FICTION: Last gasp
Last gasp
by Josh Meeks
They’ve been putting out yard signs for more than 12 hours, and it’s just after midnight on a Thursday. Bud is driving, and Kerry is curled up in the passenger seat, trying to sleep.
“He’s the one, right?” Bud asks again.
Kerry moans. She tries to turn farther away from Bud’s non-stop chatter, but her seatbelt squeezes her stomach uncomfortably.
She turns back and curls her bare legs under her. Her shoes are on the floorboard.
Bud answers his own question. “Yes! Yes, he is. He has to be. He fits the model that works: he was a significant player with a major party before he went independent, he’s in a marginal district, and he has significant personal resources.”
Kerry opens one eye and watches him. His arms are strong, and he grips the steering wheel hard.
She wants to say something, but she remains silent. She wants to see if he sees her, first.
Bud is fighting to stay awake, and he drums on the dashboard while he sings. “I saw the bride in her wedding gown. I was in the house when the house burned down!”
He looks over and sees Kerry smiling. He reaches across and drums with one hand on her exposed thigh. She does not move or protest.
They’re driving North to San Antonio, where they will spend the night. Tomorrow they’ll walk blocks for a different candidate, in another legislative district.
Bud changes lanes without signaling.
“How can you sleep when all of this is happening? We are right in the middle of the evolution of Texas politics. It’s akin to Karl Rove helping the Republicans take over Texas.” Bud wants Kerry to play along, but she refuses to bite.
He grabs her hand and grins. “How will we make it?” he cries. “Where do we find the right way to go?”
“You’re getting loopy,” she says, smiling. She closes her eyes again. “Pay attention to the road.”
Bud looks over at her and fails, again, to see that the car’s low fuel light is illuminated.
He rolls down his window. “Wake up!” he howls into the night.
Kerry opens her eyes and sees how hard he is staring.
She bites the tip of her tongue playfully. “Are we almost to San Antonio?” she asks.
He reaches out and touches her thigh again, this time leaving his hand in place. “Yes,” he confirms, “we’re almost there.”
She stretches languidly, then she looks down at his hand, which is still resting on her skin.
She covers his hand with hers and watches his lap. She slides his hand up her leg a little more.
“Fuck!” he cries, grabbing the wheel just in time to swerve left, narrowly missing a car that is blindly merging into their lane from the on-ramp.
They veer across the middle lane, then partially enter the far-left lane. Brakes squeal and a car horn blares.
Bud overcorrects and the back ends starts to swing around.
“Jesus, Bud!” Kerry shouts, pushing her naked feet against the dash.
Bud lets off the gas and turns in the direction of the skid. The back end of the car slides far enough onto the shoulder to hear gravel under the tires. As Bud continues to hold the turn and breathe, the back end swings back toward the roadway before correcting itself with a violent shudder.
The left tires are still driving on the shoulder. When Bud looks over his shoulder to see if they can safely move back to the left, they hit something—a chunk of asphalt--and there is a loud clunk underneath.
“What the fuck?” Bud yells.
Kerry is motionless, except for her eyes, which alternate rapidly from Bud to the road ahead and back again.
With a slight adjustment, all four tires are returned to the roadway, and Bud is in control again, He signals his intention to work his way back to the right.
The car is damaged, but he’s not sure how. In his rearview mirror, he can see the driver behind gesturing wildly.
They carefully make their way back across all three lanes and pull off onto the shoulder. There is honking and more angry faces in the windows that pass as Bud and Kerry’s car continues to lose steam and rolls to a stop.
Bud takes a deep breath. He looks at Kerry, who is removing her feet from the dash. The veins in her pale white feet are bulging.
Bud leaves the car running while he gets out to inspect the damage. Kerry stays behind and closes her eyes again. Her heart is racing.
“The tire’s in bad shape, but it’s not destroyed,” Bud reports when he returns. “Let’s drive slowly on the shoulder to get off this road, then go from there.”
Kerry refuses to open her eyes.
Bud puts the car in gear and slowly rolls forward on the shoulder. Cars speed by in a blur on their left. He can see the next exit not too far ahead.
Two hundred yards from the exit, their car begins to sputter.
Kerry’s eyes open wide. “What’s that?”
Bud doesn’t answer. For the first time he notices that the gas light is on.
“Oh my God, what a night,” Kerry moans. She looks around in a panic, as if the answer to her questions might be at-hand or nearby.
The car fights on a few feet further, lurching and stuttering before it stalls. Bud clutches the wheel and shakes it, as if he can coerce the car to go a few feet more.
“Fuck,” he sighs resignedly, as they finally roll to a stop.
Kerry takes a deep breath, and curls up in her seat. Her back faces Bud.
He watches her for a moment, before making up his mind. He looks back over his shoulder to see if it’s safe to exit the car.
“My granddad used to say, ‘The first step forward is a good start.’” Bud opens his door and steps out onto the shoulder, slamming the door shut behind him. His window is still down.
“I’m just going to wait here,” she calls from the passenger seat. The traffic is loud, and he can barely hear her as he walks away.
Bud turns and walks backward as he shouts his response, “You don’t want to stay here; I promise! Let’s keep moving!”
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