DRIVING IN BROAD DAYLIGHT could get you caught or killed; Louisiana proved it. Go. Go. I needed to get far, far, far away, though, re-route, keep going for Texas.
I don't remember why I'd left so quickly. I wish I understood my old compulsions, I do. Because I'd been in love with New Orleans. Things had been better... further from New England. My first real pitstop—Lafayette, LA—had been jarring, a fleet of thawing, drawling gentlemanly gestures. Nobody had told you about That Southern Charm. It would be years before you met Casey Kelly, personally understood its grit.
But I'd lost it in Louisiana.
Sweat clung to my body.
It was too hot, inhumanly hot, a sweltering heatwave about to break open above us. I stripped away a Harvard hoodie, down-dressed into minimal clothing: a tiny strapless romper I'd packed for climates I couldn't quite grasp. Dry. Wet. Conditions you'd learn to endure endlessly.
Everything in New England was harsh, but in ways you couldn't compare—grey on grey on grey, drearily dark from October to April. Mom always raved about colors in Florida.
My body cooking in a damp heaviness, humidity choking my lungs.
Sweat poured down your brow.
Brutal, I'll tell you. I wasn't made for it—for Texas or Florida or Louisiana. Heat.
Deliriousness. Lightheaded on I-49.
AC didn't work in Dirt Nasty. I don't know if it ever did. If you cranked it, a grinding squeal split up, somewhere beneath my hood, somewhere deep enough I didn't know. Wes would know, but I couldn't bring myself to call him, even from a payphone in New Orleans.
No, no, no. I straightened, sped up, inched past a blurring Tacoma. I needed to get out of Louisiana, and fast, I needed to go now. GTFO. My brain felt too scattered, I remember. I pressed harder, passed an F-150. Clouds darkening a bruising sky.
Something had scared you.
Why can't you outrun it? Why can't you do it?
But in Louisiana is when you lost it.
Repeating yourself. Mumbling. Cycles.
Die.
Why won't you just... die?
Red. Blue. Lights spiraling a blinding brightness behind you. Panic pinpricked into your brain, incapacitated you. Dread. It was happening. Finally. Whatever you're fucking running from...
Vaguely, I remember an air-horn announcement blaring: PULL OVER!
My heart catching up to my heel, ground down, needling us past 95 MPH.
Die.
Sweat in your gaze, burning a blurry flash. Tears. Road cutting up beneath you, whittling away wildly. Texas, I needed to hit Texas.
...it will catch up to you.
Pull over! Pull over your vehicle! Now!
My elbows jerked. Fishtailing. Everything crunching up rumble-strip, wavering incoherently. I locked my limbs, clutched my steering wheel, braced myself before I veered sharply, slamming on my brakes to screech into a patchy dirt area: Shreveport 8. So close to a border, to Texas.
Red. Blue.
It slowed behind you. Inhaling choppily, dizzily. His siren was deafening, echoing, rippling off a pulse of vibrating vehicles, blurring by.
Sweat beading on my upper lip. I wiped a sleeve across my damp cheeks as I stole a glance in my side mirror: ALL OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR. Door of an SUV opening, a stark black against a moody horizon; decals for a Natchitoches Parish Sheriff. Fuck.
His silhouette was dusky, approaching quietly.
I rolled my window down, peered up. Darkness cloaking you. Everything jittery and fizzing. It wasn't over yet.
"Hi," I remember saying, only because he didn't say anything. He stood stoically. His broad shoulders casting a cool clarity between us. Behind, a bright, blistering backdrop. His jaw was square, rugged, and I'd been leery of him. His roguish glare beneath a wide-brimmed hat, a John Wayne Western. Cowboys had never been your story.
"License," he drawled, a sickly low gruff you barely understood: "Registration, too."
I nodded numbly. I didn't argue. I hadn't slept in a few days.
"Do you know I clocked you going 101?"
"Oh." Oh. "Shit. Really?" I blinked, feigning ignorance, but guilt, nonetheless, as if I hadn't been praying for a swift, merciless death before railroading into Texas. It didn't matter. Sheriff Lawrence wasn't looking at you. "I haven't... slept in a bit, and I'm... I'm kind of breaking it for Texas."
He jotted a quick slash in a notebook, squinted, sifting a thumb over it carefully. Registration. "Yeah? Sure are a long way from home, Richard, is it? Richard Benson? What's in Texas?"
Fuck.
My heart plummeted, I remember.
Everything expired, a reportedly stolen vehicle, out-of-state plates, criminal speeding, arrested in Louisiana. Mom would be so pissed.
"Alright, turn it off," he sighed, signaling for my ignition. I do it, drop my keys in my console loudly. His hand on a radio, a hand beckoning you, chin upturned, looking for somebody. Backup. "Take off your seatbelt. Step out of the vehicle for me."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I stepped out of Dirt Nasty, stood up petulantly. Only his Ford SUV idling.
"Shoes?"
No.
"How old are you?"
His hand draped across my shoulder, and I nearly flinched.
"I'm 17," I admitted, averting my gaze. Runaway, he'd classify it. Minors.
"Mhm. Homecoming Queen." Sheriff Lawrence snorted, but tapped my hip, ushering us from my driver's door to my back bumper: "Here. Up against it." His hand on my hip, pressing my belly against my bumper gently. I tried to look; a thumb and forefinger on my chin, forcing my gaze forward... "Don't. Move." My wrists planted firmly, let go. "Got it?"
My pulse spiked, but I nodded groggily.
His footsteps faded away. His door opening. His radio fizzing...
Only a few feet behind you.
Everything a vague heatstroke of a blur. Zooming. The ground shook, churned below you—in every flash and flit—as I let my flesh cook against a grey-gold Civic. I was bent over, slightly, but I didn't dare straighten, look up again. I glanced down at a marred, deformed plate: 100AEA. It was visible, legible, and I knew I was fucked.
He'll know. He'll run it.
Hearing him speak in a low, husky drawl: "10-12, I've got a 21... Possible 48... I believe Up North..."
Okay. Okay. Repeating it under your breath as you snuck a glance over your shoulder, saw him sitting in his seat, his door propped open, his gaze dead ahead, watching... you. He'd want a favor, and I was short on acts of gratitude; I'd rather go Thelma and Louise.
Fingers fiddling at a short hem, a romper hiked up my hips, and Sheriff Lawrence looked away. Men are so stupid. At least Dean could sense it. Trouble.
I peeled myself off slowly, itchy skin, barefoot, a throbbing sunburn setting in, and I didn't think. His gaze was cast down. Behind him, a blustery black dust had stirred up, a tornado following you to Texas.
Texas.
GO GO GO GTFO.
I ran, and I didn't look back. I dropped into Dirt Nasty, snagging my keys, jamming my keys, wrenching my keys, and ripped away from a deteriorating rumble-strip violently. Shreveport 8.
His sirens blaring. Red. Blue. Blackness.
The Mountain Goats. John Darnielle praying for you. Distant Stations. All Hail West Texas. Somewhere, I'd found it, but I couldn't remember.
