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Authors: Marti Leimbach
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okay. You can’t take someone’s fucking keys!” He spoke angrily, as though she’d done just that, taken a whole ring of keys off an innocent bystander. “Only a pussy takes someone’s keys!” he shouted.
She tried to think of a way of distracting herself. She started counting in threes: three, six, nine, twelve…
“And not clothes, either—that’s personal! And not even money once it’s in someone’s pocket—
that
would be stealing. But loose money is like air. It’s for whoever happens along. Do I ask if it is okay to breathe the air near you? Do I say, ‘Barbara, mind if I have a little whiff of your air?’ Well,
do I
?”
Thirty-six, thirty-nine
. She opened her eyes to see the cars beside them becoming dangerously close as he teetered toward the next lane. She heard the sound of a car horn over the music and Craig’s bellowing voice.
“Come on! Answer me when I ask you a question, Barbara! Do I or do I
not
ask if it is okay to breathe the air near you?”
She hadn’t realized he expected an answer. “No,” she muttered.
Forty-two, forty-five…
“No, I fucking well don’t and why
should
I? Same with loose money.” He glanced at her from across the car, a low, sorrowful look as though he was concerned about her intellect. “You need to understand some things,” he said. He checked the road briefly, then whipped his head back to her once again. “Would you agree that you need to understand some things?”
“Yes,” she offered.
Fifty-one, fifty-four…
“Quite a few things?”
She nodded.
“Because you don’t know anything yet. Tell me one goddamn thing that you think you know.”
She had no idea what he was talking about, or why she had to answer, or how. “Fifty-one isn’t a prime number,” she said. “You’d think it would be. It sounds prime.”
He shook his head. “You’re completely insane. A total nutbucket,” he said.
“It’s true. If you had five and one together it’s six and therefore divisible by three,” she said.
He glared at her. “That’s the kind of stupid shit nobody cares about.”
“Three times seventeen.” She knew he didn’t care. That nobody cared. She was talking nonsense. She was scared to death.
“What is wrong with your brain that you are doing math in my car? You need to get your
shit
together, Barbara. You need to pay attention to the University of
Life
.”
She told herself if she got out of this car alive she would never get back in. This was the last night of the last day, the very last time she would ever see him. She didn’t care what it took to rid herself of him. Let him scream and shout. Let him tell her mother. It made no difference. She was done.
But she nodded in agreement that she needed to get her shit together—oh yes, oh yes, get her shit…
“Okay,” she said. “I agree.” Her admission satisfied Craig, who liked to seem sage and intelligent. He liked to teach her. He’d once explained why blood did not belong to one person but to everyone, and how if he were in charge of stuff, he’d stop blood-supply shortages by requiring hospitals to drain the blood of patients who died, but only a few minutes after they died so that it was still good, the blood. It wasn’t rotten or anything. Then there was the guy he worked with who was born without thumbs. Craig had explained that the worst thing about missing thumbs was how it made it so the guy couldn’t work a bong. And this was a shame because bongs gave you a better, cleaner, and more complete high. He was sure of this. He believed that one day science would find ways of measuring such things.
He veered onto an exit ramp, the motel sign a great beacon of light, then put the car in neutral as a way of saving fuel, a habit she never liked because traveling the slope of the road at high speed always made the car feel light and out of control. They rounded the curve of the exit, the car swerving and swooping along the contours of the road like an osprey
She tried to think of a way of distracting herself. She started counting in threes: three, six, nine, twelve…
“And not clothes, either—that’s personal! And not even money once it’s in someone’s pocket—
that
would be stealing. But loose money is like air. It’s for whoever happens along. Do I ask if it is okay to breathe the air near you? Do I say, ‘Barbara, mind if I have a little whiff of your air?’ Well,
do I
?”
Thirty-six, thirty-nine
. She opened her eyes to see the cars beside them becoming dangerously close as he teetered toward the next lane. She heard the sound of a car horn over the music and Craig’s bellowing voice.
“Come on! Answer me when I ask you a question, Barbara! Do I or do I
not
ask if it is okay to breathe the air near you?”
She hadn’t realized he expected an answer. “No,” she muttered.
Forty-two, forty-five…
“No, I fucking well don’t and why
should
I? Same with loose money.” He glanced at her from across the car, a low, sorrowful look as though he was concerned about her intellect. “You need to understand some things,” he said. He checked the road briefly, then whipped his head back to her once again. “Would you agree that you need to understand some things?”
“Yes,” she offered.
Fifty-one, fifty-four…
“Quite a few things?”
She nodded.
“Because you don’t know anything yet. Tell me one goddamn thing that you think you know.”
She had no idea what he was talking about, or why she had to answer, or how. “Fifty-one isn’t a prime number,” she said. “You’d think it would be. It sounds prime.”
He shook his head. “You’re completely insane. A total nutbucket,” he said.
“It’s true. If you had five and one together it’s six and therefore divisible by three,” she said.
He glared at her. “That’s the kind of stupid shit nobody cares about.”
“Three times seventeen.” She knew he didn’t care. That nobody cared. She was talking nonsense. She was scared to death.
“What is wrong with your brain that you are doing math in my car? You need to get your
shit
together, Barbara. You need to pay attention to the University of
Life
.”
She told herself if she got out of this car alive she would never get back in. This was the last night of the last day, the very last time she would ever see him. She didn’t care what it took to rid herself of him. Let him scream and shout. Let him tell her mother. It made no difference. She was done.
But she nodded in agreement that she needed to get her shit together—oh yes, oh yes, get her shit…
“Okay,” she said. “I agree.” Her admission satisfied Craig, who liked to seem sage and intelligent. He liked to teach her. He’d once explained why blood did not belong to one person but to everyone, and how if he were in charge of stuff, he’d stop blood-supply shortages by requiring hospitals to drain the blood of patients who died, but only a few minutes after they died so that it was still good, the blood. It wasn’t rotten or anything. Then there was the guy he worked with who was born without thumbs. Craig had explained that the worst thing about missing thumbs was how it made it so the guy couldn’t work a bong. And this was a shame because bongs gave you a better, cleaner, and more complete high. He was sure of this. He believed that one day science would find ways of measuring such things.
He veered onto an exit ramp, the motel sign a great beacon of light, then put the car in neutral as a way of saving fuel, a habit she never liked because traveling the slope of the road at high speed always made the car feel light and out of control. They rounded the curve of the exit, the car swerving and swooping along the contours of the road like an osprey
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