Wayward

CHAPTER THREE

Mangy dogs hung around outdoor respirators - the free, cheap ones. The government was required to place them every couple hundred yards. The dogs would live half their normal lifespan in the wild streets of Halcyon City, breathing in poison in panting gulps. Jim got off the autobus. His eyes never left the dogs as he rounded the corner towards his home. You never know when they would catch a scent they liked. When they would chase. And they never stopped there.

There was an uncustomary coldness in the air that morning. He buttoned his jacket so that it hugged him close and shuffled through the clustered neighborhood in hurried strides, fidgeting with the backpack straps that dug into his shoulders.

The grass in the neighborhood's obligatory park glistened with either dew or mist from the sprinkler heads that ran on a schedule early most mornings. The asphalt path came to a halt just before Rose road.

Autocars glided across the streets in their smooth, unerring way. No one in them stopped for anything. Every action could be automated.

He trudged alongside the white line that separated the poor excuse for a bike lane from the road. The cracked yellow paint in the center of the road was clouded with skid marks and peppered with the occasional gravelly pothole. On the other side of the street there was a canal that stretched for miles in either direction, carrying nothing nowhere.

###

"Help me get the tarp over this," his father called. His drenched grey sweater was pulled up at the elbows, exposing greasy, hardened forearms. His father had always been that pair of arms, half-hidden, reaching into some machine.

The wind was violent. It whipped the tarp into the air like a parachute. They managed to tame the piece of fabric and Jim's father fastened it to the underside of the car. They took shelter in the garage, stood and watched the rain.

"This a new one?"

"Truck just dropped it off. This rain is horrible timing. I wish I could really show it to you."

"Shouldn't we get it into the garage?"

"I'm saying this against my better judgment. but I think it'll be fine with the tarp for now. It's probably worth more than this house."

Jim wished he had taken a better look when the car was still somewhat exposed. Now he tried to imagine what could be under the tarp. He looked at the creases and contours and tried to build the shape in his mind.

"People used to drive these themselves?" Jim said.

"Damn right they did. They even shifted the gears."

Jim tried to imagine being "behind the wheel" as his father always said.

"Who do you think will buy it?"

"This was a rare car, even back in its day. Probably some collector. Or someone rich person who wants another toy in the garage."

"How long will it take you to rig it?"

"When you say it like that it sounds like I'm doing it with paper clips and chewing gum."

Jim grinned at the image. His father shut the garage door, and Jim watched as the last sliver of dull light disappeared. "A few of the guys are going to come over tonight. With all of us working on it should only take a few days. If we find a buyer, we'll move even faster."

His father's hands dug through a toolbox. He threw down a dropcloth and arranged them on it like a doctor preparing for surgery.

"Go see if you can help your mom put a dent in that spaghetti," he said. "I made too much."

Jim wondered if his father would ever keep any of the cars he worked on. He had carved a niche for himself, working on the rare ones. The odd ones. They came in all shapes and sizes, unlike the uniform, chrome covered creations of the day.

"Wait. Mom said you had a Life Track meeting today."

"They called her?"

"Guess so. How'd it go?"

"It was fine, I guess."

"Come on Jim, give me something here."

Jim didn't want to talk about Life Track. In fact, it was the very last thing he wanted to think about.

"I just don't know where I fit in yet," he said.

His father set down the last tool. They formed a neat lineup. "Hand me those keys," his father said. Jim found them and tossed them. "Put your jacket back on."

###

The engine rattled the interior of the car. Warm air poured through the vents. Rain drops splashed in the puddles on the driveway. His father put a shoe on the gas pedal and the car roared.

"What makes this car special?" his father said.

"I don't know."

"You know the answer."

Jim didn't want to say the wrong thing. "Really, I'm not sure. It's different?"

"Exactly."

"And that makes it special?"

"It makes it what it is."

He pulled a lever and they were off. The wind raked through their hair. Jim had never experienced anything like it before. Autocars were designed to make you feel like you were sitting in your living room. This could not have been any further from that.

They tore down the city streets, going so fast that Jim felt they might tear a hole in

the universe. They passed beleaguered autocars whose shiny new cylindrical sensors pulsed blood-red with fright. They accelerated, swerved, slowed down, sped up again. They were in control. They were off the rails that held life together, and to Jim it felt like maybe that wasn't such a bad place to be.

They were so enthralled that they didn't notice the flashing lights behind them until they filled the entire rearview. Jim spent the next twenty minutes sitting in the car, while his father and the police officer discussed their fate outside. He returned with a ticket in hand, his smile lessened, but not diminished. The drive home took twice the time.

"I hear what you're saying." Jim rolled up his window. "But for every one of those cars there are a hundred - a thousand, a million - that got crushed and melted to make the new ones."

He watched the spotless, shimmering autocars dodge around their rusty boat of a car. The world was moving forward. And when the world moved forward it left things behind.