Things Just Worked Out

ZenZen sped down Route 66 and knew he was living his dream. He also knew he would wake up and things would never again be so free or so good.

The car hummed beneath him; he couldn't imagine a plane flight feeling more aerodynamic or uplifting. He wondered sometimes if piloting a plane was even more of a thrill than driving fast, but then how fast would he have to go for it to matter in the sky? Mach-something-or-other. All it took here on terra firma was 110 mph or so, and the thrill lifted his heart up from the bottom and slammed it against his rib cage in a zing sort of way that nearly took his breath. Still his focus sharpened and his peripheral vision widened at the same time. Strange how that worked.

Because it was well past midnight and because this was a forgotten stretch of the famous highway, there were no lights flashing in the weird purple way they did when the blue and red merged in a rear-view mirror. They would appear soon enough he was sure but in the meantime. In the meantime….

Maybe he could study in prison. Maybe he could completely revolutionize the automobile engine. Maybe while he had all that time on his hands peeling potatoes he could let his mind wander over his imagination and pick out possibilities. He could see the headlines. ZenZen Carmichael and the Car Michael Engine…Zoom Zoom.

It was a Merc that sped him through the darkness now. He'd watched the old lady pull up to the diner and wondered what an old woman with a patent leather handbag was doing out late at night on a dark stretch of Oklahoma Highway in a Mercedes. She didn't look the type. No cigarette wrinkles, no smeared or gaudy lipstick, no too-bright spots on her paper-white cheekbones. She was wearing a jewel colored scarf over her hair and tied under her chin, and the large hoop earrings seemed a little out of place. She looked more like she would have left a nice hat with a bit of netting in the front seat because it wouldn't do to wear it after dark. Her shoes were serviceable, and she walked easily—no sign of a limp from a sore hip or being past due for a knee replacement. He didn't feel quite so bad about leaving her on foot.

She didn't have her keys with her when she came in the door. That was her undoing. When she opened her bag to dig out a book and her wallet, no keys jangled either. Up till then he'd watched her through the plate glass window at his booth. Lazily. Not really paying attention, but arrested by the fact that it was she and not some dude in a business suit climbing out of the front of the sporty piece of luxury. It was hard to tell for sure, since she was parking at the edge of where the rays of the street lamp finished stretching, but it seemed she had not stopped to lock the door, nor had she opened the purse to put keys in it. She wasn't wearing a coat and the smock-like dress she was in didn't appear to have pockets. So when she pulled a large bowl of soup toward her, and made sure the coffee cup was in reach, then opened the book, Zen finished his last few French fries and water, was nonchalant about leaving a meager tip, and ambled toward the cashier as though he had nowhere to go and no keys in an ignition to search for.

"What's your favorite song?" he asked the lady who took his bill and handed him back change in one fluid, experienced movement.

"Anything country," she replied.

"New country? Old country?" Zen pretended to know more about it than he did.

"Gill, Brooks, Hill. I've lost track of the new ones."

"I'll punch up a few in the jukebox for ya, if you'll say which ones."

She looked as if someone had dropped a tray of plates in the kitchen. "Why?"

"I enjoyed my meal but it's awful quiet in here. Thought you might like a tune or two."

"Nice of ya. Underwood. Anything Carrie sings would be great." She treated him to a genuine smile that made him feel guilty.

"I like Merle Haggard." The old lady had quit reading her book to poke her nose in and it made ZenZen pause. How could he do something nice for her, considering why he was doing something nice in the first place?

"Mama Tried."

Cheese. Fine. Hopefully it wasn't even listed. He smiled at her, trying to keep guilt from creeping into his eyes. "Sure," he said. If he'd had a hat he'd have tipped it toward her just to appear polite. And to hide his face. He'd just been stupid enough to give her a full view of him. Hopefully her memory would be a heck of a lot worse than her taste in automobiles.

He punched in five songs, one Merle Haggard tune that wasn't the one the old lady wanted, an Underwood tune and a couple random ones for good measure. He smiled at them all as the first notes started filling the dining space and they all went back to their own worlds by the time he reached the door.

It was effortless to peer into the diner through the backlit window to see what everyone was doing. Reading. Cashier/Waitress woman had disappeared, since the old lady was content with her soup and her book. He eased around the side of the Merc and peered inside. Yes! He had been handed an unwitting fairy godmother; tiny bits of light bounced off the keyfob that dangled in the ignition. Just once he wouldn't have to walk and dangle a thumb whenever white lights breeched the horizon.

So now under the exhilaration of the perfect ride, he started wondering how long he should drive before he abandoned the car. It would be the height of everything right and wonderful to enjoy this good fortune that spilled like milk from a ladle and not have to milk the cow or muck out the barn.

How quickly the little towns appeared, first a string of street lights, then a distant traffic light blinking red. Then gone, a small glow in the back glass. He couldn't stop. Not with tires that seemed to barely touch the road and an even throb that pulled him on with its rhythm.

It was a yellow-white glow that caught his attention, sort of like a lightning bug that didn't turn off. But lightning bugs didn't spell doom "L-O-W F-U-E-L."

Zen sighed. It was an answer, a sign. He would drive as far as the next gas station. That would be the end of the line for him. He could feel the aura, a heavy one, closing in on the flame of his joy and pinching it.

He was beginning to allow worry a place in his mind when the next town finally showed itself. Another little spit of a community snuggled against the highway, but yes, there was a gas station. It was closed tighter than a trying-to-survive clamshell. Now what? He allowed the magnificent machine to glide to a standstill beside the one island. It was hard to tell if the pump was red with paint or rust. Zen waited as though it might magically produce an insomniac attendant from inside the dark building. But his luck was gone, his joy ride over.

So he got out. His legs felt like a very feeble substitution but perhaps this was the way to enjoy the milk without the work. His mind started twirling again as he stood in the sharp night air and watched his breath spiral upwards. Yes.

ZenZen reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He knew what was in it but searched as though he didn't. Why not give the wallet an opportunity to prove him wrong? Not to be. He sighed and pulled out the two twenties and tucked them in the dashboard where they would be easy to see, especially with the way the key fob seemed to light things up, even when it had little to nothing to work with. Quietly he clicked the door shut, and in one final gesture, patted the warm hood as he hiked off into the night.

He was tired. Extremely tired. It would be nice now to crawl into a hay barn and let his mind dream the ride into a longer trip. All of the sudden it was a great effort just to put one foot in front of the other even though it had seemed rather easy all day.

"Hey you there!"

The voice startled him and he looked up. His heart started the hammering thing. This was it. Why hadn't he noticed the whirling lights and the conglomeration on the side of the road? He'd been turning the other way, hoping to find his barn away from the main drag, but still, it wasn't hard to miss this much activity on a dark country highway.

"Yes, Sir?" He walked over, as though he had nothing to hide. It was easy really because he didn't have anything to hide. It wasn't as if he was in a stolen car. Or as if anyone had seen him get out of a stolen car.

"What are you doing out at this hour, young man?"

"Couldn't sleep. Went for a run. Seems to have done the trick, so I'm headed home to bed. What's the trouble?"

"Stolen vehicle. You wouldn't have happened to see an old lady driving a Mercedes, would you?"

Zen stole a look over the cop's shoulder then. He spotted a wagon on the side of the road, the type you might see in a circus or in a movie featuring gypsies. Some dude in a business suit was off to the side talking to the other cop while a family huddled together in front of the wagon. He could feel their fear and worry. How he wished he could get close enough to whisper to them, "She's fine. No worries!" and then wink at them and watch them smile. But he wasn't stupid.

"Nope, but there's a Merc parked at the gas station at the bottom of the hill." Zen pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, then looked the cop over as though he'd have to be a bonehead not to have thought to look down the road.

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Just jogged by and wondered if the driver thought some insomniac attendant might appear at this hour. Then I wondered if maybe it had died there and he'd gone looking for help on foot. No?"

"No. I'll go check it out. Thanks."

"No problem."

As soon as it was safe Zen slid into the night with a last burst of speed; this time his legs felt a little more related to the beautiful Mercedes. He crept into the first barn that had a loft, and within minutes he was asleep. Instead of continuing his ride, ZenZen dreamed of an executioner who finally stopped sharpening his sword, understanding that there would be no sentencing tonight. Two people had fed each other's joy in a way only the cosmos could plan. Tonight they would not be punished for it. Sometimes things just worked out.

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Prompt:

A man is falling in love

In a stolen car.

Such good fortune spills like milk from a ladle;

A gypsy wagon comes travelling by,

while the executioner sharpens his sword.