Gas Pedal

A road trip gone wrong

Muscle car. Bald, large man, one hand on the steering wheel, the other’s holding a cigarette. The window is open just a little bit to allow the smoke to go out and the wind to come in. Loud metal music. The man flicks away the cigarette, scratches his beard and lights another one. He watches the road with a sleazy gaze.

He travels through varied plough fields but in the distance mountains and forests are within view. It’s hot, the Sun’s radiating, only a few stray clouds are in the sky and before the car is nothing but the infinite highway, the running white stripes which are sometimes swapped by barrage lines, the heated concrete, the fifty meter markers, the stiff hedgehog at the edge of the road.

He stops at the gas station, goes inside the shop for some beer, answers only with some humming at the checkout, even when he wants to say keep the change, tanks, wipes the sweat off his forehead, finishes. A small breeze comes, he stands through it with closed eyes then hops back into the car and drives off loudly.

The plough fields are replaced by the forest. The mountains are approaching. A red car shows up in the other lane, a man with glasses wearing a shirt and tie drives it with a moody face. They pass each other.

The man lights a fag again, the road is empty, he frees his hands and steers with his knees. He opens a can of beer. Perfect calmness, he thinks, travelling, movement, fags, beer and nowhere is a single soul to be found, can it get any better than this? The trees almost make a tunnel as they lean towards the road, the Sun’s rays breach the leaves only here and there, projecting a dotted texture on the road.

Suddenly, a deer jumps out to the road. The man gets horribly scared, throws the beer away, grips the steering wheel and draws on his cigarette: “Scare your slut mother, motherfucker!” And steps on the gas.