The routine of my uncertainty

Every night I intend to go home, if only for appearances. I don't like when my dad wakes up and no one is home, even if the sun shines and birds chirp and he packed his lunch the night before. He's alone enough. En route behind the wheel of my old-man Malibu, I feel more alive than ever-- it's the ultimatum of my final destination and the confidence that I control the time and path I take there. The world's weight lifts a little as the pedal at my foot shakes. Gas seemingly flows through my toes, and I buzz, and I sing, and my vocal chords shudder with every chorus of "If I Ever Feel Better." I think of the movie I just watched, it usually ends ambiguously, which I crave much more than a happy ending. I'd rather live not knowing than settle for something too good to be true, or have to digest something too sad to bare. It allows me to believe that my conclusion is possible, no, probable, especially in the scripts that interest me enough to make me question and anticipate the entire film.
Every night that I actually make it home, I press my pointer nail to the wad of chewing gum in mouth, still usually fresh enough to keep mashing in my molars. I stick the schmaltz, pull the sling shot back for momentum, then flick, fling the tooth-molded gelatin flavor glob into oblivion... Or my unlamped street, more literally, since my gums' landing antecedent of flower bed ticks my dad off too much. It always has, since the old house in Indian Creek.
It's stupid that I spit it out anyway; its purpose is to cover the stale cig breath that lingers from my car ride home, though it doesn't help to mask the radiative effect emanating from my outfit. Tonight no one's awake though, so it doesn't matter... I can tell because no light shines through the windows that sandwich my door, and to get in I have to key myself. Straight to the kitchen, I place my travel mug on the counter--I've been making my own coffee before work. How grown up. Tonight I also resist the fridge's harrowing taunts. Oh, such maturity.
Every night I make it, I wake my dog as I hit the second floor landing, his collar jingles and I'm glad to be there, if only for a second. In the bathroom mirror, my last destination before a restless night in my empty queen size bed, my face looks old and worn, but zitty and weak. There is no wisdom behind those liner-smeared eyes and no clue under those light roots growing in a half inch too long, no hope for effortless beauty. I find encouragement in my profile, though; my waist's almost back to the size it was when I was smallest, except this time I'm not in the gym for two hours a day and my muscle not as toned.
It's always then when I find the scalding water spout over my finger's flesh, the burn neutralizes the itch of some skin shit, eczema or whatever, probably stress induced because I haven't had it for always, but still in the back of my mind blame the years of baking soda at pretzel palace for my defect. I hold the digits there until it hurts, rubbing both palms back and forth until I can't stand it any longer, and look into my eyes. Internally, my brain lets slip a banshie caliber holler, then caves to the scream. No thoughts occupy my mind, and it's blank. My hands are raw, my mind is numb, and it's time to start again. Or maybe better, anew. I walk down to the last bedroom of the hall, on the side of my house my brother almost burned down when he threw the chiminea ashes in the trash can some odd black Fridays ago.
Every night I lay in bed for hours is exhausting, especially when I'm this exhausted. The t.v.'s on to drown out my worries, but I'm not watching. Work in 8 hours, but gotta be up in at least seven. And that'll only tick lower and lower, 'til about four and a half, and I'll scratch my hands while the television's light flickers on, dim compared to my non-refreshable Twitter/Instagram/Facebook feeds. I'm not sure at this point my alarm will make me. Or rather, wake me. I'm not sure I'll schedule a job interview back at my Alma Mater for Thursday, or fax the request for my transcripts in time. I don't know if I'll make my lunch, or if I'll hear relieving news at my appointment after work. It's up in the air, I'm not positive. I'm capable, I just can't say what keeps me in the dark for sure. I crave the ambiguous, so this close to my every night is rather fitting. I'd rather live not knowing than settle for something too good to be true, or have to digest something too sad to bare. It allows me to believe that my ultimate conclusion is possible, no, probable, especially in a life that interests me enough to make me question and anticipate the entire time. I guess though now the only question I'm asking is

Drive me insane

A story for my creative non-fiction class, spring 2014.

My dad tossed me the keys to his little red pick-up. “So go to Wawa, tap mac,” he handed me his debit card, “and then pick up the hoagies.” My brother and I climbed in the truck and rolled out of the cul-du-sac to New Falls road. From there, it was a straight two miles tops to the Mac machine, and as I was about to make the left hand turn, I saw Joey drive by in his Jimmy. 

•

“Just make sure you grab toll money for the bridge, Coad.” I had no more than 40 cents to my name, and my check wouldn’t be directly deposited into my account until the following day.

After the Sunday closing shift, my brother and I left our mall food court jobs as the summer sun set low cast shadows over the tree tops that extend above the noise barrier. We headed down 95 for a quick exchange; Coady, with 500 cash in hand and another grand written out in check, was about to buy his first car (which wouldn’t end up running too long, as my brother pulled off our street too close to a tow truck; it was Coady’s fault, but the driver hit-and-ran.)

The silver Chevy Cav Z, a sporty stick shift Coady couldn’t yet drive sat somewhere in South Jersey, about two hours of highway away. We went down to sign papers and make ownership official since the owner was quick to dump the car, and my dad was going to take Coady down a few days later to drive it up.

•

I was 16 on the rainy November Sunday, after church, when I saw Joey and wanted to catch up to show off. I had my license for a month and three days, and though I had no car, I felt empowered in the little red pickup. Rihanna’s “Disturbia” blared through the speakers and Coady and I danced, his long 14-year-old skater mop forced flat to his forehead under a cap. I looked to my right as the new lane opened, trying to catch up to Joey, and I merged. But a tractor trailer turning into a shopping center slowed traffic, and I hopped back in the left lane, and I reached the Jimmy to my right. 

•

We met the seller at a Wawa, where he pulled up in a big, tricked-out truck that probably had a duel exhaust mod and heated leather seats. He was a 20-something spoiled adult, (he still lived at home in the highly desirable and rather affluent residential area of Ocean City,) who brought his girlfriend, an attractive blonde that lacked substance, and seemed to be there only to nag and mock her boyfriend.

From there, we followed the truck down a long, shady rural driveway to a dirt lot, apparently on the property of the home/shop of the seller’s father’s friend, who I guess inspected the vehicle before purchase, though not officially. Coady bought the car without tags, (which would prove to be a mistake when it was discovered that the break line leaked while my father drove it home a week later.) We should have known that the car would be jinxed after this trip; the obvious literary foreshadowing was as present as the leftover junk in the Caviler.   

It was hot for a summer evening while my brother handed over the cash. I waited patiently in my car with the windows down instead of running the air conditioner in an attempt to save gas and make it home, no worries.

“You couldn’t even clean the car out, Christopher?” the girlfriend bitched, rolling her eyes and grabbing his “shit,” she called it, out of Coady's purchase. I watched, envious of the girl whose boyfriend clearly spoiled her.

•

I cruised along, doing about the speed limit. Coady and I both waved at Joey, the cool Senior that dated one of my best friends at school. The lax bro was trying to get Coady to join the team, and he was probably going to do it, even though he spent more of his time biking or playing X Box. My 9th grade brother was pretty cool, and we were starting to get along again after the middle school years tipped the scale on the love/hate relationship scale to the latter.

We made small talk about Coad being able to drive soon; this license to drive more a license to freedom. We smiled and tried to get Joey’s attention, but he didn’t see us…

•

When we could finally leave, both our phones had died, but we’d be home soon and able to charge them to make plans with our friends for the evening. That’s all we ever did, make plans for the night, though we’d end up simply sitting around with our friends.

We hopped back on the highway and jammed to Wiz Khalifa (one of our few remaining common interests is music,) all the way to the Walt Whitman Bridge, the $5 toll charged only to enter Pennsylvania and not the opposite, something of an economic social commentary about the perception of the respective states.

“Can I get that toll money?” I asked while I squinted at signs for the toll only lane, steering with my left hand and sticking out my right for the bill I anticipated.

“Yeah,” as he shuffled through his wallet, reached in his pocket, then started to fidget.

“Uh… Uh… I THREW IT TO THE GUY, THE SELLER TOLD ME I SHOULD GIVE HIM SOME MONEY TO KEEP MY CAR THERE FOR THE WEEK,” he defended. While I was all “what the fuck, Coady,” he yelled back at me, and in the midst of the chaos, I managed to find the last exit before the big steel structure that ultimately held fines for crossing without payment.

I figured we had to find an A.T.M. for Coady to withdraw some bridge cash. I pulled up to a Pantry One, a generally shady string of convenience stores in the Jersey area. Kid, seemingly paranoid, left his wallet in the car before taking his card into the store. He has that nervous way about him sometimes, not quite ready to dive in, hesitant. In this case, there were dirty looking loiterers outside the door, so I felt his trepidation was warranted, judgment aside.

I waited for my brother annoyed, but not yet anxious, until he returned to the car.

“So… we’re fucked. I withdrew the limit from my account today.”

“HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?” But then, I realized—he just bought that damn car, the car that had us stuck here in New Jersey, and not just Jersey, but Camden.

There were 67 murders in Camden that year, plus all the rapes and robberies, making it the highest crime rated city in the U.S. And my 17-year-old brother and I were here, alone.

By now, our shitty cellphone batteries both dead and accounts inaccessible, I pulled out my G.P.S. to try and find our way to the free bridge that spanned the Delaware in Trenton, only 20 minutes from my house. But that was also dead, and the cigarette lighter outlets that could charge any electronics in my whip were broken. Shitouttaluck.

•

The speed in which the car twisted is both unforgettable and unrememberable.

“FUCK!” Coady screamed, which was weird, because we always told on each other when we cursed. We were such tattle tales, always trying to escape the persecution, ultimately a “grounding,” by drawing attention to the other’s foul ups and mischievous deeds.

It wasn't always bad though. I recall playing on the side of the house, eating honeysuckles from the bush next to the oil tank. We'd play video games all night, and go for bike rides to places we weren't allowed. There was that one time, though, he beat me with a whiffle ball bat while I tried to climb down from the silver maple in our front yard...

Snap.

“YOU HIT A FUCKING COP!”

I opened the eyes that I closed upon contact. The little red truck was now facing the shopping center to my left, perpendicular to the white dashed and yellow solid paint that marked the lanes. 

All I could do was yell, maybe bellow, “AHHHHHHH,” as I began to cry and smack my hands on the steering wheel while the little red truck beeped and fizzed, “Disturbia” still droning in the background.

•

I turned down the rap that blasted the “n” word from my speakers as I drove away from the bridge and convenience store. We were two white kids entering a tough neighborhood, and I was not prepared for any awkward and/or risky encounters.

The next events were a cluster of chaos; cars rolled by bearing full-sized Puerto Rican flags or skull and cross bone banners, bungee corded to the hoods. Women’s legs hung out of their hydraulic convertibles, passengers and drivers alike. Police drove around the dilapidated homes. The sidewalk stoops were a scene out of a ghetto “Hey Arnold,” where neighbors drank 40s out of paper bags and smoked long, thin cigars on porches. And everywhere, in cars or on the streets, people were screaming and yelling and laughing like they were tailgating a sporting event.

“I just need to find out how to get to Trenton, then we’ll be cool,” I tried to reassure my brother. But he was not having any of that, and continued to belittle my directional ability. It started to get dark, and I was panic stricken. Plus, could I even make it to Trenton with this much gas? Our hearts were pounding as I circled around and around for about an hour, stuck, trying to get to a highway north.

We were practically biting our fingernails, at risk of sounding racist, not because we hadn’t been exposed to ‘Ricans or black people, but because this was not our turf. Plus, when the people all around us were hollering, what were we supposed to think? Other than…

                “We’re lost. Shit, shit, shit. What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?” Expletive after expletive, us going nowhere, too scared to pull in anywhere for fear that someone would mess with us.

•

I unbuckled while Coady dialed my dad. Coad wasn’t nice to me, but I didn’t deserve it, and I can't say he was mean either. Other than his angry bossy moments, (which come few and far between these days,) Coady never seems like he’s happy, nor upset, to be with me.  We’re just in each other’s company constantly.

My mom used to tell the story: “When you went to kindergarten on your first day, we walked down to the bus stop, and as soon as you stepped off those steps, you ran! And Coad ran, and you hugged each other on the sidewalk like you were gone for weeks.” We’d roll our eyes when she told this and get right back to bickering.

I got out of the truck that I was sure was totaled and walked to the Sargent’s S.U.V. in front of me. It didn’t look too bad, but the hatchback door was dented inward, clearly impacted from my 45 m.p.h. neglect to notice he stopped in the left lane and not the turning lane.

I approached his open driver’s side door hysterical, trembling, and lost on a road I travel every day.

“Are you okay?” When he didn’t answer, or even look at me, I spat out, “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry, are you okay?” He said nothing, but he wasn’t bleeding. He just grasped his wrist, the deployed airbag flattened down like a pillowcase.

Someone wandered over to me and asked if I was okay, it turned out she was the passenger from the third car involved, rear-ended by the cop, consequently on my behalf. But I had no idea who anyone was, until another officer showed up and sat me on the curb. My blubbering mess warranted Chief to request a dollar from my dad so he could buy me a soda. Dad politely declined.

•

I drove toward the hospital, thinking that this was an exit, but dead-ends and circles in the Jersey city brought us right back to the chaotic heart of Camden. Coady was noticeably irritated, which pissed me off. I was doing him a favor. He didn’t need to buy the car that day.

Sorry I don’t know my way around the hood, dick bag. Sorry your dumb ass is the reason we’re in this predicament. Sorry my car blows and we can’t charge anything, but this is not my fault. 

I rolled up and down the streets, the sun getting lower and lower, and the screams seeming to get louder and louder.

“What is going on here?” Coady and I kept asking one another, “Is there like some holiday or sports game going on?”

Suddenly, I saw a lady police officer directing traffic on the corner a few blocks away, the sun setting behind her head like the glow of a halo—my opportunity to find safety, to find our way home. I pulled the car up and stopped. When she tried to wave me on, I waved her over.

“Excuse me,” I asked the cop, “Can you tell me how to get to Trenton?”

“Huh?” she asked, so I repeated. “Oh, you gotta take this road out, over the street bridge, then make a left and hop on the entrance for north,” she said, with some highway number included. It took us another half-hour to find the road, but once we were on it, my grip on the wheel loosened.

•

Since New Falls Road is on the line of two townships, the police showed up in full force, as if someone had robbed a bank. My parents pulled up on the scene, and the cops questioned me somewhere in there, though there wasn’t much to say. I never told about Joey, even throughout the court proceedings that would stick with me until my junior year of college, a lie that I hoped would save me from more fines than I’d already endure.

Dad cleaned out the truck, as Coady struggled to tell the questioning officer his birthday, a family joke that plagues the kid 6-years-later. I just sobbed on the curb until the officer told my parents to take me home, my presence probably more pestering than helpful. We went to Freshworks to pick up lunch, and life went on for everyone except me; I couldn’t bring myself to drive for another two months.

•

It was night when I drove north with uncertainty, even though the signs “Trenton- 40 mi.” appeared and reappeared with decreasing numerals for about an hour. The highway ebbed between miscellaneous shopping centers and stretches of woods, but then, finally, we knew where we were.  I took the Capitol Complex exit and headed to the bridges, the glowing “Trenton Makes, The World Takes” sign beckoning. Approaching the light before the bridge, a big Suburban erratically followed me, honking and swerving.

Coady repeatedly commented, “What the hell is wrong with him?” until the douche merged in front of us before the bridge.  We followed him back into Pa., laughing and joking about the nutty ordeal, where I traveled to Route 13, then back into the Terrace.

The Terrace is a hood, minus the neighbor. Shootings, stabbings; they happen here. I cut through the section because one, I often do, but two, why not? We survived Camden…

Almost home; we pulled up to the light exiting the section and let out a sigh too soon. My brother beside me gasped, and eyes focused on the red light ahead, I asked, “what?”

“Look,” he uttered. So I did, and I saw something that I’ll never, ever forget. On the bus stop bench sat a deer, well, the head of a deer, eyes open, and a long thing I can only describe as pantyhose-like hung down over the bench and reached the ground.

Coady fumbled for the camera he brought to take pictures of his new car’s vin number, and I repeated more curse words while nervous-laughing than ever thought imaginable. The light changed, and I peeled out.

When we got home, my mom bitched at us for not calling, clearly having hit the bottle while we took our detour. They had ordered pizza and left us none. She told us we should have just taken the bridge and they’d bill us. We were so excited to be home, but with that welcome, we left.     

•

I drove Coady to our bank’s A.T.M. one night in the same car I drove to Camden. Only 40 or so yards from the spot where I crashed the little red truck, we waited for a red light to blink back to green. I was typically annoyed with Coady, making me drive to deposit his check because he totaled his shitty Cav. We sat at the light, getting along all right despite my irritation. The tension always seemed to be there; we could hang out, but I always felt some type of way toward him. The tip of the iceberg always comes out in the form of my bitchiness, but the bigger part of the iceberg is a mystery because I’m sailing the ocean, too. 

The light changed on the empty road, and I shifted my foot to the gas pedal. I slowly started through the intersection when I saw the light flying from the right, and slammed back on the break. The car passed through its red light only a few feet in front of us, and we could have been struck. We both sighed, another simple trip that went whack, but not so wrong that there was no coming back.

                We talk now about our family; our grandparent’s declining health and our guilt, our father’s drinking habits and our fear, our mother’s mental state and our disgust. He mostly gets annoyed with me for spitting out every little thing that happens in my life, mainly the dramatic stuff.

                “You put your business out there too much, on Twitter and stuff.”

                “I know, but if I keep it all inside, I’ll never let it go. I need to get everything out or I’ll dwell. It’ll eat me alive.”

                “I don’t tell anyone anything,” he finally admits, “I don’t know why. I’d just rather keep my business to myself. I… I just don’t see the point.”

                “Maybe if you opened up more, you wouldn’t be so angry. Maybe if you expressed yourself, someone could understand.”

                “I know.” He always knows.

We don’t deal with our problems; we push them away. Through all the rough days, my brother’s been there, not for me, but experiencing with me. We get that we don’t know how to express ourselves, especially to each other, but that tiny understanding is enough to bring us together in the worst-of-times. And since worst usually comes to worst, I’m glad that I’m not driving down this road alone.

But still, it's discomforting that when all of this nutty shit happens, I'm in the driver's seat.