up its leafy fronds. She could throw the door open and tear down the road. But she couldn’t, and she knew it. She felt her blouse wet down the length of her back, and a headache blooming between her eyes, and the pain in her face, right in the middle of her face, was like a target. She thought of all the times she’d found herself saying,
I want to kill myself
, found herself recently saying exactly these words, and she hadn’t known why. But this had been why.
“Barbara,” he said, drawing out her name. “I want that pipe.”
She knelt on the mat of carpet in front of the seat, keeping her eyes on him as she did so. The floor mats were full of grit and twigs and dust. There was no air that wasn’t tainted with a bitter dampness, with spilled bong water, stale beer, soured milk, puke. She didn’t care. She scrambled on the floor in the dark. It was time to find the pipe, find it now. She groped around on the floor, her hands moving across the carpet like little windup toys, jerky and erratic. She squeezed her hands into fists and then released them again, trying to steady herself.
She worried maybe there was a time limit for finding the pipe, like he had her on a timer and she’d taken too long already. She was in trouble. She felt it deeply, as though she’d already heard a
ding!
But then—thank holy Jesus—her palm moved over a bump in the carpet. It was the bowl, like a little marble of gold, and for the first time in what felt like a long while she let out her breath.
“Don’t get angry,” she said, bringing the pipe up to him.
“I ask you a question! A simple question, like ‘What is in your pocket?,’ and you give me all this shit, then tell
me
not to get angry!” He was exploding; he was orbital. But there was her friend, the clock on his dashboard, moving toward midnight when he had to be at the radio station, sitting in the big swivel chair in the center of the studio. Midnight to five a.m., he was on the air. He didn’t have much time to go crazy. His crazy time was confined as she was confined.
“What do I have to do to get a straight answer out of you, Barbara?”
She rubbed the pipe clean, tried to get him to take it from her, but he acted like he didn’t want it now. She pressed it toward him and he pushed it away. Finally she gave up, placing the pipe on the seat between them.
“If I ask you a question, answer the question.”
“Okay,” she said, patting the air. “No reason to get us killed.”
She regretted saying this. Right away, she regretted it. His anger ignited freshly, and she felt his grip as he grabbed the top of her belt, hauling her up like a bucket, then tunneling his hand deep into her pocket for the money before shoving her back onto the seat again. She felt a scrape on her hip from his wristwatch. She felt her pocket empty of its treasure.
Now he turned on the light. She stayed as he had dropped her, curled like a shrimp, her limbs pulled toward her center. She watched his face unfasten its anger, then bloom with surprise, even wonder. For a moment it was like seeing a boy with a magnifying glass examining the complicated wings of a flying insect, enthralled and amazed, as though he could not believe his luck to live on this earth with such a thing as he held in his hand.
“What the hell?” He leafed through the fifties. Taking one, he flipped it over and back again, holding it up to the yellow bulb in the car’s roof. “Jesus,” he said, inhaling carefully, counting the bills in time with his breath. He turned them over, counted them again. For a long minute, he stared at the money, as though searching for a message in the stout face of Ulysses S. Grant. In a low, serious voice, he said, “Where did you get this?”
She couldn’t speak.
“It is a simple question.”
She heard her words—silly, girlish—as she tried to explain that she hadn’t been looking for anything, certainly not for money, and how the bills were dusty and had clearly been
I want to kill myself
, found herself recently saying exactly these words, and she hadn’t known why. But this had been why.
“Barbara,” he said, drawing out her name. “I want that pipe.”
She knelt on the mat of carpet in front of the seat, keeping her eyes on him as she did so. The floor mats were full of grit and twigs and dust. There was no air that wasn’t tainted with a bitter dampness, with spilled bong water, stale beer, soured milk, puke. She didn’t care. She scrambled on the floor in the dark. It was time to find the pipe, find it now. She groped around on the floor, her hands moving across the carpet like little windup toys, jerky and erratic. She squeezed her hands into fists and then released them again, trying to steady herself.
She worried maybe there was a time limit for finding the pipe, like he had her on a timer and she’d taken too long already. She was in trouble. She felt it deeply, as though she’d already heard a
ding!
But then—thank holy Jesus—her palm moved over a bump in the carpet. It was the bowl, like a little marble of gold, and for the first time in what felt like a long while she let out her breath.
“Don’t get angry,” she said, bringing the pipe up to him.
“I ask you a question! A simple question, like ‘What is in your pocket?,’ and you give me all this shit, then tell
me
not to get angry!” He was exploding; he was orbital. But there was her friend, the clock on his dashboard, moving toward midnight when he had to be at the radio station, sitting in the big swivel chair in the center of the studio. Midnight to five a.m., he was on the air. He didn’t have much time to go crazy. His crazy time was confined as she was confined.
“What do I have to do to get a straight answer out of you, Barbara?”
She rubbed the pipe clean, tried to get him to take it from her, but he acted like he didn’t want it now. She pressed it toward him and he pushed it away. Finally she gave up, placing the pipe on the seat between them.
“If I ask you a question, answer the question.”
“Okay,” she said, patting the air. “No reason to get us killed.”
She regretted saying this. Right away, she regretted it. His anger ignited freshly, and she felt his grip as he grabbed the top of her belt, hauling her up like a bucket, then tunneling his hand deep into her pocket for the money before shoving her back onto the seat again. She felt a scrape on her hip from his wristwatch. She felt her pocket empty of its treasure.
Now he turned on the light. She stayed as he had dropped her, curled like a shrimp, her limbs pulled toward her center. She watched his face unfasten its anger, then bloom with surprise, even wonder. For a moment it was like seeing a boy with a magnifying glass examining the complicated wings of a flying insect, enthralled and amazed, as though he could not believe his luck to live on this earth with such a thing as he held in his hand.
“What the hell?” He leafed through the fifties. Taking one, he flipped it over and back again, holding it up to the yellow bulb in the car’s roof. “Jesus,” he said, inhaling carefully, counting the bills in time with his breath. He turned them over, counted them again. For a long minute, he stared at the money, as though searching for a message in the stout face of Ulysses S. Grant. In a low, serious voice, he said, “Where did you get this?”
She couldn’t speak.
“It is a simple question.”
She heard her words—silly, girlish—as she tried to explain that she hadn’t been looking for anything, certainly not for money, and how the bills were dusty and had clearly been
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