Traffic Life : Passionate Tales and Exit Strategies
Edited by Stephan Wehner
An Anthology
 
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198 A Spin of the Wheel problems; he had taught her himself. 'The most important thing that you have to remember,' he'd told her during that first lesson, 'is to always assume that someone is going to make a mistake.' This was not so much a lesson about driving as about life in general. 'If you're always aware of other people's potential screw- ups then you can avoid them.' It was not enough to know the rules and to follow them; one must be able to antici- pate when they would be broken, when the certainties of life would collapse, and so, be able to thwart the unfore- seen, to banish the uncontrollable. Though he did feel a certain anguish at the thought of Kate driving, he was nonetheless proud that she could be entrusted with an automobile. And though he didn't love cars, he'd long accepted their inevitability. He never did any kind of work on his own car; he left that to his trusted mechanic. Roger never changed the oil or put air in the tires; he never checked the timing or installed a new air filter, though he could have. He pre- ferred to pay someone else to carry out those duties, but he had, in fact, an extensive knowledge of auto mechanics. As with all things that he was dependent upon, he learned everything he could about them. Whether it was his car, his computer, or the planning of a cruise vacation, he kept himself informed on every detail. He would not be caught off guard. The rain had all but completely stopped as he pulled off the expressway. Only a grey formless mist clung to the trees. There were fewer houses, some small farms, and here and there, roads leading up to new subdivisions. He stopped at a convenience store to pick up ice cream and cat food. Back in his car, he let his mind drift back into the fuzzy warmth of semi-consciousness, knowing that it would come to an end when he pulled into his driveway fifteen minutes later. . . . . . Warm air fills the car, pouring out of vents on the dash and floor. But for it, the windows would be cloaked in thick
  
Nicholas Wees 199 droplets of moisture. Henderson street-its long winding curves ease along the golf course. A lazy asphalt river, skirting tree-lined properties, its tributaries with names like Princeton Court and Emerald Crescent. The fan in the car blows, soothes. Its warm electric hum advances and recedes, blends with the drone of the motor, the rush of tires on wet pavement. Rockheights-a pause at the four-way intersection, a left hand turn, and the engine rumbles back up into gear. The car hisses on as trees, houses and fields blur past, though muscle and nerve are tensed, alert to any distur- bance in the steady hum that radiates from the car out, rippling through the fog-laden night. There is no center to the ever expanding sound. Particles gaze back in at themselves, from across eternity, and then, suddenly, come rushing, hurling back together, in an instant harmonizing into a single note, a single thought. Headlights sweep across the glistening road, and there, in the shadows, ahead, a sudden burst of movement brings eye to attention, rouses feet and hands. Sound telescopes in on itself. The hum is a roar. The roar is a scream. All shreds of consciousness have imploded into reaction. A small grey form materializes, green eyes flash in the head- lights; the roar hiccups and screeches to a halt. . . . . . Roger sat for a moment, his hands still tight on the steering wheel. As soon as he stepped out of the car the dampness enveloped him. He walked around behind the car; the air was cool and still. Then he saw the cat lying by the ditch. He walked over and crouched down beside it; it was moving, but just barely. Its hind legs were completely crushed; its eyelids drooped and its mouth slowly opened and closed. Roger slipped his jacket off and wrapped it around the cat as he carefully lifted it into his arms. The closest house was fifty or sixty yards back down the road. As he walked towards it, he was vaguely aware

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