The Van
by Seriana Ritani
Author's Note: So getting re-adjusted to the United States, I'm finally discovering this "Lost" thing that I seem to have missed and having a grand old time with it. But since everybody's already seen it, whenever I bring it up I get confronted by "I hated the finale!" followed by jumbled comments about characters I haven't heard of followed by the realization that wait, I actually haven't seen it, after which people clam up for fear of spoilers. This is not good conversation material. So since I can't process my LOST experiences with other people, I'm tossing off one-shots whenever the fancy strikes me. This is for Season 3, "Tricia Tanaka is Dead."
Disclaimer: If I had a nickel for every nickel the copyright owners of LOST have, I would have a lot of nickels. Which I don't. So there you go.
It starts like the punchline of a joke. So a con man, a lottery winner, a rock star and a fisherman climb into a VW van . . .
It's a gift that Hurley's got, this kind of thing. When we were all ready to tear our hair out with the stress of wondering if we were ever gonna get rescued, who decided it would be a good idea to build a golf course? When the hatch yielded a pantry full of real, processed, fat-and-sugar-laden Normal Food and people started going for each other's throats to get it, who decided to throw a barbecue? When I've got a death sentence from the future on my head, Jin's got a pregnant wife to worry about and no doctor to help her, Sawyer's just gotten back from vilest imprisonment and only washed the blood out of his hair like an hour ago, Jack's missing and Libby's dead, who decides we've all got to go joyriding in this relic he found in the jungle?
Look Death in the face, he says, and so we do, him and me, careening down a slope on the rusted old shocks at the boulders that are going to kill me. But if I'm going to die, this is a better way to go than heroin overdose, or even polar bear dismemberment, or just waiting for it to sneak up from behind. If I die, at least let it be said that I went rattling out to meet it.
Then Hurley pops the clutch, the engine turns over, and to my great surprise we're not dead. To my even greater surprise, we're alive.
The motor's clunking and the tape deck's blaring, and Hurley handles the old dinosaur like a pro, swinging around the rocks and out into the big grassy field in this valley in the middle of the island. Hurley should be a stunt car driver. I should be a stunt car driver. I can never die. I'm higher than a kite, on music and adrenalin and acceleration, and I'm whooping and beating my hand on the roof of the van while Hurley laughs and yells and steers in big, wide, sweeping circles, pulling the wheel hand-over-hand so the Volkswagen careens like a roller coaster car.
And through the windshield we can see Jin and Sawyer running down the hill after us, laughing and yelling and pumping their fists in the air, a little bit drunk and a little bit ridiculous, with Vincent the dog jumping around at their feet and barking to get in on the action, whatever it is. Hurley pulls to a stop for them and they throw open the sliding door and climb in, the hated scheming sonofa and the uptight Asian businessman and the big yellow dog, like we're all mates and it's Saturday night in Manchester. Hurley guns it and we're off, going nowhere, just going, driving, laughing, screaming, glad to be alive.
This island is our island, this van is our van, this day is our day, me, Jin, Sawyer, Hurley, four blokes with nothing in common but one mad blazing afternoon. Just four blokes in a van with the world at our feet.
And when we finally calm down, exhausted and happy, and part ways as the sun starts turning orange, everybody's got exactly what they needed today. Hurley's got a miracle van and a broken curse and a moment's peace of mind. Jin's got his hot wife sidled up next to him with one hand in his, a white flower peace offering tucked into the front belt loop of her pants. Sawyer's got his chair and his tent under the tree and his case of beer, which I guess he gets a kick out of not sharing, but that's okay . . . we owe him, after the scotch. Vincent's got a long drink of water and a comfy spot in the warm last rays of the sunshine, his tail still whacking out an irregular beat on the sand. And I've got Claire, smiling and laughing as I recap our mad adventure for her, her pen fallen into the gutter between the pages of her journal, Aaron asleep in his cradle.
. . . and then they all thought it was the best day ever.
Good punchline. I like it.