50% of Heaven, 50% of Hell

Chapter Two: 1967 Chevy Impala

     I take out my phone, averting my eyes from the road to look at the screen. Pressing the power button, I sigh when it stays black. Piece of crap phone, I need a replacement as soon as possible. Nancy had called me after I had walked all the way to the cafe to inform me that we were not opening today. Thankfully my car started up right away. Too bad my phone couldn't be the same.
    
     I could go see a movie on my day off, but the theater won't open until five. Heading back to my apartment sounds like a better idea than riding around town for several more hours. Clouds are starting to roll in, big black and purple thunderheads. Its odd, considering the news had actually reported nice weather for once.

     New York is terrible when it rains. It gets all depressing and gloomy, and and most of the time lasts weeks on end before the sun shines through on our soaked little corner in the world. There is a rise in suicides and murders around this time, as if the weather directly mirrors our moods.

     Bored out of my mind, I turn on the radio and flip through the stations. On Sunday there's mostly just talks shows and song mashups. I listen to the last words of Slipknot, "Duality" before I switch to a new station. An announcer comes on, screaming into his microphone about the amazing new One Republic song. Against my better judgement, I stop flipping through the never ending channels to listen.

     Lately I've been, I've been losing sleep

     Dreaming about the things that we could be

     But baby, I've been, I've been prayin' hard

     Said no more counting dollars

     We'll be counting stars

     Yeah, we'll be counting stars

     The song seems to reach to me, almost like a soothing response to the crazy that has been happening to me. As if the singer is trying to tell me "hey, yea, me too. Everyone's a little messed up.

     Old, but I'm not that old

     Young, but I'm not that bold
    
     And I don't think the world is sold

     I'm just doing what we're told

     Something clicks in my head when I hear that,  like an echoing whisper.

     Everything that kills me makes me feel alive

    An odd whisper creeps in all around me, as if many voices are overlapping, trying to talk at once. The radio cuts to static, and no amount of my hitting it or turning knobs cuts it back on. In the old car, things jams up and do weird things. I look up,  gifting the road with my undivided attention.

     A cross is reflected in my window, and I look out to see the massive church a couple blocks from the cafe. I slow for a moment; should I go? Talk to a priest, pray to God? Sounds like a good way to get sent to the looney bin. I recall my desperate late night attempt to contact the man upstairs. Once is good enough.

     I realize I automatically drove in a big circle back to the coffee shop, so I make a U-turn to go back to my apartment. No movie today, I'm ready to catch up on my nightmare-riddle sleep. I have to drive by the alleyway that my dream took place in. Or my non-dream, I don't know what I have decided it is.

     Before I know it, I've stopped about 20 yards from the alley where evil seems to ooze out into the air. I don't know what I want to do, what I'm trying to prove. Before I can move to get out of my car, I see a black, 1967 Chevy impala pulling up, another classic. Had it been any other car, I might have gotten out, but never in my seventeen year as a New Yorker have I seen that distinguishable car. They park not even 15 feet from me, and I slide down in the seat to stay unnoticed.