“’Kay,” Megan said, bring Carla’s dirty Datsun to a gear grinding halt. “Where do we walk?”
“Just up the street a little, until we find another car. Then drive that until we can find a shopping center or something and trade off again.”
“Oooh,” Megan breathed as she killed the engine. “All secret and spy-ish and stuff. Groovy.”
Jon climbed out of the Datsun, carrying his little nylon travel bag—a few changes of clothes and fresh underwear, deodorant, toothpaste, the few supplies he had so far cobbled together in his attempt to cook up some of the recipes in the magic book and, of course, the book itself—slung over one shoulder, the briefcase in his hand. Megan was traveling equally light, with nothing but a bulky macramé purse and worn denim duffle that, presumably, contained what clothing, underthings, and essential girl stuff she had deemed critical for their flight across the country.
Megan snorted as she slammed the driver’s side door with a painful metallic groan. “Oh, yeah. We don’t look suspicious at all. Two kids walking down the street with their duffle bags, and you with your honkin’ black briefcase. Very subtle. We’ll blend in wherever we go.”
Jon nodded. “You do have a point. Whatever our next car is going to be, we need to find it quick.”
A block up the street, they spotted a blue 1978 Corvette T-Top. Megan’s eyes lit up. “Sweet!” she breathed. “Oh, I would love—but, that’s too conspicuous, isn’t it? We need to be, um, more anonymous. More boring.” She sighed.
“We’re going to trade off in a little while anyway,” Jon shrugged. He wasn’t going to be the stick-in-the-mud during this little adventure. “Why not?”
She threw her arms around him from the side, and the sensation of her breasts enveloping his shoulder through the fabric of her white cotton tank top was delicious. Almost perfect. And then she planted a wet kiss on his cheek, her lips just grazing his ear as she pulled away. “You rock, Jon,” she said, and then walked around to the driver’s side of the gleaming pearlescent blue T-Top. She smiled broadly at him, cocking her head and raising her eyebrows. “I think I’m in love.” She looked at him knowingly. “With this car!” She sighed dramatically. “Too bad it’s going to be a one night stand.”
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Jon muttered, mostly because he couldn’t come up with a better rejoinder on the spot. “You’ll need this.” He rummaged around in his pocket, found the smooth, silvery key that was supposed to open anything, and tossed it to Megan. “Open the door and get in.”
“Yeah, baby,” she said, catching the key and bringing it to the door in one deft movement. She opened the door and slid inside, tossing her beat-up denim bag and macramé purse in the back. Reaching over and unlocking the passenger side, she motioned for Jon to get in.
“Can I use this to start it, too?” she asked.
“You know, I’m not sure,” he said, stowing the briefcase in the very cramped back seat. “I guess. But I have a magic ballpoint pen that’s supposed to start anything . . .”
The engine roared to life, thrumming and revving with such force the seats vibrated. The deep, explosive noise of the Corvette’s engine made Jon’s teeth tingle. Now, that was power.
Megan smiled broadly. “Oh. My. God. This is so fucking awesome. Oh, I could get used to this. I could get very used to this. Definitely.”
She popped the clutch, put it in first, and hit the accelerator, lurching forward so quickly she almost winged the fire engine red Ford pickup two houses up, only swerving enough to avoid it at the very last minute.
“Yikes!” Jon yelped. “Careful! Getting in a wreck before we even get out of here—”
“Would suck, yeah,” Megan agreed, and stepped on the accelerator, zooming down the narrow street at easily 30 miles above the speed limit. The throb of the engine shook his seat, and pounded its way up from where his feet touched the floorboard up through his spine.
“Um, stop sign—uh, stop sign—“ Jon stammered, motioning urgently and the rapidly approaching intersection. Megan hit the breaks and the Corvette came to a rapid stop with a high-pitched squeal of rubber being dragged violently across the pavement. That’s gonna leave a mark, Jon thought.
Megan looked over at him, face flushed, and cocked and eyebrow. “This,” she said decisively. “This is a car. I can feel the engine in my rib cage. In the solar plexus.” She exhaled dramatically. “It sends a tingle up my leg. A lot of tingles, actually. We may need to find a hotel room early.” She raised and lowered her eyebrows twice, then turned to face the front, and, with an explosive detonation of V8 horsepower, launched the gleaming blue missile out into traffic.
Jon blinked. Was she suggesting what she thought she was suggesting? Was that playful banter, sly innuendo, or just a naked come on? And would it really matter, if she was going to get them both killed in some terrible traffic accident? In the briefcase in back, there was the little silver can of NANOCOAT AEROSOL. It was supposed to do things like make things bulletproof—maybe it would make a Corvette horrible-twisted-burning-wreckage-because-Megan-drove-like-a-lunatic-proof. Not that he could spray it on the car now, as it careened down the street going seventy miles-an-hour in a forty mile-an-hour zone.
“Whoops,” Megan mumbled, and made a turn so sharp that, even safely seat-belted up, threw Jon against the door. “I-40 to I-75. Don’t want to miss that. Figured we’d take I-75 up through Kentucky to get to St. Louis. Then it’ll be I-70 to Highway 27, and then Highway and State Roads up past Cedar Rapids.”
Jon nodded. “Um, that sounds good. Do you think you could slow down?”
“In a minute,” she said, smiling, but didn’t seem particularly committed to the idea.
However, as they merged onto I-40 East to I-75, the speed limit finally caught up with her. She was still going ten miles above the speed limit, but 80 miles per hour on the Interstate was a lot different than 70 miles per hour on narrow residential roads.
Megan turned on the radio, spinning the dial until she found WIMZ, Rock 104—103.5 on Your Radio Dial. All the hits. The song they were playing at the moment was, appropriately, “Maniac”, by Michael Sembello.
“Hey,” Jon said lightly, hands gripping his seat with a white-knuckled grip. “It’s a song about you.”
Instead of laughing, Megan nodded solemnly. “You have no idea.” She punched the lighter in on the dashboard. “Cigarette?”
“Uh, no thank you,” Jon replied. “Um—”
Megan laughed. “Not for you, smokestack. For me. A car this cool to drive demands a smoke. Dig around in my purse and get me one. Oops, there’s the ramp to I-75.”
With a tremendous lurch, Megan blithely piloted the Corvette across three lanes of traffic—barely missing some black-and-yellow 18-wheeled behemoth as it spewed black smoke and its horn blared—and sailed down the ramp onto I-75. “Winnipeg, here we come,” she said. “Where’s my cigarette? If you can’t drive, you’ve gotta do something.”
“When you can promise me you will be driving at a reasonable speed and not taking any more unexpected 90 degree turns, I will get you a cigarette.”
The lighter popped out with a click. Turkey’s done, Jon’s mind whispered to him softly. Come and get it.
Megan put her hand over the lighter, grasping it tightly and giving Jon a meaningful look. “The time is now, tiger. Get me my cigarette. I promise not to go into a tailspin or jackknife the car until after your done.”
Jon sighed, unbuckling his seatbelt and fishing Megan’s purse of the backseat. He passed her the pack of Marlboro lights, and she expertly liberated one with one hand while continuing to use the other to weave in and out of traffic. She popped it in her mouth, lit it, and took a deep drag, letting the smoke waft slowly out of her nose. She smiled a deep, dreamy smile, relaxing back into a silvery leather bucket seat that cupped her perfectly. She passed a few slowpokes in the middle lane, her hand working the stick shift with expert precision, and then glanced over at Jon.
She blew a puff of smoke at his face. “Staring is creepy, kid,” she scolded. “What? What is it?”
“I’m just observing the wild Megan in her natural habitat.” And that would be Out-of-Control Crazy-Town, the more buttoned-up, less-adventurous—well, if he was going to be completely honest, he’d have to call it the completely chicken-shit—part of his brain added.
“You know an awful lot about cars,” Jon said. And, yes, the car was definitely part of what he meant. The way she lounged lazily back in the driver’s seat while deftly pumping the clutch and shifting gears, she did seem just built for this. The deep, pulsating thrum of the engine, the easy speed with which they sailed past traffic, the low-riding suspension and the sleek curves—this car was Megan all over. But it was also the white cotton tank top, the hip-hugging faded Levi’s, the plume of blue smoke curling from her nostrils. All of it together was the wild Megan in her natural habit—or, maybe more accurately, the caged, beaten-down and domesticated Megan finally set free. And from Jon’s vantage point, it was a beautiful thing to behold.
“Nah, I kinda know the guy whose car this is. Well, Carla knew him better. Dated him for a few weeks last year. He showed it off to us. But he wouldn’t let me drive it. So sad about that, Jake.”
Jon cocked his head. “Um, you know this guy? I mean, this is the car of somebody you know?”
“Not, like, intimately or anything. Just some guy. He was very proud of his vehicle, though. Jake Dawson or something. Does it matter?”
No, it really didn’t. They would be swapping cars in a few hours anyway. And, right now, it might be worth a little risk for the chance to witness the rare wild Megan, prowling the countryside in her tricked-out ’78 T-Top Corvette.
Megan smiled at him—a very dark, sultry, almost predatory smile. Then she laughed, turned up the radio, and stepped on the accelerator.
Oak Ridge disappeared behind them. They talked—mostly Megan’s speculation about life in Canada, but she was so animated and enthusiastic about it Jon found her excitement contagious. They cranked the radio, finding a new rock station once the old one ran out. Jon was pleased to discover that they both loved Queen’s “Flash’s Theme”. As soon as came on—maybe an hour after the crossed from Tennessee to Kentucky—Megan cranked the volume all the way up.
“Oh, wow!” she exclaimed. “I love this song!” And he caught the look of genuine affection and—what, admiration?—that she gave him when he started belting out the lyrics with as much enthusiasm as she was.
“That was so awesome,” she gushed as soon as the song had faded into Olivia Newton-John advising them to go ahead and get physical, physical. She turned the radio down a notch, but looked at the radio with approval. “This is a good radio station.” Then she looked at him with something more than approval. “And you are just, like, the coolest guy ever. I think I knew it all along. But I didn’t know it know it, you know what I mean?”
“Sure,” Jon nodded. “I always knew you were crazy. But I didn’t know exactly how crazy, until about two days ago.”
She laughed. “No doubt.” Abruptly, she put removed her right hand from the gear shift and brought it down on Jon’s thigh. High on his thigh.
“’I've been patient, I've been true—‘, oops, I mean, ‘good’,” Megan half-sang along with the radio. “’Tried to keep my hands on the whatever—the table! It's gettin' hard—“ She put an unusual emphasis on the word “hard”, punctuated by a near-painful squeeze of his thigh. “’–this holdin' back, you know what I mean?’”
Jon felt a little giddy—was this impossibly wonderful, fire-headed goddess in a torn denim shirt and tight white tank-top coming on to him? Singing along to Olivia Newton-John while the bass-profundo of a ’78 Corvette pulsed up his spine? With her hand placed so meaningfully on his thigh it was underlined and highlighted?
“Um, shouldn’t you be, you know, driving?” Jon asked.
She just smiled, and kept singing. “’I'm sure you'll understand my point of view, we—we know each other mentally. You have to—‘ No, ‘you gotta know–that you're bringin' out the animal in me’,” and at that, she leaned over—the Corvette swerving uncomfortable over into the shoulder—and bit Jon’s arm.
“Ouch!” Jon yelped. “That actually hurt! You are crazy!”
She straightened up, laughing, and took her hand off Jon’s leg. “I never denied it,” she said. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“I hope you’re right,” Jon agreed as Megan did exactly what he had hoped she would do: crank the radio back up, and sing suggestively along to Olivia Newton-John with full throated fury, if sometimes garbling the lyrics. She had a good singing voice—maybe not quite up to Ms. Newton-John, but close. But the fact that it was Megan doing it, that they were zooming up the interstate in a stolen ’78 Corvette, and that tonight they would be stopping at a hotel and staying in a room together—it was all just intoxicating.
Yes, there were plenty of dangers doing what they were doing. Not the least of which was some man-eating aliens or carrot-shaped planet-eating doomsday devices showing up and destroying all of creation. But right there, right then, it all seemed entirely worth it.
Horomones, Jon’s brain thought, but the argument was losing persuasiveness.
Megan was right. He wasn’t sure exactly where they were picking up FM 98 from, but it was not just a good radio station; it was a great radio station. “Physical” was followed up by the Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me”, which wasn’t Jon’s favorite song but Megan clearly liked it, and sang along to the entire thing, glancing suggestively over at Jon and giving him a cocked eyebrow everytime the chorus came up. Then it was “I Love Rock N’ Roll”, by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, a song that Jon, Johnny Two, and Megan had often sung with wild abandon at the Pizza Hut down on Illinois Avenue, to the point where he was sure they were all going to get kicked out, though they never had been. This they both sang, Megan bobbing her head back and forth in a way that only she could make look so fluid, natural and perfect, while Jon played air guitar and drums, depending on what a given part of the song most required.
By the end of the song, Jon’s throat was sore. There was a brief commercial break, and then John Cougar began to regale them with the story of “Jack and Diane”, which seemed inexpressibly perfect to Jon. Even though it was, actually, very different in the details, it just felt like it was about Jon and Megan, exactly. Megan appeared to agree, more mouthing the words now than singing, but looking meaningfully at Jon when lyrics like “we oughtta run off to the city” and “two American kids doin’ the best they can” rolled past. The DJ barely interrupted with the call letters and the temperature, and then announced Paul Davis and his “’65 Love Affair”. Which was another song where the details had absolutely nothing to do with his life at all; he was, after all, born in 1968, and still in high school, and the closest thing he had ever had to a love affair was happening right now. At the same time, it was almost like the song had been written about Megan and him, and though he had liked it when they had played on the radio so much last year, it now had a resonance it had never had before. Somehow, it was about him. Him and Megan.
He wasn’t sure enough about the lyrics to sing along, and Megan apparently wasn’t, either. But when it got to the bridge, and the dozen or so repetitions of “do-wop-diddy, wop-diddy, wop-doo”, they both knew that well enough, and spontaneously started doo-wop-diddying until the end of the song. Next was “Kids in America”, by Kim Wilde—which Jon knew they both loved, but decided to just sit back and enjoy, rather than sing along with. Then two commercials, followed by “Edge of Seventeen” by Stevie Nicks, which Jon liked but Megan clearly loved, singing along with it at full volume, even though her voice was getting hoarse, and at some points he could swear she was getting misty eyed, and maybe even brushed away a tear.
Then FM 98 dipped way back into the grooveyard of forgotten favorites, pulling up Sweet from 1978—the same year as the Corvette they were driving, Jon thought, becoming a little uncomfortable with how freighted with meaning and connection everything was suddenly seeming to him—and “Love is Like Oxygen”. Like “Flash’s Theme”, this one was another pleasant surprise for Jon—Megan loved it as much if not more than he did, and he had never known. They both knew the lyrics, and were both hoarse by the end of the song.
Golden Earring started singing about the “Twilight Zone”—another disconcertingly appropriate song, it seemed to Jon—and though Megan continued to bob her head a way that only she could have made so perfectly liquid, rhythmic and hypnotic, neither of them tried to sing. They had been talking, laughing and singing so much, and so loudly, Jon’s throat literally hurt. Static polluted Thomas Dolby, who complained that some woman had Blinded Him with Science, and After the Fire performing “Der Kommissar” was worse, with the static blasting out whole chunks of the song. It got a little better with Mr. Roboto—Jon remained a devoted Styx fan, though this seemed to be the first song they played that Megan wasn’t really that into—and then it was just static.
“Damn,” Megan swore. “That has to be the best radio station I’ve ever listened to. Wish I could—I mean, I wish we could have picked it up, back in Oak Ridge.”
“I wish we could pick it up now,” Jon replied, his voice cracking. “That was fun. But my throat hurts.”
“Rest area ahead,” she said. “One mile. I really want something cold to drink. And I gotta pee something fierce.”
Jon nodded his assent, and they stopped. A cold Coke for Jon, a Tab for Megan, a few pleasing minutes spent wandering around the rest area, holding hands, then back to the car. Both Megan and Jon noticed two Kentucky State Police Cruisers parked at the end of the rest area’s car lot. Not unusual, as Sate Police frequented the rest areas, but still. As they buckled in and got back on the Interstate, Jon suggested they stop for lunch in a little while and then switch cars.
Megan sighed, stroking the steering wheel. “Goodbye, sweet ‘Vette with the bitchin’ sound system. I’ll miss you. I’ll never forget you. I promise.”
They stopped at a little place called The Gibson Bay Café in Richmond, Kentucky, and got burgers—Megan got hers with extra cheese and bacon—and two slices of the most incredible peanut butter pie by ever made. Megan ordered coffee, so Jon had to, too, even though he had really wanted cocoa. Still, it had come out with the pie, and had been piping hot, and after they were done drinking it, his throat felt ten times better. And his voice stopped cracking every time he spoke. Then they paid their bill in cash, and left.
Coming out into the parking lot, Megan looked up the hill at a parking lot in front of what must’ve been a lawyer’s office. “Is that—“ she asked haltingly. “Is that a DeLorean? Parked next to a Jag? Oh. My. God. I’m like a kid in a candy store!”
She ran up the hill separating the Gibson Café from the little office park—and, indeed, the sign out front read: Beckham, Carter and Pryce, Attorneys at Law. And it was a DeLorean, in all its stainless steel, gull-wing doored beauty. Parked next to gold 1968 Jaguar XKE E-Type—helpfully identified by Megan, as Jon didn’t have a clue. Apparently it wasn’t just some dude’s 1978 Corvette Megan knew a lot about. She knew her automobiles.
“Do you know what that car is?” Megan asked, pointing to a streamlined, canary yellow car that looked a lot like the DeLorean to Jon. She didn’t wait for him to answer, even though he was busy searching the car for some clue as to what the model was actually called. “That’s a Lotus Esprit S2. Probably 1980, 1981. That’s a pricey car. I mean, I prefer the Corvette, but if we have to switch up--?” She looked him hopefully.
“I was thinking something more like that,” Jon said, pointing to a plain vanilla white car a few spaces down—not a clunker, by any stretch of the imagination, but not quite so flashy or expensive, or easy to pick out of a crowd. He’d seen dozens of cars just like the white car at the end of the lot since they’d left. He hadn’t seen any stainless steel DeLoreans or golden Jags or canary yellow Lotuses or, for that matter, pearlescent blue Corvettes. One thing he had seen, and still remembered seeing very well, were two Kentucky State Police Cruisers parked at the rest area.
Megan sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Of course you’re right. So, a 1981 Dodge Aries K it is. Or is that an ’82? No, an ’81. One of Chrysler’s K-cars.” She sighed. “Looks like something my parents would buy, if they had any money. This is the sort of car Larry sits around and jerks off to, when he’s not watching his hermaphrodites and women having sex with dogs and horses—”
“Hey, um, thanks, but that’s more info than I really need about your personal life. That’s all in the past now, anyway, right?”
“You’re right,” she agreed. “Have to keep a stiff upper lip. Do what’s right. Despite the gorgeous sexy Lotus Esprit just sitting there for the taking. Or that DeLorean. Or the Jag. Well, shit. We’re burning daylight. Let’s go!”
They retrieved their luggage, Megan’s purse and the briefcase, and then hijacked the Dodge Aries the same way they had borrowed the Corvette, attracting no attention to themselves. Megan’s disappointment aside, it was actually a very nice car. It was an automatic, so Megan didn’t have to keep pumping the clutch and shifting, and the seats were actually more comfortable than the Corvette’s. The stereo sounded great, the ride was smooth, and it could go plenty fast. Megan didn’t look quite as home behind the wheel of the Aries as she had the Corvette, and he hated to be put in the position of taming the Wild Megan. But it was roomier and, in Jon’s opinion, a lot less conspicuous than the Corvette. If they got a little further—and Jon felt a little safer—maybe they could abscond with something more expensive, and more conspicuous. But not right now. They had just started this trip across the country, and they needed to be keeping as low a profile as possible.
He kept thinking of the two police cars parked at the rest area, and it bugged him.
Pulling back onto I-75, Megan pushed in the cigarette lighter, and turned on the radio. WLEX 98.1 out of Lexington was pumping out “Electric Avenue” by Eddy Grant. Megan nodded in approval, then pulled the pack of Marlboro Lights out of the front pocket of her ratty denim shirt, expertly flipping one out and placing it between her lips just as the cigarette lighter popped. She lit it, and smiled. “Not a Corvette. But it’ll do.”
She smiled at Jon, then blew him a kiss—a look of playfulness and—what? Lust? Seriously? Or was Jon just out his mind? But those smoky cinnamon eyes, lids heavy not with sleep but with desire, seemed entirely real to him. And entirely serious. Her ratty denim shirt was conspicuously pulled back to reveal more of her bare shoulders, and more of that thin white cotton tank-top that accentuated more than it concealed. The clothes, her posture, that half-smile as looked ahead to the road—it was all saying something very clear. I was wearing a bra I hadn’t worn since I was twelve, Megan had informed him just a few days ago. To, make ‘em, you know, really stick out. I bent over and stuck them in your face to get the popcorn. Hel-lo!
She turned her face back to the road, taking deep drag off her Marlboro and then doing that French-inhaling thing, where she blew the smoke out of her mouth and sucked it up her nose. For some reason, when Megan did it, it was exactly as exotic and arousing as it was supposed to be but usually wasn’t. She didn’t glance over at him while she did it, but he knew she knew he was watching.
WLEX 98.1 transitioned from “Electric Avenue” into America, informing them that they—or, perhaps, just Megan specifically—could do magic.
And Oak Ridge slid further back into the distance.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment