Tori Talamonti
Parallel

Reverse, drive, reverse, drive. . .seven times altogether.

Rand checked how much room he had on either side of the car, and it wasn’t until he had pulled the parking break that he stepped out of the car to see what he’d hit.

He never did get another cat.

The next morning, he arrived at work early. It wasn’t that he was concerned about beating the morning rush; he just needed the time to park. It was always the same, no matter where he went. No matter where he worked. The ordeal was stressful enough without the added pressure of other cars waiting for him to finish, staring at him, scrutinizing his capability.

Reverse, drive, reverse, drive. . .seven times altogether. Confident that the wheels were parallel with the lines, with equal spacing on both sides, he pulled the parking break.

His shoes scuffed lightly on the ground as he dragged himself into the building. Stepping into the venue was calming, and he hoped that the band wouldn’t be late. He was tired of these ‘rock stars’ wandering in whenever they damn well pleased. Just because the show started at seven didn’t mean they could get off the bus at four, expecting him to be ready to mix with so little preparation. Rand’s lip curled a little, but then he flipped the power, running his fingers over his sound board and nearly purring at the feel of the faders, the color of the EQ dials, the gentle lights just beginning to wake and flicker.

This was much better. Rand was good at his job -- meticulous and punctual with a personality that demanded cooperation -- and he knew it. No one minded having a house mixer barely able to drink legally so long as he did what he was paid to do.



He knew his parents would be getting home late, and he really did need the car that night. Perhaps he should have called a friend for a ride, but he really had needed some Advil. An ice pick headache had hit him in the middle of his literature essay, and after watching the letters swim in and out of his vision for a while, Rand decided that maybe he should take something for it. But the medicine cabinet was equipped to handle only stomach aches and shaving, and while maybe he shouldn’t have taken the Mustang out when he couldn’t see straight, it had been the only car available. The lights flickered on in the second garage, flowing like silk over a spotless sheen of black. Nothing else occupied the sacred space, save for his dad’s tools that were more delicately used than a surgeon’s, and it was no trouble at all to back the vehicle out.

So Rand drove his dad’s Mustang to the pharmacy well past curfew, and when he returned, there was a definite sizeable dent on the passenger side door. He glanced dizzily at the white lines glowing softly under the streetlight, tracing where it became hidden under his front tire.

Fuck.

No, he wasn’t able to go to school the next day. Yes, that’s what you get for leaving your shoes at the top of the stairs. The poor thing didn’t even see them lying underfoot.



After everything had been packed up and the band had been sent on their merry way, Rand sauntered out to his old Civic. He stroked its side cautiously, looking for new imperfections out of habit, although it didn’t much matter anymore. He had no one waiting to inspect it at home.

He took the machine to the grocery store the following day, having decided that he might need to eat at some point. Reverse, drive, reverse, drive. . .seven times altogether. Confident that the wheels were parallel with the lines, with equal spacing on both sides, he pulled the parking break, making sure it was up as high as it would go. Then he exited the car, making sure his keys were still in his hand. He didn’t want to get stuck jamming a coat hanger down a window.

The car fared just as well that afternoon, and he drove slowly past a small girl just off training wheels riding her bike down the street though his leg twitched when he thought of his frozen foods melting in the oven that was his trunk. She should really have been on the sidewalk, avoiding city traffic, but there were few cars on the road -- just as Rand preferred. His fingers drummed a little neurotically on the wheel as he pulled into one of the spaces in front of his apartment complex, looking back and pausing to make sure there were no little bikers behind him.

Her wheel must have hit the slight curb because the next thing he knew, she had vanished. He couldn’t see her in the rear view mirrors, couldn’t see her in the side view mirrors, couldn’t see her even when he turned completely around to look. But he knew she was there. She had probably fallen and skinned her knee, and. . .yes, he could hear her crying.

He froze.

He needed to reverse, drive, reverse, drive. . .seven times altogether. He needed to be confident that the wheels were parallel with the lines, with equal spacing on both sides, before pulling the parking break, making sure it was up as high as it would go, then exiting the car, making sure that his keys were still in his hand. But that child was behind him somewhere, and he couldn’t very well run her over. Because that would be even worse, right?

The soft skip of blood in his heart made him gasp, made him try to fill his lungs with air to somehow compensate, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to get enough. He chest felt tight, and his fingers shook on the gear shift, slipping a bit in their own sweat. He could feel a gentle tingle run down the length of his arms before reaching his face. It was frozen as he panted, and his eyelids fluttered under the strain of it all.

He couldn’t, but he had to, but one was worse than the other, and now he was getting lightheaded and he didn’t even know where she was anymore. The break pushed mightily against his right foot, urging him to let go, reverse, drive, reverse drive, because that would make it all better. Wouldn’t it?

Head dropping back, his lips numbed beneath rapid breath, and his vision began to cloud. His mouth dried, tongue going sticky as he began to tremble in earnest. A groan bubbled up from deep in his throat, pushing away his awareness of anything but himself, carrying with it the pain of indecision and the regret of what he knew he would have to do.

With a soft whimper, he threw the bar forward, feeling so nauseated that he was certain only his dry choking was keeping everything down.

And then he broke.