Some time in August | After dark |
This hatchback used to be the only place I could trust, but I can't even do that anymore. Harry gave me back the notebook that was hidden under the seat, and it looks like all the money I carefully stashed in here's gone too. He would probably say he took the money to pay for my medical bills, which he already had the company pay, but I know he stole it so I would have to go back and work for him again. I earned that money, and him trying to keep me poor and desperate makes me want to go back even less, but now I have another reason not to trust my car. The engine won't start, and I don't know what to do.
I laughed at first. I'm used to it overheating when I let it idle, but it always starts again eventually. I count on that. I kept trying, but nothing's happened yet. It's not out of gas. I know I had at least a quarter tank. This car has pushed itself to the limit over and over, so I know what those limits are.
I've got a helpless panic coming on and don't have a way to shut it out. I'm exposed to the world, and it's exposed to me. In my company apartment, I could close the curtains, lie in bed in a dark room and forget all the problems waiting outside for me, but I can't risk going back to the apartment, and the car windows don't have curtains.
All I can do is curl up in back and hope the engine figures out how to start itself.
I couldn't sleep after that. I lay staring at the floor covered in empty food packages.
I used to drink myself to sleep every night, didn't think I could get to sleep without wine, but I can't afford that now, and my injuries are too bad. In the hospital, I was sleeping at least 10 hours a night. After a couple of nights lying down in the hatchback, my body got too exhausted to complain anymore. I was so tired, I thought I could fall asleep anywhere, but not the night after the engine died. My mind just wouldn't shut up.
I climbed out and popped the hood, but the closest streetlight was behind the car, so the shadow of the hood fell across the engine. The I-80 overpass blocked the moonlight. I groped where I thought the battery would be. I couldn't find it.
There had to be cameras around. If the system were watching over me, it could dispatch someone to fix the car, but with Harry running things, it would charge me in advance for the most expensive guy, whether he showed up or not.
My company phone was half buried inside the torn leather upholstery of my passenger seat. I could use that little screen as a flashlight, but that would mean putting the battery back in, and that would let the system figure out where I was and tell Harry. Then I would definitely have to get moving.
"Can you give me a dollar?" The voice came from behind me. I spun around, and a black lady was pushing a shopping cart down the street towards me. Her wiry hair stuck out in every direction and her mouth hung open, showing me wide stretches of toothless gums.
I shook my head. I had a little change left over from when I pounded some plastic drums on the street corner, but not much.
"Come on, give me a dollar." Her voice and eyes were harsh. We were both beggars, but she was more aggressive.
I shook my head again. "I don't have a dollar." I didn't have anything really, except the car and the plastic bucket drums in the back seat.
I had a phone. I got that out of the car.
The woman saw the Blackberry and came closer. "Give me 2 dollars."
"No." I wondered if she was out on the streets because she loved wine like me, or maybe because some old friend betrayed her. I put in the battery, turned on the phone and aimed the screen at the engine to see.
Everything looked fine to me, but I don't know much about cars.
That's when the text messages started coming in. They must have all been in the air all that time, waiting for me.
HANS:
Come to the dispatch office
I need to see you, man
It is urgent you return to the dispatch office, winston
There were a bunch like that. I didn't know if they were from Harry or the HANS computer program. Both called me "winston." Harry still wanted me to take that job. I scrolled to the end.
The dispatch office is now shut down
Sooner or later, I might get to someone you do care about.
Mrs. McClane, how nice to make your acquaintance.
Those last lines were from Die Hard, when the original Hans found Bruce Willis's ex-wife. Could that be talking about Alli? Harry knows about her, but I haven't talked to her in months. Shit, that's like in Die Hard too. Those messages were recent.
Well, the system already knew where I was, so there was no reason not to answer.
winston:
go fuck yourself, hans
The answer to that came in about 3 seconds, which meant he was waiting for me to answer, or the computer sent it.
HANS:
If you will not join us, then perhaps she will.
"2 dollars!" The crazy lady was still there.
"No!" I backed away around the car to think for a second.
The programmers let the system watch them, and the system uses the information it collects to calculate what people will do next. Information about me was in there too. Whether it was Harry or the program sending those messages, someone calculated I would go to Alli, so I can't -- at least not when they expect it. The one chance I have to stay off the grid is to be completely unpredictable.
Hans had my position. I had to keep moving, but the hatchback wasn't getting me anywhere. All my living and eating and sleeping in the car turned it into a trash can, but it wasn't exactly cherry when I got it. It ran too hot when there was no reason, burning itself out, just like a punk. It had to die eventually.
I had to leave it. I turned to the crazy woman, pointing to her wheels, then mine. "I'll trade you."
"What, you wanna give me your car?" That got her attention.
"Yeah, I don't know what's wrong with it, but I have to go." Her shopping cart had blankets in it. I would need those. "And give me the blankets."
"You in trouble with the law, huh?" She flashed me her gums. "Yeah, I'll take your car."
"It's the company's car." My name was never on the registration. The system let me use it, but the car always belonged to the company, like the apartment.
I pulled out the phone's battery and put the two pieces in different pockets. I loaded my notebook and plastic drum set in her shopping cart, and I took a mug from the cup holder, the one I use for coffee. The mug for secret wine doesn't help me anymore.
I closed the hood and ran my hand along it. How much time did I spend in there? Reading back over these pages, most of the past year. A lot of these notes were written in the driver's seat of that car, but I can't trust it, can't trust anything anymore, except this notebook.
