Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 14

Traffic moved inch by inch going south towards the city. The rat race, stuck in a crawl. Sanford drove north, without a car in front of him.

He had no briefcase to carry, no secretary to greet, no water cooler to stand around and discuss the ball game he hadn't watched from the night before. As he passed their cars he thought about this, and thought about how he would like to have those things, but knew he never could.

He thought about his father, how he blended in and played the role of the everyman. How he'd wave at the residents in town as he delivered their mail; how he fooled them all with a smile on his face. Sanford's own personality prevented him from doing such things. If he waved at a stranger, he'd feel awkward and obtrusive. His hand would be twitchy and his smile crooked.

How'd you do it, Jon?

Jonathan's brand of crazy was his own. Still, he played the role and was never himself unless he was alone. Sanford didn't want to pretend. Playing make-believe was a child's game.

Anytime Jonathan's face entered his mind, it did so with a shotgun underneath it, and his chin pressed against the barrel. Eventually, the image would dissolve, and a new face would appear. The blue eyes of his father would morph into the green of his own, and he'd see his own face resting on top of the gun.

No, not like that. Too messy...

His mind drifted back to the drive, and to his work van, which was also his car. Its rusted, maroon-painted body was wearing thin, and he could feel its malfunctions from under his ass. Dead Crow Cleanup in big bold letters, half peeled away, and not to mention the U was completely missing, was emblazoned on the side. He'd take the van to the grocery store, to therapy, to the movie theater; he'd take it to pick up Sadie. He always felt bad about that, especially after she requested to be picked up a block away from school so her friends wouldn't see her get into "that creepy van."

The commotion of the van was the soundtrack to his drive. The muffler sputtered with smoker's cough. The tires clicked as they spun, slapping their worn-out rubber against the pavement. Sanford gripped the wheel as he thought about his daughter and all of the ways that he failed her. He did so until all that clamor dimmed to the point of nonexistence.

The radio turned on.

It was a song where a man was singing about how he was a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?

"There, that's better. I don't know how you drive in silence like that, man. I mean we could at least talk, but you'd rather listen to the sounds of this shitty van," Panda said, and Sanford jumped out of his seat, forgetting he was even there, which was generally a hard thing to do.

Panda, or Vic Carol, was a beast of a man. He was large, but not in a muscular way. A layer of blubber coated his entire frame, so no one part of him was fatter than the other; he was just overall big, and bearish. That, with his pale, blotchy skin, led to his nickname. He was Sanford's only employee and only friend.

"Sorry, kinda forgot you were here," Sanford said.

"How could you forget that? I'm sittin' right fuckin' next to ya, and I'm as big as the van."

Sanford couldn't help but laugh. "I just get lost in thought sometimes."

"Well, just don't forget you're drivin', cause the airbags won't put a stop to lil ol' Panda here flyin' through the windshield," he said, chuckled, then threw a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

"Come on, man. I gotta pick up Sadie after school today. The van is bad enough as it is,  I don't need her breathing in that shit too."

"Really? It ain't like the smoke will be around in six hours." He took an elongated drag and blew it out.