by Jason Pinter
“And where is that located?”
“Sixty Washington Square South.”
“Can you tell me the cross streets?”
“Just a moment.” I heard the rustling of papers, then a sharp curse, mumbling in the background, something about a paper cut. “Hello?”
“Still here,” I said.
“The OSA is located on West 4th between LaGuardia and Thompson.”
“Thanks.” I hung up before she could say “You’re welcome.”
Heading west on 11th and then south on Broadway, I stopped at a bodega and bought an oversized Yankees T-shirt for five dollars. I ducked into a coffee shop that reeked of moldy gyros, went into the restroom and changed. My ripped clothes went in the trash can, buried under a pile of wet paper towels.
I winced and rolled up my pant leg to gauge the wound. My empty stomach lurched. An angry red gash ran across the side of my thigh, dried blood congealed around it.
Just yesterday I was sitting at my desk at the Gazette, and now here I was in a restaurant bathroom looking at a gunshot wound. Thankfully it looked like the bullet had just grazed the surface. I mopped the wound with wet towels, biting my lip at the pain.
This wasn’t possible, I kept telling myself. Any moment I’d wake up in bed.
Please, just wake up.
I reached the OSA at five minutes of nine. Most self-respecting college students would still be asleep, tired from a night of post-finals partying or wasting time before the start of their summer jobs. Hopefully I’d find at least one that bucked the system.
I walked up the steps and opened the front door, but then stopped. What if they had newspapers inside? It was a safe bet that students—encapsulated in their own private bubbles—hadn’t read today’s front page, but a registrar or another administrative figure might care about current events.
I had to keep going. Standing motionless on the steps was suspicious. I didn’t have a choice. My options were perilously few. This was my Plan B. There was no Plan C.
I took a deep breath, pressed the latch down and pulled the door open.
A cold blast of air-conditioning greeted me. Several students sat on a green couch held together by electrical tape, reading magazines they didn’t seem very interested in. The room had the sterile vibe of a doctor’s office combined with the comfort of the backseat of a New York taxicab.
I approached a portly guy pretending to read Harper’s Bazaar, his eyes lingering on the well-endowed redhead across the room instead of last summer’s fashion trends.
“’Scuse me,” I said. He lowered the magazine and leered. “Do you know where they post the student shuttle listings?”
“No, sorry.” He picked the mag back up and commenced fake reading.
“They’re down the hall to your left. Right before the registrar’s office.” I turned to see the redhead smiling at me. She was reading a paperback with the cover torn off. The word Desire was visible on the spine. I pointed down the hall she was referring to, and she nodded.
“You can’t miss it,” she said. “The red tickets are for day trips, blue are for overnighters. Where you headed?”
“Uh, home,” I said. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” she said, her eyes wide, as though expecting more conversation.
I grabbed a student newspaper and followed the hallway, hiding my face behind the pages as I passed a row of offices. Scraps and postings covered the light blue walls, hanging desperately on bent thumbtacks and staples. I casually glanced at a few. Table and chair sets for sale. One used rug, green. Three Siamese kittens looking for a home.
Then I found it. A wooden rack with about two dozen slips nestled inside, half red, half blue. A name was printed on each. Underneath the name was the student’s destination. Underneath the destination was the date and time each student was departing campus, along with how much money they expected their passenger to contribute. Most asked for gas, but some expected meal money and/or room and board in case a hotel stopover was needed.
I started with the blue batch, which were apparently longer trips. Three were driving to California, two to Seattle, some miscellaneous trips to Idaho, Nevada and Oregon. I considered Oregon for a moment, debated taking a chance at going home. No way. The cops would be waiting for me to contact my parents. Luckily I had no intention of doing so.
Looking through the last of the blue slips, my heart sank. The next trip was leaving three days from now. No good. Time was running out.
I replaced the cards, smiling at a heavyset woman who lumbered past me with a stack of manila folders under her arm.
I took the batch of red slips, which were for shorter, day trips. If I didn’t find what I was looking for here, the Path to New Jersey was a possibility. I really didn’t want to be anywhere near New York, but getting out of the city was priority number one.
As I went through the red batch, my hopes began to sink. Nobody was leaving today. The phrase Plan C echoed in my head, but unlike Plans A and B the words rang hollow.
Kevin Logan
Leaves 5/28—12:00 p.m.
Montreal—gas, meals
Samantha Purvis
Leaves 5/30—10:00 a.m.
Amarillo, Texas—gas, E-Z Pass
Jacob Nye
Leaves 6/4—3:00 p.m.
Cape Cod—gas
Then, right as I was about to give up, I saw the second-to-last slip.
Amanda Davies
Leaves 5/26—9:00 a.m.
St. Louis—gas, tolls
At the bottom of the slip she’d left two phone numbers—apartment and cellular—for interested parties.
I checked my watch—8:57 a.m. Amanda Davies was leaving in three minutes.
I dashed outside, through the waiting room and past the redhead, hurtling down the block where I stopped, breathless, at a pay phone. My leg was aching and my ribs throbbed.
Tune it out.
Sweat, once dried on my skin, was now oozing from my pores. I picked up the receiver—my watch read 8:58—and reached into my pocket for change.
In my palm lay a dime, two nickels, three pennies, and multicolored lint. I didn’t have enough money for a goddamn phone call. I took a breath, debated for a moment, and dialed 1-800-COLLECT.
Last year, after my cell phone was stolen from my dorm room, I’d registered a calling card for emergency use. The fees were so astronomical I’d only used it once, drunk dialing Mya after a party where I accidentally dropped my new cell phone into a vat of spiked punch.
When prompted I punched in the calling card number, then Amanda Davies’s cell phone number.
My watch read 8:59. I wasn’t going to make it. A friendly voice came on the line.
“Thank you for using 1-800-COLLECT. May I discuss our new long distance plan with you?”
“No thanks, just connect me.”
“Thank you, sir, have a good…”
“Just connect me!”
The automated voice of James Earl Jones thanked me for my patronage. Then the phone began to ring.
Two rings. Three. Four. I tried to match an image to Plan C. Still nothing.
Five rings.
I was about to hang up the phone. Then, with the receiver a fraction of an inch from the hook, a female voice came over the earpiece.
“Hello?”
I brought it to my ear, and said, “Hello?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Amanda Davies?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“Amanda, thank God. I got your number from the student shuttle posting in the OSA. Are you still driving to St. Louis this morning?”
“I’m in my car right now.”
“Shit. Listen, would you still be willing to take a passenger?”
“Depends. Where are you?”
“I’m on West 4th, somewhere on LaGuardia.”
“What’s your name?”
I hesitated.
“It’s Carl. Carl Bernstein.”
“Well, Carl, I’m in a r
ed Toyota on 9th and 3rd, in front of the Duane Reade. I’m running into Starbucks to get a cup of coffee. If you’re here by the time I get out, you’re in. Otherwise, I’m gone.”
“I’ll be there.”
“That’s up to you.” Click, then a dial tone.
I dropped the phone and sprinted east. The muscles in my side began to tighten, a cramp settling in. Pain lanced through the wound in my leg. Hopefully there would be a huge run on mochachinos. Maybe the espresso machine would explode. Anything to give me more time. I prayed, running as fast as I could, my leg feeling like an iron fork was being repeatedly jabbed into it.
I got to the Duane Reade at 9:06, doubled over to catch my breath, had to refrain from dry heaving. As I surveyed the cars parked on the street, my heart skipped a beat.
There was an empty spot directly in front of the drugstore. Big enough to fit a car.
Please, no.
I stepped into the space, frantically looking at the adjacent few cars, hoping to find Amanda’s red Toyota.
“Fuck!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, all my frustrations escaping in a single, wretched outburst, all the pain and horror and shit that had suddenly fallen on me like a ton of bricks leaving me devastated. Amanda Davies had left. I was too late.
I collapsed on the curb, head in my hands, warmth spreading through my cheeks. My self-pity needed a minute to ferment. I had no other plans, nowhere else to go, nobody to turn to. My life was over. There was no salvation. Soon I’d be arrested, and if I got lucky I’d make it to trial.
Then a car horn blared, jolting the morbid thoughts from my head. I turned to see a humongous black SUV waiting to pull into the vacant spot where I was sitting. The driver was wearing designer shades and his hair looked like it could deflect small-arms fire. He lowered his window and said, “Hey, buddy, that spot’s reserved for cars.”
Nodding silently, I stepped onto the sidewalk and started walking. My fate, it seemed, was sealed.
“Carl? Hey, Carl!”
At first it didn’t register. Then I heard it again and I remembered.
My name. The name I’d given to Amanda Davies.
I spun around, searching for the source. Then I saw it. A red Toyota idling at the intersection. A girl was hanging out the driver’s side window. And she was staring right at me.
I jogged up to the passenger side, the pain in my leg and chest receding. The girl nodded at the empty seat. I opened the door, slid in and latched my seatbelt. She had a playful grin on her face.
“Carl?”
“Amanda, oh, God, thank you.”
“Hey, it’s just a ride, I don’t think I’m worthy of deification just yet.”
Then I noticed just how gorgeous Amanda Davies was. Her brown hair spilled over her beautifully tan shoulders, draping over lovely toned arms and smooth skin. She had on a green tank top and tight blue jeans, and there was a hint of faded sunburn on her neck, and a tiny mole by her right collarbone. Her skin had a brilliant luster to it and there was a slightly mischievous tint in Amanda’s emerald eyes. If I had to be stuck in a car for hours with a complete stranger, I could have had it worse. Much worse.
“Sorry about that, Carl. I didn’t mean to scare you, but I thought it’d be funny to play a joke, you know. Make you think I’d left.” I forced out a laugh, and looked at my savior. Not only was Amanda Davies gorgeous, but she had a pretty sadistic sense of humor.
“You need to stop for anything before we get going?” she asked. “Coffee? Bathroom?”
“No,” I said. To be honest I was starving, but there was no time to waste. “I’m good for now.”
Amanda nodded, gunned the engine and merged into the northbound lane. The car smelled faintly of grease and breath mints. An empty McDonald’s wrapper lay crumpled on the floor, surrounded by a graveyard of Tic Tac containers. She saw me looking at them and smiled.
“What, girl can’t go nuts on a McChicken every now and then? We need to eat tofu and broccoli every meal?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, but you were thinking it.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything,” I said defensively. She leered at me, a hurtful look on her face.
“You think I’m bulimic, don’t you?”
My head snapped to attention. “What?”
“You think I chow down on burgers and fries all day then go puke it all up.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, I swear.”
“I know your kind,” she sniffed, slamming down the blinker and following the signs toward the Holland Tunnel. “You think you’re hot shit cause you eat protein-enriched sprouts all day then spend eight hours on the elliptical machine. Well, let me tell you something, Carl. Some of us have natural metabolisms. We don’t spend all day reading Ladies Home Journal and wishing we were Heidi or Gisele.”
“Who’s Heidi?”
“Oh, forget it,” she said. “This obviously isn’t working out. Maybe I should drop you off somewhere.” My breath caught short. I stammered.
“You can’t…you can’t do that. No, I swear, I didn’t think that at all. I just noticed the wrapper, that’s it. You can eat whatever you want. I don’t care if you have lard for breakfast. In fact I encourage it.” Amanda looked devastated, her lips contorting into an ugly grimace.
“So you’re saying I’m fat.”
“No, Jesus H. Christ, I’m not saying that at all. You probably have the fastest metabolism on earth. If you want to eat McNuggets and candy all day…”
“Carl,” Amanda said. Again, the name took a moment to process.
“Yeah?”
“I’m messing with you.”
An awkward silence enveloped the car as her lips collapsed into a maniacal grin.
“You were screwing with me.”
“Come on, you really think I care what a guy I just met thinks about my dietary habits? No offense, Carlito, but I don’t. I give you credit for keeping your cool, though. I’ve been with other guys who’ve started calling me names and telling me to lay off the milk shakes.”
“So you actually do this often. That’s kind of scary.”
“Saves me money on gas and tolls, can’t blame a girl for wanting a little entertainment to go with it.”
“Well then I’m happy to oblige,” I said. “As long as we get to…St. Louis in one piece, I’ll sing show tunes if it’ll make you happy.”
“If I hear one chorus from ‘Dancing Queen,’ you’re walking to St. Louis.”
We pulled into a line of cars waiting for the outbound Holland Tunnel. Traffic was agonizingly slow, but Amanda steered us into the E-Z pass lane. I lowered my head as we passed through the tollbooth, not wanting to offer an easy glimpse to an attendant who might be perusing the newspaper while bored on the job. Within minutes, we were heading west toward New Jersey.
Sodium lights whizzed by, my life now squeezed into a one-lane road. The speck of light at the end of the tunnel grew as we neared the exit. I felt nauseous. I was out of NewYork, away from my personal ground zero. Hopefully arriving in St. Louis by nightfall. But in the commotion to leave, I’d been so delirious that I didn’t even consider the next step. All I knew is that an opportunity for survival had arisen and I’d taken it.
I didn’t know what to do once we got to St. Louis, didn’t know a soul in the whole state. I had no phone to use, forty dollars in my wallet and a gunshot wound in my leg. Mya was out of the picture, as was Wallace Langston. The police were probably circling them both like vultures. They were gangrenous appendages I had to cut off. Perhaps permanently. My life now existed in a parallel social universe, where I could trust only strangers, forced to alienate everyone who cared.
Guilt flushed through my system as I looked at the girl sitting next to me. Her eyes were stuck to the road, so delicate, innocent. I hadn’t considered the implications of what this could do to her. Amanda Davies was there, and I’d blindly reached for her. And now she was at the mercy of chance. I wanted to apologize, to t
ell her what she’d gotten into. But if I offered the truth, she wouldn’t be a stranger anymore. As long as my story was Carl’s, as long as I remained a stranger, I was safe.
Amanda took a pair of aviator sunglasses from a pouch above the rearview mirror. As we pulled onto US-1/9 south, the bright sunlight of morning shining golden on the horizon, she turned to me.
“You mind opening the glove compartment? Just pull the tab upwards. It might be stuck, so give a good tug.”
I complied, and half a dozen maps spilled onto my lap. A tape measure. Three old movie tickets. Chewing gum that seemed to have petrified.
“Okay, now what?”
“Hand me that notebook,” she said. “The spiral one in there.”
Behind a mass of red-and-blue illustrated tributaries lay a tiny reporter’s notebook, spiral bound at the top, with white lined pages. I’d seen many like it in various newsrooms, had a similar one in my backpack. Many reporters kept them on hand. Was Amanda a journalist? A writer? The odds were staggering, but who else kept a notebook in their glove compartment?
She took it from me and flipped to a clean page, then bit the cap off the pen while balancing the pad on the steering wheel. Then she began to write.
“Uh, hey,” I said, watching the two-ton vehicles whizzing by in a blur on either side of us. “Isn’t the first driving commandment ‘keep thine eyes on the road?’”
She said, “I do this all the time.”
I nodded, as though I’d seen this kind of motor vehicle behavior a thousand times. My hands, however, firmly gripped the armrest in the event she was lying.
“So how long’s the drive to St. Louis?” I asked.
She stopped scribbling. “Depending on traffic, between twelve and fourteen hours.”
“And you can make that in one sitting?” She looked at me as if I’d asked if her hair color was real.
“I’ve done it a hundred times. We might need a pit stop or two for coffee and bathroom breaks, but we should be there by midnight. You’ll have to let me know ahead of time where I’m dropping you.”
“Will do.”
A moment later, she added, “So I’m guessing your clothes are all there.”
“Huh?”
“Well, either all your clothes are wherever I’m dropping you off, or you don’t run up much of a laundry bill.”
