Helter Swelter

<1422> words

Helter Swelter

I can’t seem to get traction on the steering wheel. My fingers are slip sliding away. I grab some tissues and wipe down the leather, then wipe my hands, then grab some more tissues for my glistening face, then do it all again. I haven’t even made it out of my driveway. 

The clock says 7.49 am - the temperature says 98 degrees. 

How can it be this hot this early in the day? At least I’m early. Like, super, super early. I’d rather be early for this meeting than late, and I can get changed into something fresh at the office. 

#

The air conditioning must be on the blink. It’s on cold but it’s so damn hot in the car my humid breath steams up the windscreen. I’ve already tried opening the windows but the wall of heat that rushes in sends what is left of my mascara into my streaming eyes. I punch on the demister and turn up the heat to blast some air at the glass, but it’s to hot to handle. I dial it down again. 

#

It’s like molten lava out there.

# 

My phone is ringing. Darn, I threw my bag on the backseat. I’ll ignore it for now. The traffic is crawling. I made it to the lights on the corner no problem but now it’s bumper to bumper, inch by inch. My heart rate climbs. It’s okay, breathe, calm down. I’ve got four hours. Bradley Fornaker is hardly going to be on time himself. He’s such a prick. If I was his wife, I’d have had an affair as well. I know I’m his lawyer, but, seriously, she should have the kids, no question. He’s rude. He’s overbearing. He’s disparaging. The way he speaks to me - and I’m paid to be on his side - is disgusting. 

#

EERREEK. Holy shit. That was close. The car in front of the car in front of me slammed on its breaks. I slammed on my breaks just in time to avoid rear-ending a shiny black buick, number plate HTPUSY. You’ve got to be kidding, right? Though, I daresay Mr Fornaker would approve. Maybe that’s him. I peer but can’t make out the driver. My phone starts ringing, again. This time it sounds muffled. My bag went flying when I came to my sudden stop. The phone must have torpedoed out. I wrench my head around but I can’t see bag or phone. What the hell is going on up ahead? The traffic is snarled up. I open the window and stick my head out. Nothing but a line of cars going nowhere. I can hear sirens in the distance. Ambulance? Has there been a crash? What’s that pop pop pop sound? Ah, jeez, is that a gun? Is someone firing a gun up there? Oh, my God, that last pop was more like a POP. I throw myself low across the passenger seat. Shit, someone’s shooting out there. The siren is loud now. I can hear glass breaking. A police car mounts the curb and screeches past me, then another and another. I can hear shouting, too, and running. What the hell is going on? Someone’s on a megaphone now - please remain in your vehicles - is that what they’re saying? Now, it’s quiet. Too quiet. My phone starts ringing. 

# 

I want to get my phone. Every part of me wants to get my phone. It’s been 10 minutes since the popping sound. There’s been no update on the megaphone. My hair is lying across my face in wet streaks. The heat has caused balls of sweat to cascade down my face and pool on the plastic folder on which my cheek is lying on the passenger side. I’m eyeballing the clock - 9am. Shit. An hour has gone by, and I see on the digital display the heat has ramped up. 109 degrees celsius. No wonder I feel so damp. My phone stops ringing then starts again. The ring tone is urgent. Someone needs me. I hope it’s not the rest home - is dad okay? He won’t like this heat. Hell, he complains of the heat in winter. I feel shaky. A car door slams. Someone’s rapping on my window in bursts. “Hey lady, get moving. You stupid bitch, you’re holding everyone up.” I can see the man’s red face. His crisp white shirt has gone flaccid and clings to an overstuffed gut. His tie is askew. He’s bald and I can see droplets sliding off his head and spraying onto my window, like spittle. I lift up my head. The cars in front have opened up a gap of maybe three meters. The man gestures, throws his arms around in angry jerks. He stalks back to his car. He’s livid because of a three meter gap. I try to put my car in drive but my hand slips off the gear stick. I wipe my hands on my black suit trousers then nudge the car forward to close the chasm. I can hear a thudding above me, as if a flying dinosaur is cruising around. A helicopter circles into view and as I watch the chopper blades a horn blasts behind me. I jump in my seat. That bald-headed asshole has bumped my car. I see him in the rear view mirror, gesturing like a maniac. But I have nowhere to go. The traffic ahead has stalled again. 

#

He’s using his fingers to simulate a gun and is firing at me. The crazy fuck. It’s not my fault there’s a traffic jam and some kind of incident up ahead. What does he expect me to do? I can’t stand this heat. He’s honking his horn again. My phone starts up. I try to reach into the back of the car but the gap between the front seats is narrow. I’m going to have to get out of my car to get to my phone. The crazy fuck is making like he’s got a machine gun. I can see his mouth move as he aims his hands, rat a tat, tat, tat, tat. I’m not getting out of the car. I launch myself through the gap between the seats to where my phone is still ringing. I push with my foot against the dashboard and stretch - oh, thank God. My phone is teetering on the edge of the seat, but I’ve got it. But then it slips out of my fingers, down, down, down into the dark crevice between the seat and the door full of dust and old peanuts. It’s still ringing. I scream, over and over and over and over.

#

10.03am and 120 Celsius. 

# 

Crazy bald fuck has gone quiet. Maybe he saw me screaming. Maybe he thinks I’m crazier than he is. But when I open my driver’s door, he opens his. I retreat and lock my door, drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I risk a quick wind down of the window, motor running, ready to hit the rewind button the minute he’s out of his car. He doesn’t move. I venture my head out my window and from the corner of my eye I spy cops up ahead. They’re standing in a circle, like they’re surrounding something, or someone. They have their guns drawn. They’re standing on the curb, next to the Omega building where panes of glass have collapsed. I think the red stuff on the pavement, that’s pooled around the not-moving figure on the sidewalk, is probably blood. 

# 

It’s gone 11am when, at last, the cars start moving. It’s a stuttering crawl but they’re moving nonetheless. I pass a police officer gesturing us past the huddle of police and the blood. I watch in the rearview as the asshole reaches an arm out his window and pumps the officer’s hand. He seems to be cracking a joke. I jot down his license plate number, for later. I’m a lawyer, after all. Maybe I’ll sue his ass for harrassment on the hottest day of the year. My building, Lovelock-Norman & Co, comes into view and I roll into my designated park. The clock says 11.11am. I’m still early but I feel bruised, like I’ve done three rounds in the ring. I grab my plastic folder and open the back door, and there, like a long lost friend, is my phone. It’s not ringing. I tap it to life and see a long list of messages from my PA, Melissa, starting at 7.51am: Shooter on the loose. Meeting cancelled. Don’t come in.