Keep Driving
Thump!
Had Glen hit something in the road? The constant hum of the engine, which had done nothing to drown out his anxiety, must have lulled him to a lower degree of consciousness than was healthy when sitting behind the wheel. Furiously blinking the drowsiness from his eyes, the rented Kia Rio swayed between the striped lines of the two-lane highway. The dark countryside stretched into oblivion in every direction, save for the ten feet of pavement illuminated by the headlight.
“You imagined it,” Glen mumbled to himself.
Thump!
The mysterious sound seemed almost sentient in its defiance of Glen’s theory. He most certainly had not imagined it. There was a moment of what-am-I-supposed-to-do-now panic before he recaptured his composure.
“The tire?” he guessed, sneaking a glance at his rearview.
His heart beat a nervous cadence in his chest and as he pulled the rental car to the side of the road, his pulse quickened into a broken staccato. Then, as if to join in Glen’s percussive symphony, another Thump! thudded from the back of the car. He tiptoed along the side of his car, using his cell phone as a flashlight. It wasn’t until he put his hand on the latch of the trunk that he realized his only means of protecting himself against whoever – or whatever – was in the trunk lay hidden in the glove compartment.
Thump!
“Doesn’t make a difference,” he muttered to himself.
Glen unlatched the trunk.
“For the love of Pete! Took you long enough, chappy.”
An old man lay on his back, his arms and legs flailing in the air like a confused turtle lying on its shell. As the stowaway tumbled out of the trunk, Glen saw he had wild grey hair and a beard to match. His wrinkled tweed coat came complete with elbow patches, reminding Glen of a 1940s Ivy League professor.
“Have you the time, chappy?” the man asked.
Staring at his companion, Glen wanted to laugh to diffuse the tension he still felt in his chest. He wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Too much practice being lost in thought recently he supposed. He had no answer. The old man squinted deeply as if to look through Glen.
“Do you speak, chappy? Have you got a tongue?”
“Yes,” he answered, snapping himself out of a trance. After seeing the source of the Thump!, it seemed silly that he had felt so threatened just moments ago. “I’m sorry. This is just…”
“Narcoleptic,” the professor interrupted.
“Excuse me?” Glen begged his pardon.
The man squinted deeply again.
“Narcolepsy, a condition of unpredictable seizures of slumber. Narcoleptic, a person with said condition. Are you not wondering how someone my age could have possibly ended up in the trunk of a rental vehicle?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Glen fumbled over his words. “I’m sorry, I had no idea someone was back there. I apologize, this is all very…”
“Strange indeed,” the professor interrupted again. “Now, have you the time? Or an estimate of how long you’ve been driving?”
“Sure,” Glen replied, checking his phone. “It’s nearly four in the morning.”
“My, my,” the old man sighed. “Thank heavens I awoke when I did, chappy. You didn’t have all that long left. ’Twould’ve been a downright shame. May have cost me my pension!”
“Pardon?” Glen asked.
“You’d be Master Glen St. Claire, would you not?”
“How in the hell…?”
“Spare me the incredulous commentary, chappy. I have far too many customers and far too little time to dwell and dote so generously on you. In that light, would ye mind if I were blunt?”
“As if you haven't been?”
“Suppose I said I know where you’re heading and I know why you’re heading there. Suppose I said you had less than ten minutes til you decided to go through with it.”
The echo of a memory flung Glen from the roadside.
“It’s a numbers game, Glen. We just can’t justify keeping you on board. I’m truly sorry.”
Hearing his boss – someone he considered a legitimately close friend – go corporate on him was like drinking spoiled milk.
“Tom, I’ve been with the firm since I was in college,” Glen had responded. “I’ve given you ten years of my life. This is the only job I’ve had. My wife's expecting. What am I supposed to do?”
The quickness of Tom’s response stung the most.
“Glen, you’re thirty years old. It’s not like your life is ending. And look at your resume. You won’t have trouble finding work. Listen, our backlog isn’t what it used to be. For someone drawing your salary who doesn’t have responsibilities for bringing in new projects? You’re dead weight, amigo. We just can’t keep you. I’m sorry.”
Like hell you are, Glen thought, wishing he had the cajones to say that straight to Tom’s face. But he hadn’t. Of course, he hadn’t. Confrontation wasn’t in his genetic make-up.
“Millions of people lose their jobs, chappy,” the old man said, bringing Glen back to here and now. “Trials make us appreciate the truly important things, eh?”
“No, not another bullshit cliche,” Glen responded. “Listen, spare me the sermon, I’ve heard them all. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. It’s not about falling, it’s about getting back up. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. But how does dead weight become undead? Does the weight just try, try again?”
“There’s far more to life than work, chappy.”
“Tell that to my wife!” Glen yelled back. “Tell that to my unborn twins. How the hell am I supposed to be a good husband? Or a father? How am I supposed to provide for a family without…? How will I ever…”
Glen fell to his knees, his voice surrendering to a series of convulsive sobs. The old man sat on his haunches and put his hand on the broken man’s shoulder.
“Those answers aren’t revealed if you go through with this near-sighted solution, chappy, and leave your loved ones with such a mess. How will your twins deal with their own tribulations, knowing they had a father whose only answer to struggle was that pistol in your glove box? You want to be a good husband and father? Then, dare to persist. You keep driving, you meet the challenge. When love and fear present that inevitable fork in the road, you don’t lose sight of what truly matters, chappy. You persist so that things may happen as they must.”
Glen was utterly embarrassed to have displayed such vulnerability to this strange, all-knowing guest. And yet, a strange peace descended upon his long-troubled mind.
“Now, may I interest in you a chocolate whilst I tinkle?”
The old man reached into the inside pocket of his tweed coat and pulled out a Twix bar.
“What?” Glen croaked, taking the candy bar.
“Here, have a snack. I’ll just need a tinkle so we can be on our way. We’re a long way from where we started, chappy, but still a ways off from where we’re going.”
The could-be professor pranced into the tree line far more gracefully than his age suggested was possible. Glen waited for a quarter hour before he gave up hope that the mysterious visitor would return. When he reentered his rental, Glen shot a nervous glance to the glove box. Feeling empowered from his confidant’s advice, he resolved to toss the pistol into the forest before his will weakened any more than it had over the last month. Glen popped open the compartment, but his firearm was missing. In its place, was a golden compass with a parchment-textured business card taped to its back. The typewritten font was placed clumsily off-center and read:
Keep driving. If you feel lost
at the fork in the road,
use the compass. Then, keep driving.
When Glen reached the stop sign at the end of the next turn-off, he hesitated a moment as he took another bite of the Twix. Sneaking a look at the compass, he flicked on his left blinker to retrace his steps back home. A peculiar sensation pinched his cheeks.
Glen couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled.