Read Online Some Are Sicker Than Others by Andrew Seaward - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Seaward
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everyone in his heat a hundred yards behind. If he couldn’t have that, he had to have something—he had to have something to replace that feeling. Those pain pills the doctor gave him weren’t worth a damn. They were about as strong as Larry’s cough medicine. One measly bottle wouldn’t even get him through an entire day. But a few hits off that pipe—shit, that was all he needed. The only problem was getting it. It was quite a hike.
He adjusted his blue gym bag higher up on his shoulder then stepped down from the patio and stumbled across the front lawn. His little blue Volkswagen was parked out in the driveway, the back and rear windshields frosted with a thick layer of ice. Oh great, just what he needed. It was gonna take at least ten minutes to scrape off all this ice. Maybe he could just do the front driver side windshield. There wasn’t enough time to do both sides and the back.
He went to the trunk and pulled out the ice scraper then brought it back with him to the front of the car. As he came around the side, he noticed that the passenger side mirror was missing—in fact, it looked like it had been completely knocked off. What the hell? He crouched next to the tire for a closer inspection and noticed that the mirror wasn’t the only thing that was all messed up. The headlight was cracked, the front bumper was crumpled, and there were etchings of what looked like red paint all along the passenger side door.
He froze for a moment, staring at the damage, trying to remember what in the hell happened. But he couldn’t think, he couldn’t remember, everything from last night was all fragmented—a disjointed series of snapshots and voices, a blur of lights, colors, and music. He remembered going to Cosmo’s to pick up the pizza, but that was early in the day, like around one-thirty. What about after that? And what about Larry? Did he even pick the kid up from his Morningstar program? He must have, because Cheryl couldn’t have done it. She was up at the courthouse all day preparing for cases. Then what the hell happened? Did he hit something? Did he run something over?
He cursed to himself as he stood up from where he was crouching then looked up at the house then back at the car. He’d better get the hell out of here before Cheryl saw all this damage. He’d never hear the end of it, especially if she found out he didn’t even remember how it happened. But, what was he gonna do? How was he gonna fix it? How was he gonna find time to take it to a mechanic?
He bent back down and picked up the scraper, then rapidly chipped away the ice from the rest of the windshield. When he was finished, he opened the door and tossed in the scraper then picked up his gym bag and threw it on the passenger seat. He hopped in the car and turned over the ignition then threw it in reverse and sailed down the driveway.
Twenty minutes later, he was off the interstate heading west down Colfax towards Aurora, or as the natives liked to call it, Saudi-Aurora. It got its nickname on account of the fact it was all the way out in the boonies, about fifteen miles east of Denver, somewhere between the beltway and I-70. Because of its remote location, it was a city that seemed to have been forgotten, as if time and technology had gone on without it. In fact, every time Dave came here, he felt like he was going through some kind of time portal. The place looked like it was straight out of 1950. The buildings were all old, dirty, and dilapidated, and some even still had that retro 1950’s architecture; diners that looked like space ships had landed on top of them with bright, neon Welcome signs written in cursive…bowling alleys with pins the size of Volkswagens sitting on top of their wing-tipped entries. There was even an old drive-in somewhere around Havana. It wasn’t showing pictures, but it still had the original supporting structure that held up the movie screen. It was kind of neat, if you liked going backwards.
He adjusted his blue gym bag higher up on his shoulder then stepped down from the patio and stumbled across the front lawn. His little blue Volkswagen was parked out in the driveway, the back and rear windshields frosted with a thick layer of ice. Oh great, just what he needed. It was gonna take at least ten minutes to scrape off all this ice. Maybe he could just do the front driver side windshield. There wasn’t enough time to do both sides and the back.
He went to the trunk and pulled out the ice scraper then brought it back with him to the front of the car. As he came around the side, he noticed that the passenger side mirror was missing—in fact, it looked like it had been completely knocked off. What the hell? He crouched next to the tire for a closer inspection and noticed that the mirror wasn’t the only thing that was all messed up. The headlight was cracked, the front bumper was crumpled, and there were etchings of what looked like red paint all along the passenger side door.
He froze for a moment, staring at the damage, trying to remember what in the hell happened. But he couldn’t think, he couldn’t remember, everything from last night was all fragmented—a disjointed series of snapshots and voices, a blur of lights, colors, and music. He remembered going to Cosmo’s to pick up the pizza, but that was early in the day, like around one-thirty. What about after that? And what about Larry? Did he even pick the kid up from his Morningstar program? He must have, because Cheryl couldn’t have done it. She was up at the courthouse all day preparing for cases. Then what the hell happened? Did he hit something? Did he run something over?
He cursed to himself as he stood up from where he was crouching then looked up at the house then back at the car. He’d better get the hell out of here before Cheryl saw all this damage. He’d never hear the end of it, especially if she found out he didn’t even remember how it happened. But, what was he gonna do? How was he gonna fix it? How was he gonna find time to take it to a mechanic?
He bent back down and picked up the scraper, then rapidly chipped away the ice from the rest of the windshield. When he was finished, he opened the door and tossed in the scraper then picked up his gym bag and threw it on the passenger seat. He hopped in the car and turned over the ignition then threw it in reverse and sailed down the driveway.
Twenty minutes later, he was off the interstate heading west down Colfax towards Aurora, or as the natives liked to call it, Saudi-Aurora. It got its nickname on account of the fact it was all the way out in the boonies, about fifteen miles east of Denver, somewhere between the beltway and I-70. Because of its remote location, it was a city that seemed to have been forgotten, as if time and technology had gone on without it. In fact, every time Dave came here, he felt like he was going through some kind of time portal. The place looked like it was straight out of 1950. The buildings were all old, dirty, and dilapidated, and some even still had that retro 1950’s architecture; diners that looked like space ships had landed on top of them with bright, neon Welcome signs written in cursive…bowling alleys with pins the size of Volkswagens sitting on top of their wing-tipped entries. There was even an old drive-in somewhere around Havana. It wasn’t showing pictures, but it still had the original supporting structure that held up the movie screen. It was kind of neat, if you liked going backwards.
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