The only things in life that matter are the quantifiable. The other ones are not really matter, at least not as I and Andre understand it. Vehicles matter on many levels–they are not only symbols of status but that status is attainable only through possession of the appropriate quantities. If those quantities are not material, then you clearly attach too much relevance to those hard, cold or hot factual variables of physics and chemistry. What is effective is actual and what is actual is factual. Whether its a soft or hard fact is up to the individual to decide. I guess.
Right this moment the window of opportunity opens and Andre turns left, turn signal and all. The homeless grit their teeth, scratch wounds, stink up squeaking wheelchairs, push carts or sleep in drug comas, drenched in the fluids of the night-sticking to the concrete and cardboard. Exhaust comes out of the Honda’s tailpipe. Andre got to owning this heap after his first real job started paying. Prior to this, he was privy to a nice middle-class vehicle, the family sedan, a far superior beauty. Poor, poor Andre, living a far superior life.
He gladly admits to this as the axle makes that creaking sound that he’s been wondering about for so long. The buildings that surround him in _this_ reality remind him of nothing, except Hollywood depictions. Life is only somewhat imitating art. Chills of fear run up his spine as he goes deeper down this street. The buildings seem surrounded by a halo-like optical effect, in Andre’s eyes. His speed is slightly higher than what he would have been doing had he simply gone down the freeway but considering the angle that he’s taken in the maze, he’s headed off track and making far worse time as it is.
The sights, sounds, smells and situations of the street are either present, vanishing or developing as the night’s fractured quiet turns to constant buzz, the dim light turns to murderous swelter and the struggle continues.
“How logical.” Andre’s fingers feel dangerously warm. He jettisons his cigarette on the warming street, dusts the ash off his shirt.
The radio is gently pressed back on, the fingers–distracted, fumble at first. Andre tries to get his mood back to normal. Strangely, the stations he usually catches cannot be reached. So naked now.
“No laws in this urban decay,” thinks Andre. Apparently not even those of PHYSICS. Picture our queen, robed, crowned, flaky, forever frozen, and now freed of her dignity. I lie occasionally, as you might have noticed.
Andre is trying to figure out whether he prefers loud pseudo-fascist rants coming out of a blue or red diaper station or whether he wants to pump music for present, past or future prison dwellers. A third option materializes and the choice is made, the ALLTraffic traffic report. Boring but safe. Oh, how the times change, ey Andre?
“The congestion of the I-765 northbound has cleared. Southbound is experiencing congestion. Don’t forget to visit SafeLands superstore for all your Sally’s Salmon needs.”
“Congestion… they talk about it like its a disease or something.” Andre has heard the joke before, and is in no mood. He rolls up his window, elbow, fist or finger safely tucked into the cocoon. He starts to notice a bit too intensely and his reactions get to be a bit mechanical and energized by another chemical, that adrenaline cocktail of nervousness. Fight or flight, right. Battle stations ready, our courageous revolutionary is loo–
“Where is the fucking freeway?!” his free foot starts tapping. He’s been looking for it for some minutes now. He looks for his cigarettes, but physics is acting up in this car as well. Magic cigarettes in a magic land.
“STOP” says the sign. And he barely manages to, tires screech, bad looks are launched. The cigarettes appear from under the seat. Andre bends to pick them up, entering the area below the light. He lights one as he gets up. A sewer is steaming in the right corner of his field of view. From behind it people emerge, zombies from the underground railroad station, emerging as if from nowhere. Call it subway if you must, and towards freedom, as if work is a right given freely. They cross the street in front of Andre’s protruding vehicle, passing him with derision. He attempts to back up, only to realize that some intimidating-looking black dude behind him has pulled up real close to his bumper and is chewing on gum with his practiced stare on meaner-than-you.
“Who is your enemy?” –is Andre’s SUBCONSCIOUS question, “God damn it! Nine twenty.” is his verbal mumbling.
“Weather for today is partially sunny, partially cloudy, with some chance of rain and some possibility of lightning and …” drolls the radio.
–>scene five later
