Sometimes you see people as you glance around in traffic and you think, "There has to be a story behind that face/that car/that reaction"
Slip Away
We've been on the road for a long, long time.
A beat up old Mustang can take you where you want to go, provided you take care of it. Still, two years is a sight too much to be between places. Two years: that's how long it's been just the two of us, looking for someplace to call home. She's not saying anything, but I think she's cold again. She only puts her feet up on the seat when she's cold. I can't turn the heat on for her, it tends to go out in this old Ford. It's April anyway, mild though it be. Of course, she's almost always cold; I tend to think she didn't take a lot of vitamins when she was a kid, but it ain't my business to ask her.
There's one of those roadside comfort-food places two miles ahead. We can stop off there and rest a bit; there should be enough money left for one good meal. I pull up and park at the curb to let her out. She'd better actually eat this time, she's skinny enough as is. I don't wanna hear any more of that "getting snacks for the road" garbage. I send her ahead of me and wait in the parking lot, idly driving around the building. It wouldn't do much good to go in with her. Even in this day and age, some places just won't serve folks like me. It's been twenty minutes, I may as well park. In the lot across the street I catch sight of some familiar faces and move behind the restaurant so they don't see me. I won't deny that I used to run with a pretty rough crowd. Heck, I'd probably still be with 'em if I didn't have the Waif to look after.
It wasn't a good life by any stretch of the imagination, but it was all I'd known. Then a couple of buddies of mine defied the boss...it wasn't pretty. I had to clean up the mess, tried hiding their corpses under an old bridge. I just sorta stayed there with 'em. They were the only friends I had, after all. She found me down there half dead myself, practically dragged me to a friend of hers who patched me up. Trouble was, that friend had somehow made it onto the government's Naughty List. We were there when they came to arrest him, hiding in his shed. I think I panicked or something, because that's the only way I can justify grabbing the Waif and running like that. I don't even know if they're still chasing us, but I'm not taking any chances. I've seen on the news what happens when guys like me run across G-men with chips on their shoulders. It's a mess, and it ain't something I want her to be part of.
The cell phone in the cup holder buzzes: it's a text message. She's done, waiting for me to pick her up. It ain't a proper phone, just one of those cheap ones with a preset amount of calls. It's harder to trace those, especially when you know how to scramble 'em. I pull around front and wince at the way the brakes squeal. I need to get that looked at, but I've been putting it off. There she is, clutching that little bitty handbag of hers and hiding under that old-fashioned hat like it was the mask of Zorro. Sweet mercy, you'd have thought the kid got lost on her way to the 1940s or something. "Brakes are soundin' rough," she rasps as she climbs in. She doesn't use my name, I guess she hasn't picked out one for this town yet. It varies by city, y'know.
Sometimes she's Bonnie and I'm Clyde; one time we were Lily and Sev...only one time. She likes to call me Red: she says it sounds like some Old West Irish gangster, whatever that's supposed to mean. "Yeah, the brakes are wearing down," I agree, "It's an older model." We pull out of the lot and thankfully my old "friends" don't notice us leaving. It's quiet for a while, but at least she's not cold anymore. "What'd you get?" I ask, changing lanes. She shrugs. "Couple of pancakes, two eggs and a bowl of grits." Well, that's better than either of us have had in months. "I saved you some coffee, Red," she whispers. Dang. She knows I love that stuff. It's horrible for me though, absolutely horrible. Still, I can't get the kind of food I need, so coffee has to suffice. "Thanks Audrey, I'll get it in a minute," I mutter gruffly.
She smiles a little. "Audrey, huh? What made you pick that one?" Eh, I don't even know anymore. I just said the first name that came to mind, but I don't want to admit it. I tell her that it was because her sister's wedding anniversary is coming up, and heaven knows the woman loves Audrey Hepburn films. She knows I'm lying, but doesn't comment. If I could actually remember when her sister's anniversary was, that excuse might work a little better. "Where we headed this week?" I ask, taking note of a traffic cop up ahead. "Um..." the Waif flips through the book of maps randomly. "McAllen, TX. That suit you?" Heck yeah, that suits me! I always did like Texas. Uh-oh. There's a road block up ahead, couple of highway patrolmen stopping cars and asking for identification. "Seat switch, Audrey, get the papers." I growl. She pops open the glove compartment and pulls out some high-quality counterfeit identification and registration.
I got them from a guy in the Windy City who makes a living with that kind of thing. Not that I'd ever tell the Waif that, she worries enough without knowing I'm messing around on the Black Market. Alright, so maybe I actually extorted the guy, scared the heck out of him. She doesn't need to know that either. "What's up, Red?" she asks. "Couple of bears," I answer as she clambers into the driver's seat. "Why do I gotta drive?" She's not thrilled, and I don't blame her. She hasn't really had to drive for two years: I keep forgetting she's old enough. "Cuz the projector's busted. Now get your hands on the wheel and act like you know what you're doing!" I didn't mean to snap at her. She always shuts down when I snap. Now she's looking at me with those big doe-eyes. She knows I can't stand to see a woman cry, curse her.
"I'm sorry," I tell her, "I'm a little on edge. Don't know how long this body's going to hold up." She's quiet for a long time, but at least she ain't mad at me. We pull up to the blockade and she rolls down the window. She's making her Mary Pickford face at the officer. It always makes her look a good five years younger than she really is. It's gotten us out of scrapes before, people thinking she's an innocent high schooler. She softly greets the officers and asks them what's going on. "Trucker protest," they tell her, and I relax a little. They're looking for a convoy, not a pair of runaways. In a whispery little voice, the Waif makes conversation with the younger officer while the older gives a cursory glance at our papers. We don't have anything to worry about from him. They tip their hats to the Waif and motion us through. Thank God they didn't ask to look in the trunk, because I'm not sure how we would explain the Beretta M12.
Once we're clear of the blockade, she slips back over into her seat and puts the false papers away. "You think we'll run into that convoy?" she sounds a little nervous. "We might," I say. I hope we don't. A line that long'd slow us way down, and we can't afford to lose any ground. She takes a bag from under the seat and starts setting up paints around her. I used to get on her case about that, but with the way this old frame is going, what's the use? We're just going to trade it out eventually anyway. She's making a little wooden doll for her sister. We send one once a month, and she paints little clues into the body to let her family know where we are and whether we're alright. She works on it until the sun starts going down. We've been on the highway for seven hours. I pull over at a rest stop and park next to a big semi cab. The Waif likes semis, they make her feel safe. Personally, they make me nervous. I've got some bad memories of semi trucks from back when I ran with the terrorists I grew up with. It doesn't help that this guy is the same color as the one in my nightmares. "Audrey, make it short, okay? I want to keep moving," I call as she slips out. I can see the truck driver staring down at me.
I think it's time we ditched the old Mustang. When she comes back, I tell her to move the stuff out of the car and wait behind the vending machines. "Did someone recognize us?" she fidgets as she grabs the first aid kit and her bags. Just like we did when we started this journey, she hides behind the building and I cruise around the lot. I pretend not to hear her mutter, "Get one with a heater this time!" The trucker is still watching. I drive around to the other side of the station and make a fortunate discovery. A 2005 Mazda 3. Nice looking vehicle, but not so nice as to seem out of the Waif's price range. No one would suspect it of being stolen. I shoot out a nearly-invisible beam of light and begin scanning it. Well, the color will have to change, or else she can't call me Red anymore.
New body, new system. I'm still dangerously low on fuel, but people can see me now at least. I pull up to the vending machines and honk the horn. The horn works now, thankfully. The Waif looks like a little tourist as she scrambles towards me holding all her bags. "Come on, let's roll," I hiss. We can't risk someone noticing her getting into a different vehicle. The sun is completely gone now and it's getting cold. "You should try to get some sleep," I try not to sound concerned. She climbs over the console into the back seat. Her pillows and blankets are still under the seat, just a little squished. "Goodnight Red," she sighs. I turn the heater on and she smiles. In the rearview, I can see the big semi from the rest stop close behind us, but I don't tell her. It's probably coincidence anyway.
The stars are always prettier out on the highway. No lights, no cities, just acres of constellations. There's an obnoxious little Camaro keeping pace on our right side, I think he wants to pass. Whatever, pal. I got places to be. I check the mirror again. The semi's pulled up on our other side, staying at the same speed. That's probably not good news, and neither is the pickup tailgating us, I'll wager. This is bad, probably really bad. They force us off onto the nearest exit in the middle of nowhere. The Waif either hasn't noticed or thinks we're pulling off into a town. First chance I get, I'm leaving these clowns in the dust. The semi rolls down a window and the mustachioed trucker from the rest stop is barely visible. "Pull over, son." The kindly old voice has steel under it, and it is a voice I remember. There's no easy way out of this. I check on the girl in the back: she's almost asleep now. Whatever else happens, I won't let anything happen to her.
"I love you, Bonnie," I whisper. She smiles and snuggles into her blanket.
"I love you too, Clyde."