Names (Part 3)

The stars know what I've done.

The trial, the prison. The called it self defense. It didn't hurt that the trial was in Russia and the other girl was an American.

The claw marks, they didn't explain. How, I don't know? It's over now.

Free, to run across the forests, to think I even could've been locked in that ship. The intricacies of the plants and the moss like the circuits and wires on a computer board.

The stars know what happened up there and how I took their child but do they understand the fear?

There is prey ahead, a girl. She's blonde

It reminds me of Sophie, before she changed.

The hand on the hatch's handle is not a hand, though I feel it at the end of my arm. There is fur there, and it is matted and greasy, hanging limply over the claws which shine in the harsh light of the LEDs. The shape, so much like a hand, is still mine and as I flex the claws I feel blood rushing from my heart and a pulsing in my mind. A hunger.

“Sophie? What are you doing in there? Just calm down, okay.”

I move my lips to speak, to calm her so that she will be easy prey, but there is only a grunt which come out in spurts. Like the laughing of a wolf ill accustomed to the way's of speech, it can't help but have the opposite effect.

“Sophie. . . are you sick in there?” She's breathing heavily and I sense it for the first time. I can smell her fear, even though the sealed hatch. I can smell her more than I ever could before and suddenly I remember those scents in the bunk, of fear and of frustration. “Those noises. . .”

She's whimpering a little now, though she doesn't realize it, and something makes me look in the mirror on the wall above the toilet. There's the creature again with it's blood red eyes, looking out at me and smiling. Grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear, it's fangs hanging and dripping. It mouth's a word at me and though its lips were not designed for such, I know what it's saying. It says, “Go.”

And I do.

* * *

The warmth from the rocks soothes me and I look away from the stars. They judge me for what happened amongst them, but the earth knows what is right and what is wrong. The earth accepts her children and understands their hungers and their needs. She created us so long ago and she always calls us back to her, no matter how far we may stray.

But the stars, they will not stop staring down at me. They know I took their child, but it was not my fault. Not my fault that the earth sent one of its own to them.

The courts called it self defense, though they didn't attempt to explain the claw marks and the deep red blood sprayed against the ship's windows. They didn't wonder why the girl might have attacked me and why I would need to trap her in the air lock. They did wonder at the flayed skin of my arms and postulated how she might've done it. I didn't tell them of course.

When I made it back, after bringing the ship in those last few weeks, they found her there still in the airlock and they said she must've had some weapon she'd hidden aboard. Some weapon which had been sucked out into space, for nothing on board could have left marks like that. Her body was still lying there covered in my blood when they found her, though by then the hunger was creeping up on me as well.

It didn't hurt that the courts were in Russia and the girl an American. Of course I was suspended without leave, but I'd stopped caring at that point. It let me go home, to the forests.

The moss under my skin is so intricate; to think I even could've been trapped aboard a ship up there with nothing but the judging stars. The weave of the lichen is like the circuits I treasured there and the wirey strands of moss like the insides of a computer. How much better here though, the circuitry which heals itself.

The reflection in the water of the stream beneath my perch is clear and in the moonlight I can see myself. The fangs, dripping and glistening in the dim light of the uncaring moon, the fur matted and white on my shoulders. The creature stares back at me and I am it. No wonder the other one felt she was going mad on that ship. This creature need's her mother earth to live. If only I had known then I might not have killed her before she passed on her gift.

But tonight I understand and my prey is before me, walking back to her house under the cover of the moss coated oaks. She cannot see me but I can smell her, can smell the hint of freshness which always comes with the young. Can smell that she is unaware and will be an easy kill.

I do wonder what her name is though. She reminds me a little of Sophie.

Names (Part 2)

“Scaring you? I was just…” I turn toward Darya. Her pretty blue eyes are a mix of concern and fear.

“Just needed a minute, that’s all.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down? Your face, it was…” She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know how to describe it. You’re so pale.”

“I’m fine, Dar.” I glance back at the mirror. The creature’s gone.

“Darya,” she insists. “My name is Darya. If you’re sure you’re fine…”

“More than sure, Dar…I mean, Darya.”

“Alright, then. Make sure not to over do it on your shift.”

“Yes, Mother.” I roll my eyes in jest, and it seems to work. A smile twitches at the corners of Darya’s lips before she sets off to the bunk for some rest.

I stand in front of the mirror, searching it. Darya’s right. My face is pale, almost skeleton-white, in the mirror’s reflection as I trace my fingers along the mirror’s edges looking for any sign of the creature. There’s nothing but a sense of dread, a faint heat emanating from the mirror’s surface. I run to my Evo suit and put it on in record time,and throw myself into the work in hopes of banishing the creature from my mind. It doesn’t work. The creature’s eyes follow all through my shift and stare down at me as I fall asleep.

* * *

Over the next few days, Darya watches me closely. At first I think it’s as much out of self-preservation than anything. A sick partner can make so many things go wrong; one wrong decision outside the ship can leave a partner dead or incapacitated; either way, your trip gets cut short and your pay cut with it. Darya, though, she cares enough to look after me, or as much one can do on a ship like this. It’s a moot point in the end. The creature dogs my steps on the ship like a poltergeist. I see it in the corner of my eyes when I’m by myself; it flashes across the mirror when I wash my face in the morning. Every night it’s the last thing I see as I close my eyes. On the few occasions I find myself staring into its eyes, I feel the dread, evil feeling that curdles my stomach and sends the blood rushing to my head. I’m losing my mind, but I can still do my job. It doesn’t matter how much I lose it so long as I can do what I’m being paid for. The end of the job is only a month out. I can make it. I can make it. I can…

“Sophie? Are you alright?”

No, I’m not. I try to tell her, but nothing comes out but a hacking cough. I can barely keep myself standing; my knees keep threatening to buckle even as I lean against the wall.
Darya places her hand on my back.

“It’ll be alright, Sophie.”

I want to to tell her to leave and run as fast as she can from me. That heat, that poisonous feeling, surges and falls like a wave in my stomach, and something – or someone – else skirts the corner of my mind, thinking thoughts that can’t possibly be mine. My vision blurs.

“It’ll be fine, Sophie,” Darya says again. “Just lie down, you’ll see.”

“No!” I can’t believe a voice so high and so scared, almost to the point of screeching, belongs to me. I push her away, and I hear her gasp as she stumbles and falls; by that time, I’m already running, panicking, with no better sense of direction than a frightened deer. I find myself in the bathroom. I lock the door.

I stop in front of the mirror. My reflection’s gone. In it’s place is the creature, its eyes burning hot, its lip curled into a sneer. It laughs, a low, guttural, booming sound, and I feel the last bit of myself slip away.

“Sophie! Sophie, are you in there? Answer me!”

My hand reaches for the door, but I’m no longer the one in control.

Names (Part 1)

The rock is cold and smooth beneath my fingers and after awhile, despite the chill, I start to feel it pulsing slightly. I feel the smooth stone moving under my fingertips ever so gently and through it I imagine I can feel the entire planet reaching up to me, touching me and soothing me. Telling me it will be okay. Willing me to be silent and calm.

The stars though, they tell a different story. As I feel the gentle pulsing of the stones beneath my hands and even my bare feet, the smooth cool surface of the broad river rocks under my naked calves and the gentle moss under my arm, I can also feel the stars looking down on me with a different pulsing. One altogether more ominous and not so comforting as the earth beneath me.

The stars know what I've done.

* * *

“Sophie, watch out!”

Darya's voice calls out from the earpiece in the slightly static way that everything has up here and I look up to see the girder drifting gently towards me. Silly Darya, always clumsy when she's in an Evo suit and always nervous about it.

“I see it Dar, don't worry. I'm a big girl.”

I hope she can sense the smile through my voice but I know it's hard for her. She is so sensitive to the smallest slight or displeasure. It's amazing how quickly one can become attached to a person in so few months. It is easier when there is only the two of you, especially if you occupy one bunk by turns. After a while you come to understand the scents left in the pinned down sheets when the other leaves. Come to know from the smell of their sweat if they are happy or discontent.

If they are nervous because a micro meteorite hit part of the rigging for the solar collectors. If they are nervous because they know they'll have to spend time outside the cabin with you.

“I'm sorry, Sophie. I just have such a hard time with these big gloves, you know? I was really designed to work on electrics, not this big brutish stuff.”

“Well don't think for an instant I'd ask you out here to help if I could do it on my own! I'd hate to put those delicate little hands of yours in danger.”

But she's right. Her hands really were designed for soldering connections on circuit boards and constructing tiny apparatus, not for moving three thousand pound girders around the perimeter of a spacecraft. Not that we can feel the weight of those girders. And those hands, so delicate. So unlike the big Russian farm girl I expected her to be when I found her name on the crew allotment. A shame—she would've been much more useful out here if she had been that Russian farm girl instead.

“I can handle this, even if I'm not a big bear like you. I'm just a little clumsy, that's all.”

“I know, I know. I'm just messing with you, Dar. Don't worry.”

She's silent for a while then, hovering on the end of her tether about twenty feet away, watching me as I slip the new girder into place on the solar arm and then pushing the damaged one off and away from the ship. I wish I could see inside that helmet of hers and know what she thinks in there. As many times as I've done these stints, I've never been so intrigued by the oddities of another worker like this one. Usually they are big thoughtless cows who have no thoughts besides the pay off at the end of the trip, not scared little girls with blonde hair and shifting blue eyes.

We shall see how we feel in another three months, at that. By the end of the out-solar run everyone reaches a point where they no longer care for the other worker, only for the voyage to end. I cannot wait for that time.

* * *

“I really wish you wouldn't call me 'Dar,' you know.”

“And why not? You call me Sophie.”

“Yes, but you introduced yourself as Sophie. I told you my name was Darya.”

“Oh, but that's such a silly name, Darya. So indiscriminately Russian and harsh. Dar has such a nice ring to it, though.”

“Maybe. I just like my name, that's all. Couldn't you respect that?”

“Meh, who cares. We only spend a few sentences together each day. I could call you anything and it would make no difference.”

“But Sophie, it would. Our names are all we have that make us human.”

“All we have? All we have?! And this spacecraft? These mining tools which we use to harvest the asteroids a million miles from our home planet? This doesn't make us something special? Something human?”

“No.”

“And what does, at that?”

“Our souls, Sophie. Our souls and the names they wear.”

* * *

It's staring at me, and in its eyes I see a fire burning. The flames lick up in little tendrils from around the deep orange pupil, licking the edges as if testing for a weakness there. Flicking out toward the edges of the eye as if each one carries the burning heart of a glistening sun. Solar flares of evil running out from the thing's brain and poisoning the world outside.

The eyes like worlds surrounded by the matted black fur that glistens in a way no fur should glisten. Fur that doesn't float outward in the weightlessness but instead hangs flat and dry, but glistening all the same. And why should a space faring creature have fur at all?

Fur or fangs, which glisten with the light from the ship's LED lights. Fangs which send tiny little globules of moisture floating in any direction away from them. Why should a creature in the night of space have fangs and fur at all.

“Sophie, why are you staring in the mirror like that?”

“What?”

“You're scaring me.”

A Cold Night (Pt. 3)

Well, there goes any chance of him being interested in me. Look at the crazy Asian snooping through the photos under the mirror while he hooks up the car, desperate to see if he's a keeper because that's a valid concern before I ask him to fuck me in the backseat. Okay, maybe he doesn’t know all that. Stop it, Rachel.

“Sorry, they all kind of fell out and I was trying to put them all back but they . . .”

Goddamn it, now I just sound more crazy.

“Um . . . Ok. Here, I'll just throw them in the glove box.”

Of course when he takes the pictures from me, while I sit there hoping he doesn't notice how red my face is, I mean really, it's just the cold, I notice he's got big hands. You know what they say about that. Gotta keep it together. Must be the cold getting to me. That and the full moon. It's a full moon right?

“I got the car all hooked up. Dispatch said your address was over in Marietta? 2150 Indiana Ave, right?”

“Yes. I mean, yeah that's it. I can give you directions.”

“Thanks, but I know that side of town pretty well. I had an ex-girlfriend that lived over there. I mean, a long time ago. It might've changed. Yeah, you should give me directions. Yeah.”

Is he stammering? He is. Maybe he thinks I'm cute. I mean, I am pretty cute. And he's a tow truck driver so his standards are probably pretty low.

“So what's the thing with pineapples?”

* * *

“Maam? Can I help you?”

The hell? She may be cute but maybe this girl is a nut job. What the hell is she doing looking through my photos. I mean, they may just be random crap but really. . . Maybe she's a psycho who pretends to break down and then fucks with the tow guy. But I did see that busted radiator house when I popped the hood and damn if there wasn't antifreeze all over the place.

“Sorry, they all kind of fell out and I was trying to put them all back but they . . .”

Oh. Why am I over thinking all this so much? Just a simple mistake. She was probably just curious anyway and that means that she's curious about me. Good sign. Means maybe she's interested after all. And a possible nut job. Oh well, they're usually better in the sack anyway. Not that that's all I'm thinking about. And now I've just been staring at her for like a whole minute.

“Um . . . Ok. Here, I'll just throw them in the glove box.”

But her knees are in the way of the glove box and when she pulls them away I see that she's blushing like crazy. It's really cute on her though and I have to admit I get a little tingle when I reach past her knees in those skinny leg pants and see that underneath all those layers she's actually pretty petite. Man, I hope she's not a nut job. Let's see what she says on the ride.

“I got the car all hooked up. Dispatch said your address was over in Marietta? 2150 Indiana Ave, right?”

“Yes. I mean, yeah that's it. I can give you directions.”

“Thanks, but I know that side of town pretty well. I had an ex-girlfriend that lived over there.” Goddamn it, Ian! Never bring up an ex girlfriend when you're talking to a new girl! I mean, she's just a AAA pick up but fuck now I sound like I'm not interested and fucking A. Fix it. “I mean, a long time ago. It might've changed. Yeah, you should give me directions. Yeah.”

Bad save but at least we both sound like nut jobs now. She's still blushing over there at any rate, and now we're driving off with that yellow Mercedes bouncing around on the flatbed out back. Still curious about that.

“So what's the thing with pineapples?”

“Um, what?”

* * *

“I mean, when all the pictures fell out and I picked them up and I saw a picture of this couple and at the bottom it said, 'Pineapples, am I right?' and I just wondered what that meant. I mean, I was curious.”

Like I don't sound like a retard now with all that pouring out of me. Good going. Guess I won't get to squeeze that cute butt after all.

“Oh,” He's laughing though. It sounds nice, like it comes from deep in his chest and somehow it accents his manliness when it does. Or maybe it's just the mountain man beard. “It's just this thing we had back in college, me and Eric. My friend in the picture I mean.”

He's looking at me and he's smiling and maybe he doesn't think I'm weird after all. “It's kind of juvenile I guess, but we used to joke about calling tits, err breasts, pineapples, and when he met Carol we were at a bar and when she walked by he said 'Nice pineapples on that one, eh?' So when they got married it was just kind of silly, you know? Just college stuff.”

“No, it's cute. She did have nice pineapples, anyway. I'll start calling them that too.”

Of course mine are more the size of tangerines but hey, girls from China can only ask for so much. Maybe he'll like 'em anyway. Brian never did so it'd be nice if someone appreciated them. He always wanted me to buy a bigger pair of pineapples but this guy, I don't think he'd be that way. Especially since I keep catching him checking me out and trying to hide it.

“So, you like knitting?”

“Not that I was spying on your or anything. I just noticed the stuff in the back seat when I was hooking the truck up to that pretty ass of yours.”

Did he really just say that? Yes he did.

“I mean, your car. Hooking the truck up to your car. Your Mercedes I mean, I like your car. It's really cool. I mean I like old Mercedes, and it's a cool color and--” And I'm laughing my ass off.

“It's okay. I'll take that as a compliment. Yours is pretty nice too, you know.”

And of course we're there before we know it. I guess I didn't realize how close I was to home when I broke down. I almost could have walked here.

* * *

“Um, is this the address?”

“Yeah, that's my house. I didn't realize we were so close though. And conversation was just getting interesting too.”

Interesting? Yeah, embarrassing too. This girl is getting me all mixed up, but I kind of like it.

“Yeah, yeah it was.” I smile at her but that's about all I can do. This is the part where I usually fail miserably anyway. “Let me just go unload the car.”

And there went my chance. And now I have to go back out into the freezing ass cold and undo her car so she can go do whatever it is she does and I can go home alone. Good one, Ian. Good one.

“All done. I managed to get the car in the driveway pretty well for you, hope it's alright.”

“Yeah, it looks good.” I guess she took off another layer while I was getting the car undone. I swear I couldn't see cleavage before. “Ian, I know this must be a long terrible night for you. Would you like to come up and I'll make you some hot tea? We can talk about pineapples some more. . .”

Wait, what? Is this really happening . . . Maybe being a tow truck driver isn't so bad after all.

“That would be amazing! God knows I love Chinese teas too. I mean, I'm just coming off shift too.”

Woah, curb your enthusiasm there boy. And of course I'm scheduled another four hours but damn, I'll make something up tomorrow. Fuck Bubba anyway, I swear she just winked when she got down out of the truck.

* * *

I promise I don't do this all the time. Inviting tow truck drivers up to my apartment, I mean, but really he seems like such a nice guy. And that thing they say about big hands . . . Well, let's just say that in Ian Boyd's case, they're right.

A Cold Night (Pt. 2)

We’re gonna do it. Goddammit. Why is that that first thing I think of? Alright, I’m being too hard on myself; it’s not the first thing I think of but it’s one of them. But man I have a thing for well taken care of beards. And beautiful blue eyes…

And I mean really. Why? Why did an image of him plowing into me real hard in my back seat seem the least bit sexy? Because it does. Girls who go at it in the back seat of their cars are pretty skanky. Unless they’ve been with the guy… or girl, I don’t judge… for a while. If you’ve stuck it out long enough, go forth and christen every surface of your home or motor vehicle.

He raises an eyebrow. I must have been spacing out. I roll down the window. “Um, yeah, I’m Rachel. You the AAA guy?”

He smiles and nods. Damn. Nice teeth. That’s a plus. “Yes. My name is Ian Boyd…”

Hm, Rachel Boyd has a nice ring to it…

“… err, you’ve had some engine trouble tonight, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” The layers of clothing might make me appear fatter than I am. My sister said eating too much salt makes the skin under your chin hang longer making it look like you’ve got a double chin. Do I look like that right now? I am not obese. I may not like the way I look in a bikini but I rock a halter one-piece like it’s no one’s business.

“Alright I’m going to pull up the truck and hook you up- err hook up your car that is and get us out of here.”

Wait, did he say hook me up?

“If you’ll step out, ‘maam, you can sit in the truck with me to get you all settled tonight.”
I smile. “Oh, okay.”

I’m sitting in the front seat of his tow truck, heat blasting because stepping outside for one second felt like being a member of the Polar Bear club. Still, it’s a nice view because I’m not-so-shamelessly checking out his butt.

I look around the dash of his truck. There’s a photo sticking out of the pull down mirror. He’s not looking and I pull it down. A bunch of other photos come spilling out too of course. I gather them up and check again. Good, he’s not looking.

Aw, there’s a few with a dog. Looks like a mutt- maybe a rescue. Good, animal lover. One with an older gentlemen. They look alike. Guessing that’s his dad or his uncle. Full head of hair that’s nice. Bald wouldn’t be a deal breaker, but nothing to shake a stick at either. Then there’s a wedding thank you card. Ian’s all dressed up with rolled up sleeves and a grey tweed vest next to a black couple, the bride and groom. ‘Best. Best-Man. Ever. Thanks so much from Carol and me. Love ya Ian … PS Pineapples, am I right?!‘ Aw that’s so cute! Wait! That is one sick Tibetan tiger tattoo he’s got branded on his arm!

I’m beginning to rethink my stance on back-seat hook-ups. Heh. Hey, but you never know. He’s looking like a keeper…

“‘Maam? Can I help you?” Fuck, he’s in the car and his photos are in my hand.

***

Man, she’s pretty. But, ha, she kind of looks like Nana’s cat all bundled up in layers like that. Yup, that just happened. I just compared this girl to my Nana’s cat. Smooth. Does she bring all those clothes with her just in case or what? I mean being prepared is a good thing. It would have been terrifying to come here and find a woman in hypothermia.

I’m not sure which would have made me more upset. Finding an old bat frozen in her car or Rachel here. That’s a terrible thought. I’m going to stop right there.

“Um, yeah, I’m Rachel. You the AAA guy?” Man, I have a thing for Asian girls. It’s not like I’m not attracted to other women but Asian women. It’s not a fetish, guys that fantasize about geishas and shit are pretty gross. But I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s their eyes. They are kind of beautiful.

“Yes. My name is Ian Boyd… ” I smile, awkwardly I think because I pause almost waiting for a reaction but I don’t get any. “…err, you’ve had some engine trouble tonight, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Rachel’s eyes are kind of beautiful. Jerome says it’s not racist to like one kind of woman over another. It’s like saying you’re racist because you like women with big tits. It’s just a preference. And he’s black so that means… no. That’s not right…

“Alright I’m going to pull up the truck and hook you up- err hook up your car that is and get us out of here.” Fuck. Fucking mouth. With your stupid fuck ups. Now she’s going to think all I want to do is hook up with her.

I think I see her smirk. Not sure if that’s a sympathy smirk…

The cold is getting to me. Alright, stop day dreaming and get to work. “If you’ll step out, ‘maam, you can sit in the truck with me to get you all settled tonight.”

“Oh, okay.”

Oh, okay? That’s not a good sign. She doesn’t seem interested. I don’t think. I help her into the truck and turn up the heat and get back to work. Turning around again and getting another look at her ride, yeah. It’s a nice car. She has nice taste. I could have figured out just looking at her. She left all her extra layers in her back seat, only taking her blanket into the truck.

In the back seat of her car is a bouquet of flowers. Fuck, she has a man. Oh, wait a minute. There’s a photo of Rachel with a baby and another woman in a hospital gown. ‘Thanks Auntie Rachel! Xoxo Your Favorite Nephew, William‘ These flowers are fresh. Her sister must have had a kid. Well congrats!

There’s also a tote bag tucked away in the back seat with a bunch of yarn and some knitting needles. There’s a long scarf folded and stuck into the bag. It’s got this nifty braided thing going on with neon yarn. Huh, she’s crafty. That’s nice. I’ve always found women who create something are of a better caliber than those that just buy everything. Maybe I’m making that shit up but my ex didn’t make anything. Not even toast. Just ate cold Pop Tarts every morning for breakfast. Kind of like how she ate our my heart in cold blood.

I’m feeling like a cold Pop Tart myself so I finish up my work and head over to the car. Maybe start up a conversation or something. Rachel seems like a nice person… a nice, cute person…

I open the driver’s seat door and Rachel’s looking at my photos. “‘Maam? Can I help you?”

A Cold Night (Pt. 1)

Of course my car broke down tonight, when the temperature sets a new record low. It's five degrees and snowing and of course that's when the thing decides to overheat. What kind of logic is that? Stupid Mercedes.

Of course it was my choice to buy a thirty year old car, but it's so trendy, it has so much soul. Not that it does me any good right now on the side of the road with the snow falling and hot water dripping out of the radiator and hissing on the pavement. After only a couple of weeks and this happens. At least I have AAA and an iPhone to keep me busy in the meantime.

And scarves. Crazy me who has to always be prepared for everything, I have a blanket, an extra jacket, and don't think I'm crazy but three extra scarves in the backseat along with a cute beanie cap. That's me, always prepared. The hat and one of the scarves even match the color of the car. Always fashionable so I don't embarrass myself in front of the tow truck guy. That's me.

Not like it would matter anyway since I'm sure he'll be some fat, ugly redneck bumpkin. Sometimes I forget I'm in Georgia living in Atlanta but trust me, when you need a mechanic or a tow truck driver, you remember you're in Georgia. That or a Huddle House. That reminds you where you are too.

I guess tonight everyone's broken down though, because the tow truck guy is running an hour late. Not that I'm cold or anything. Five degrees isn't exactly super comfy inside a drafty old Mercedes and those trendy ass yellow hubcaps aren't doing me any good either. The idiot probably got lost and can't find the right road. I'm sure AAA only hires the best of the best. Goddammit, why does Angry Birds have to get so hard after a while?

“Excuse me, 'maam? Are you Rachel?”

“Ah!”

Of course he sneaks up on me! Of course now I see the headlights back there but Jesus, just sneaking up on me out of the dark and tapping on the window with his voice all muffled through the glass. And me a young girl stranded on the side of the road late at night! Like it wouldn't scare the shit out of me.

Can't see him out the window anyway with the frost and of course I have to start the car up to do that. Stupid jerk, taking so long. Probably some dumb fucking yokel with a beer gut and buck teeth. God why do I live in Georgia?

“Yes, I'm Rachel.”

Oh . . . He's cute. And a ginger. Kind of looks like a hipster too. . .

* * *

I admit being a tow truck driver isn't exactly my dream job but you know, having a degree in Liberal Arts doesn't always turn out so well. Still, it's not exactly what I had planned when I went to Tulane. I kind of hoped I'd be doing something a little more rewarding than finding idiot old women with blown engines for AAA.

But I had to find something. It was either this or go back to live with my parents and fuck that. Decatur can kiss my ass and there's no way I'm going back there as long as I have a pulse. Still the job isn't always so bad at that. It pays enough for me to not worry too much about the rent and it keeps me in PBRs with a little left over to work on my bike.

Nights like this though, it's hard to figure out why I'm doing it. Of course my shift pops up on the coldest night in Atlanta in twenty years and of course it's the late shift. It always is. Will be for a while too, me being the new guy. Heaven forbid we take Bubba's prized 8-4 shifts. No, give the shitty ones to the new fish. Nobody likes that “red head smart ass” anyway. Let him work the night when the weather is so cold everyone's breaking down and there's a two hour wait. Let him deal with the fussy old women yelling at him for being behind schedule.

Oh, who am I kidding? This life sucks. I'm single and I live alone and I drive a tow truck. Just guess how easy it is to find dates when your answer to that old “And what do you do?” question is this. The only women who'll talk to you after that work at gas stations or late night diners. Not that there's anything wrong with those people, mind you, but I don't quite jive with the “I have two kids from two other guys” thing. Guess I'm just closed minded.

Maybe one night I'll be towing some woman and get run over on the side of the road. That's the best case scenario these days.

And then tonight, after all these fussy old bitties and grumpy old men with squinty little glasses and holier than thou bullshit, I realize I forgot one of the pick ups. And of course she's called the dispatch like four times and I'm two hours late from what they told her. Guess who gets docked for that? Answer: It ain't Bubba.

Probably some shriveled up old shrew who hasn't checked the oil on her 10 year old Hyundai since Bush was president and can't understand why the engine suddenly shits the bed. Either that or an asshole in a business suit who left his over head light on and the battery's dead so he's going to yell at me about how these “new cars” are such pieces of shit. Yep, you can see how excited I am about the next pick up. Goddamn cold weather. . .

Huh. Dispatch says it's an '83 Mercedes 300 though. That's kind of interesting. Probably some geezer who bought it new.

There it is. Cool shade of yellow too. And a diesel. Always thought those were pretty cool since I had a friend convert one to veggie oil. Oh, and those hub cabs are pretty bitching too. That's a pretty cool car. Of course it'll have some stuck up old bitch in it, so who cares.

Can't see anything through the window though. Maybe the person already got tired and left. Oh, I guess there is someone in there. . . Hope they're warm.

“Excuse me, 'maam” Are you Rachel?”

“Ah!”

Ha, must've startled the old bitch. Let's see if she can figure out how to get the window open.

“Yes, I'm Rachel.”

Oh. . . She’s Asian. And cute. Really cute. . .