada.
”Jen has a nice ass.” I said it, I actually said it!
“What’s that? What?”
“I said, ‘Jemma Ice Grass.’ I was just reading a sign.”
“I can’t hear you, can you get the music down?”
“Yeah, we’ll have to order soon anyway.” Yeah, order soon. Some more fries is exactly what you need. It’s either you order the goddamn fries and complain to me for five fucking hours about how much oil there was and how they were just empty calories, or I have to pep-talk you into getting a salad and then deal with you being hungry all night. How bout you just learn to throw up like a good little girl? Or better yet, remember how to do it.
“A sign.” But she’s not even paying attention – please, pedestrian, please pedestrian come out now, give them a reason to lock this bitch away.
“Do you think we’ll need gas?”
Do you think we’ll need gas, do you think we’ll need gas, do you think we’ll need gas, do you think we’ll need gas, do you think we’ll need gas.........
“No, I think we’re cool.”
“You’re kind of quiet today.”
We’re pulling up, let me get something so fucking big I can ignore her all meal, stay quiet. But then she’ll fucking want to talk about it, about why I’m so closed up, that’s what they advise in those magazines she reads, and then she’ll do that tooth thing, and it’ll end up with me lying and say it looks like she lost weight, oh you look so fucking good. You don’t want me to tell you what I really think about your little Jesus and your little cross, either, or about your mother still thinking she could attract a blind pirate who had been locked in a cellar for twenty years, or how short your dad is. By what I’m feeling, you mean what I can say to appease your expectations of life. Or maybe I can get chili and then fake food poisoning, hole myself in the bathroom. Sleep on the bathroom rug.
We’re moving up, so chili it is? Moving up.
And.......
“My cell, wait a sec.” She turns the volume down with inhuman speed. She’s not going to answer it, is she? We’re driving up to the drive-thru. She is! She fucking is! And the ordering screen is right here! Holy fuck!
“Hello? Oh, hi dad.” Perfect. Now she can pretend some more like she’s the daughter he actually wanted. And he can pretend that he’s proud of her. What’s that? Didn’t get into Dartmouth five years ago, you dumb bitch? And they had to act surprised.
“No, I’m just driving. We’re just setting off for the park to meet you guys…” But I can’t listen to her anymore! Not one more little laugh!
And we’re at the fucking order screen! What the fuck are you doing? Why couldn’t he leave a goddamn Jesus-ass-banged message, and why couldn’t you just drive up and order without a fucking phone like a normal person? People leave each other messages. We can pull over after we get our food. You could call him back in five minutes. Oh God, two cars are pulling up behind us.
“Honey, could....”
“SH!” she hisses at me, her eyes blaze up, she does the tooth thing, “Dad, no, I think we’ll be there at about six.” Oh, bitch, I’ll...
“But honey, don’t you think that we could....”
“Hello, welcome to Wendy’s, can I please take your order?”
Fuck!
“....but dad, I know exactly what you’re saying, it’s just that....”
“One large chili!” I shout. She glares back at me, but can’t fucking say anything, her dad’s talking. Then she looks forward and laughs a little more as if we’re not even sitting at the head of a drive-thru line.
“Hello? Sir? Can I take your order? Sir?”
She panics a full panic though she still laughs a little for her father, she rips forward, we’re against the seats, skidding past the ordering window, and we bump the front right tire against the sidewalk. The car stops.
“Yeah, I think we’ll be there at about six.”
I’m in a prison, I’m in a fucking prison. A prison, and it’s all just words, even when we get there, and even after and after that. I’m alone and it’s just these words and mine sicken me far more than hers. And I still don’t say a word but I promise myself I will, some day.
“Sure, dad. No, we’re just in a parking lot.”
About the Author
