By Andy
Merde. Wait, no… English. Whenever Alex got angry he always talked to himself in his mother’s voice–the French trailed along, that despicable language he somehow couldn’t wrench from his knowledge. Sure France is awesome and everything, and there were definitely times he appreciated belonging to its “brood.” It’s just that the closer you are to something the more you realize how… ordinary it is.
Take his current situation: watching the insistent plunge of his gas meter as he sat behind something that might have once been mistaken for a car. Underneath layers of grime and filth Alex thought he made out a Volvo logo, but it was anyone’s guess. Honestly how hard is it to wash your damn car? He shrugged and rolled his eyes the way he always does, only to realize that it was a monumental waste of energy since he had no audience beyond a dwindling tank and his neighbor’s antique exhaust pipe; seriously, the thing must have been on a Model T. Speak of the devil. And it smelled like one too. Mon Dieu ça pue. Alex quickly closed all of his air vents, but the damage was done. Nothing to spice up a traffic jam like the mechanical flatulence of the idiot in front of you.
Maybe the weapons-grade fumes were getting to him, but Alex could have sworn for a moment that he wasn’t in the car. That he hadn’t done it. That he hadn’t said it. For one blissful instant, he was back in the apartment hearing the latest French tirade about wanting to kill the neighbor’s cat or fearing the mailman’s suspicious skin tone or something delightfully horrible like that. And Alex smiled. How couldn’t you smile? She wasn’t like the moms on TV, but she was the only one he had ever known.
But he couldn’t smile for long. He had noticed it. He had said it. And suddenly her disgust towards practically everything hadn’t been so endearing.
Groaning, the teen flipped on the radio for some escape. Immediately, he regretted it. His mom’s laugh echoed out of the rattling speakers, “Escape? How about…That blender you’ve always wa–ree tickets to Vegas if yo–ut never mind what she said, who was she wearing yest–ifteen dead in car bombi–.” No radio. Shoulda brought CDs… guess it hadn’t been high on his list at the time. Besides, all the CDs would only sound like the stuff she listened to.
Half an hour of zombie-like inching later, Alex finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel. I80 West: Right Two Lanes. Freedom. He had never seen a Corolla move so fast, let alone made it move. Soon enough he knew it would be nonstop paradise, all “welcome to California, any fruits or plants?” He had only been to the golden state once, to visit an uncle who used to keep in touch but stopped. God I guess that makes sense now. Alex had been only seven, but he figured he could still find the way. Maybe there’s some sort of gay magic I can tap into now.
He couldn’t let himself slip into negativity. That’s what she wanted. He could always count on her waiting on the edges of his perception, magnifying every second guess and gorging on every half-formed doubt. No. He made himself glance into the rear view mirror, at the very last gift his mother had sent him away with. Red and glistening, it reminded him not to give in. It pushed down the accelerator. It told him to Get. Out.
70 miles per hour. Every second brought him farther from then. Every second brought him closer to now. 80 miles per hour, chasing the sunset. With one last Adieu, Alex sped away towards a future he hoped would be better, feared would be worse, but knew to be his own.
SUBSCRIBE!!!
Take his current situation: watching the insistent plunge of his gas meter as he sat behind something that might have once been mistaken for a car. Underneath layers of grime and filth Alex thought he made out a Volvo logo, but it was anyone’s guess. Honestly how hard is it to wash your damn car? He shrugged and rolled his eyes the way he always does, only to realize that it was a monumental waste of energy since he had no audience beyond a dwindling tank and his neighbor’s antique exhaust pipe; seriously, the thing must have been on a Model T. Speak of the devil. And it smelled like one too. Mon Dieu ça pue. Alex quickly closed all of his air vents, but the damage was done. Nothing to spice up a traffic jam like the mechanical flatulence of the idiot in front of you.
Maybe the weapons-grade fumes were getting to him, but Alex could have sworn for a moment that he wasn’t in the car. That he hadn’t done it. That he hadn’t said it. For one blissful instant, he was back in the apartment hearing the latest French tirade about wanting to kill the neighbor’s cat or fearing the mailman’s suspicious skin tone or something delightfully horrible like that. And Alex smiled. How couldn’t you smile? She wasn’t like the moms on TV, but she was the only one he had ever known.
But he couldn’t smile for long. He had noticed it. He had said it. And suddenly her disgust towards practically everything hadn’t been so endearing.
Groaning, the teen flipped on the radio for some escape. Immediately, he regretted it. His mom’s laugh echoed out of the rattling speakers, “Escape? How about…That blender you’ve always wa–ree tickets to Vegas if yo–ut never mind what she said, who was she wearing yest–ifteen dead in car bombi–.” No radio. Shoulda brought CDs… guess it hadn’t been high on his list at the time. Besides, all the CDs would only sound like the stuff she listened to.
Half an hour of zombie-like inching later, Alex finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel. I80 West: Right Two Lanes. Freedom. He had never seen a Corolla move so fast, let alone made it move. Soon enough he knew it would be nonstop paradise, all “welcome to California, any fruits or plants?” He had only been to the golden state once, to visit an uncle who used to keep in touch but stopped. God I guess that makes sense now. Alex had been only seven, but he figured he could still find the way. Maybe there’s some sort of gay magic I can tap into now.
He couldn’t let himself slip into negativity. That’s what she wanted. He could always count on her waiting on the edges of his perception, magnifying every second guess and gorging on every half-formed doubt. No. He made himself glance into the rear view mirror, at the very last gift his mother had sent him away with. Red and glistening, it reminded him not to give in. It pushed down the accelerator. It told him to Get. Out.
70 miles per hour. Every second brought him farther from then. Every second brought him closer to now. 80 miles per hour, chasing the sunset. With one last Adieu, Alex sped away towards a future he hoped would be better, feared would be worse, but knew to be his own.
SUBSCRIBE!!!