Streetlights and neon signs, white and yellow snakes, raced past him and imprinted themselves onto his visual tract.
The night wasn’t very warm at all, and cold air was seeping in through the cracked edges of the car’s windows. He shivered, and zipped his coat all the way up to his neck. How did this journey start again? Oh, that’s right. An energy drink. He looked down at the unopened black can. He had paid three dollars for it. What a world, he thought. Shuck out a few dollars and sleep is an antiquated retreat for infants and the elderly.
He let the car take itself down a hill, complacently reaching a speed of twenty five miles per hour. Unlike many of his friends, driving fast didn’t interest him. He preferred to slide by the world, and he fancied himself an observer.
There was something about driving by oneself that fascinated him. He felt like a lone red blood cell, traveling the intricate weaving arteries of suburbia.
If there was a purpose here, he had forgotten it long ago, somewhere between his encountering the self-dubbed “emo” kids downtown and the subsequent debate on reasons for donning womanly pants.
“Dude, why do you fucking care? They’re comfortable.”
“As delightful as it must be to have a constant pressure on the jewels, don’t you guys want to have children some day?”
“Fuck off man.”
“Alright, alright, all I’m saying is that I can see all three of your testicles.”
After being deftly rejected when he suggested that they all “stake out Victoria’s Secret for specials on Wonder-Bras”, he decided that his homily was falling on deaf ears.
Besides, the car was calling.
Some day I’ll face some serious bodily retribution for these all-nighters, he mused.
Tonight, however, tonight he would glide along the icy streets of that town so resilient to change, singing quietly to himself as he watched for the next drifter who would certainly be willing to philosophize with him. The homeless in this town always were. They were the ones who had been so thoroughly swept off of their feet by life’s whirlwind forces while everyone else's remained snugly stapled to the ground. And so they knew plenty of flying through the air, something that naturally eludes the middle class adolescent.
The endless field of green traffic lights finally yielded a savory red, and he gently applied the brake. His car tidily fit into the neat grid of paired columns that accompany every red light.
This was probably the best part of it all.
They always looked at you, the people in the car next to you. Unless you were unfortunate enough to be caught in the back of the rows of cars and have no vehicle across from you at all, they always looked at you. And you always looked at them. And something always happened.
The way he viewed it, each person in that automobile next to you could and would teach you something. You just had to look carefully enough.
There were a few regulars. A few archetypes. Moms were fairly easily found in SUVS gabbing idly on cellular phones while children mashed buttons on their Playstations and Nintendos. He had learned long ago that technology can eliminate personal ravines and then tunnel out several more. One drive promised at least three carfuls of teenagers his own age with music so loud it rattled the strand of glass rings that hung from his rear view mirror. So he formed a rapport with the silence of his car. Still, the overwhelming majority of his experiences with neighboring cars, sadly, were the sharp scowls and sometimes foul hand gestures that were the result of his study being perceived as scrutiny, perversion, or, worst of all, condescension. And the giggles from teenage girls that he had for so long held contemptuously as persecuting amusement bubbled and gushed again.
Existing as the sole, bitter axis for all the earth’s laughter had been exhausting, and he was quite glad to roll the world back onto Atlas’ broad shoulders.
His fondness for red lights could most likely be traced to an intimate scene he witnessed between an aged couple where the stop in traffic allowed a slight squeeze of the hand and a tender gaze. It had been a long time since that he had confused Eros and Agape.
There were times, too, when he forced himself to turn away. Times, when the crush of life’s currents grew too swift and ruthless. And they weren’t matters of trauma. Mostly they were the business of society’s sinewy muscles; people perpetually bruised by the measured battering of such establishments as fashion magazines, feature films, and professional sports. Girls so thin he could see the almost hostile slam of their hearts on malnourished frames. Men so muscled that he thought he could smell the steroids welling out of their pores.
All of these thoughts cascaded down and about his head now as he came to a halt in front of that low shining, patriarchal ruby glow.
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Submission Name: Through the Crimson Lens
