Traffic Life : Passionate Tales and Exit Strategies
Edited by Stephan Wehner
An Anthology
 
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158 Goulais River of firearms. And still, no one is coming out of the house. Maybe ex- plosions in their front yard aren't enough to disturb a week- end of sleeping in. Why is no one coming out? Not even the dogs. Ah well, their loss. Why are there no cops coming, no sirens, no outraged neighbours? Maybe some psycho blow- ing up his car on a Saturday morning is standard Goolie River fare. I step back, covered in sweat and grime. Nausea floods over me. I lean over and retch long and hard, but nothing comes, aside from a long strand of yellow mucous. I stand up cautiously, fish in my pocket for the three ibupro- fens that I had stored there in anticipation, and chew them carefully. The flames are hot, the smoke black, the sound snap-crackle-popping. The whole thing is almost too per- fect. And still no one comes. Where the hell is everybody? Am I the only witness to my own little act of god? I sit quietly for thirty more minutes, eating an apple picked from a tree in the yard, feeling the satisfaction of the drugs take hold and my nausea recede enough to keep the fruit down. Like my hangover, the flames are dying down and I can see parts of the car clearly; the seats, the dash, the roof, all of it blackened and maimed, still burning hot, the paint and plastic all gone, just the frame sizzling. My satisfaction is huge, and is tinted with the shiny sheen of revenge. I check one last time that the flames aren't spreading onto the grass, carefully put the gun back in the hallway, shoulder my bag and walk out onto Highway 1, heading east, mentally assessing how long it will take me to hitch- hike to the bus depot in Sault St. Marie.
  
Three Poems from Asphalt Ray McManus Gridlock It's hot and you close your eyes You close your eyes and sink going nowhere, not wanting to go anywhere, wanting to go somewhere, not thinking about going, not thinking. You pull down the visor. You bite the inside of your cheek, take your tongue, and hold it there. You see faces, old faces, faces like yours, ugly and pale, faces that look hungry, look angry, look tired, tired of moving, tired of not moving, until the stillness breaks and you inch your way closer to corners, to stop lights, to store fronts, and windows, skin to vinyl, piston to engine, transmission to axle. And it's hot man, my God, it's hot, fumes rise from the blacktop, men on the corner sweat, little girls on the corner sweat ­ 159 ­

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