The Fifth 1000 (ish)

[Dear reader: If you want to start at the beginning, read the First 1000 (ish), or read this 1000 (ish) on its own.]

Leaving the stable hum of work, and heading to her empty house, no plans for the night, Amy automatically prepped for her commute game. The game began when she made the left turn out of her office parking lot, her eyes on the road, her right hand searching her brown corduroy hippie bag for the pouch. She wanted to be plenty high when she finally eased onto I5 South. She told herself driving home high saved on the road rage. There was no reason to be straight, not on her commute or for the many nights when she’d be lost in a book, or drinking wine at Gin’s.

On the freeway the game was to brake as little as possible. She tucked the lighter under her outer thigh, plucked out the one-hitter she called the black cigarette, the glass sticky dark with resin. The already-loaded pipe had a flat mouth, like an old-timey cigar, good for toking-and-driving. Ready for the stop light, the loaded pipe rested on top of the pouch as she accelerated down the frontage road. She turned up the R&B station. “And we can party till the break of da-a-a-awn.”

Amy sat in the turn lane ready to cross the railroad tracks to weave on to the freeway. Third back from the light, she was almost sure to make it. She felt lucky today. She felt the pipe on her lap. Some days she didn’t wait for the onramp, but smoked out waiting for the turn. The onramp was a single lane, no cars on either side. Not that anyone cared, the onramp just seemed like the right place.

The green arrow, yes, she made it. Just as she cleared the railroad tracks red lights flashed, and looking back in her rear view she saw the cross bars start to lower. Amy let out a whoop, lifting lighter from under her leg and fishing out the pipe. How lucky to make the light and miss the train. She steered with her leg, took a long hit on the pipe, then cracked the window to blow out the smoke. The radio sang “Hey Mr. DJ, we can get this started.”

Amy accelerated up the ramp, the weed hitting her, she joined in “All night, all night.” It would be the fastest she went for the next forty-five minutes. Now the game began. In those few moments Amy took a big breath and imagined her day peeling off of her, blowing out the window with the smoke. Work was over, her obligations over. She eased into the slow line of cars. Clutch-brake, slip into the gap. Foot move to the gas, clutch-release, change lanes again. Coast. Now she was in the pocket, she slowed, leaving enough room ahead of her that she didn’t need to brake. If there wasn’t an accident, or weather, or a lane closed she could make it miles with no brakes.

The LB saw her mind unspool, like a skein of yarn that had finally lost its shape. The others tried to find the end, so they could at least stop it from becoming too tangled. The Second felt the trouble bubbling up from her stomach, but the fuzzy yarn curled down and, while the trouble was still there, the yarn blocked it from registering. The Guardian felt the Child needed a nudge, this couldn’t be like every day. The contract between the Child and the Man commenced. She dropped a seed from the fruit she was eating and it fell into the Child’s mind.

An idea sprung into Amy. All the men she loved before. They paraded in her mind. Danny, Mark, Kip, Jimmy, Gabriel? Why had his face suddenly appeared on that memory lane? She snapped out of her reverie from the glimmer of brake lights, cars were stopped ahead and around her. She slammed on the brake harder than needed, seeing she had plenty of room to stop. Fuck, she thought, . Jerk.

As her heart rate dropped she wondered why anger, that person didn’t deserve that. She was working on that lately, knee jerk responses. Amy looked behind the anger. She sat with it, letting the moment go through her mind on super slow-mo. Her thoughts had been wandering, she wasn’t paying complete attention, had gotten high. Seeing the brake lights, the car had looked as though it were zooming toward her at hyperspace speed, doubling in size in less than a second. Or it seemed that way. When she realized she had stopped short for no reason, she remembered a fission went through her and angrily she thought, oh great, a nervous braker. They doomed her game, requiring too much attention. That was the moment Amy wanted to see better. The frission. When anything happening became this is what happened that was the goods. Some “thing” that she defined, and she decided which way to go. The half of the fission that “lost” was Amy angry at herself for being a “bad driver,” but it was easier to blame the guy in front of her.

Amy held out her hand, palm facing the car in front of her. “Sorry dude,” she said out loud. Inside, she hoped her anger didn’t cause him any harm. Fear was connected to Anger, Amy believed. And those were just choices, among many possible choices. “Sorry dude,” she said again, and this time she was kind of saying it to herself too.

The Others sat with her in the car. The Grandma was also there, sitting directly behind Amy. The Others took care of the car, sharing the rest of the back seat, while the Second rode shotgun. They often rode with her like this. The Guardian didn’t ride in cars. The Child was so engaged with her interior, they could be very close. As the ideas and images flowed out and around her, the Second played with the patterns. It would be most fortunate if the Child could maintain some composure, since the First Meeting had only now happened. There was much to be gained. The emotions and thoughts flitted through the car and all pitched in, Grandma soothing, the Others very practically rearranging the simple structures and the Second focusing the benefits of the whole onto the patterns. The Guardian saw that the seed had been too direct. The Second had told her that method was too quick, but she sometimes became bored. It seemed to have harvested a different benefit. That was good. The LB retreated from the car, the Grandmother stayed.

Ten minutes later, well into her game and auto piloting her car, Amy thought of Gabriel. The smile, the chipped tooth, nearly flinging himself out of the chair. His physicality, tall, manly. She felt his warm hand in her palm. Blood rushed through her, lifting her breasts slightly. Trouble.