|Driving to Tulsa (standard:drama, 1811 words)|
|Author: Ross O. Corridore||Added: Nov 30 2000||Views/Reads: 2462/1404||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|I wish I'd taken something of hers when I left her but I figured at the time that if they caught me then my carefully prepared alibi would be for nothing...|
Driving to Tulsa By Ross O. Corridore (c) 1999 The blacktop of the highway unfurls before me like a dark scroll, pieces of mica in its surface bouncing sparks of brilliance onto the fly specked glass of my windshield. From the amount of daylight left I surmise that I have been driving for only a couple of hours but the ache in my arms and shoulders tells me otherwise. I would like to stop somewhere for something to eat, a cup of coffee and a cigarette maybe, but time is very precious and I know I can't afford to squander it. I'm thankful I've gotten this far, really, and I know I've been blessed with a large slice of good luck (the cop who stopped me fifty miles back down the road seemed to buy my story about a sick child in Tulsa and let me off with a warning) but it wouldn't do at this stage to take any unnecessary risks. I wonder if they've managed to get into her apartment yet and if they'll like what they find there. I also can't help wondering, with no small amount of trepidation, if I've done something really stupid, like leave some trace of myself at the scene, something that would incriminate me as surely as if I'd been caught red-handed. Even something as small and insignificant as a particle of skin could be enough. Visions of whirring hard drives, computer printouts and smugly efficient lab technicians flash before me. They have the technology, you know. I look into the rear-view mirror, twisting it with one hand so I can see myself better. God, look at me. I look as if I've been on the run for days already. I'm desperately in need of a shave and I look as though I haven't slept in weeks. Well, I haven't - I've had so much to do, what with planning this thing, the stress of seeing it through to its completion, that I don't know whether I'm coming or going. I know one thing's for sure, though: I'm gonna die if I don't get something to eat. I wish I'd taken something of hers when I left her but I figured at the time that if they caught me then my carefully prepared alibi would be for nothing. So I didn't, but I still wish I had something other than that crummy, blurred photograph I'd managed to take of her all those months ago when I'd first gotten to know her. I pull it out of my jacket pocket now and squint at it. The light's fading quickly but I can still make out her long blonde hair and the way it tumbles as she bends over to dry herself with a towel that's large enough to cover most but not all of her. She's slim and has a good tan, and top class breasts (I'm not shallow or anything but I do appreciate these things). The sun was very bright that day and her features are partly fuzzed out by the reflection in her window. I'm not too upset as her face was never her strong point. Besides, if I recall, my hands were shaking a great deal so that would explain the blurry quality of the shot. My stomach growls noisily and I try to ignore it. I switch on the radio and look for a news program but all I seem to get is hillbilly country music and football scores. Goddamn yokels. Even if they have found her, I reason to myself, and I am a suspect, they've got no proof, nothing. All my photographs, blown up and covering every inch of wall space - torn up and flushed down the toilet. All the letters I wrote her and never sent - burnt. The Valentine's Day present I never got round to giving her - destroyed. My dilemma of whether or not to stop for food is going to be decided for me pretty soon, I fear, as the gas gauge is swinging rather too near the zero mark than I'd like it to, and I curse loudly because in spite of all my careful planning and preparation I'd forgotten this one thing; to fill up with enough gas to get to Tulsa. Idiot, idiot! Fuck! I slam my hand hard against the steering wheel. Now I'll have to stop. The neon lights of the diner shine with tawdry belligerence, blinding me as I swing into the parking lot. I park beside the building and sit for a while; there are two other cars here besides mine, both with out of state plates. There's also a rusty old pickup truck: it's up on blocks as two of its wheels are missing and it looks like it's been there some time. After about five minutes I'm satisfied there's no one following me and I get out and walk towards the diner. Click here to read the rest of this story (90 more lines)
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