Water Rises

The yum of the car was the sound that woke him. Blind, tugged tight across his face, the ever stagnant drone -- yum -- of the car, and the oncoming air pushing, gushing through the slipstream shield of breaking speed. A facsimile of falling in his mind, a drug wear-off, falling deeper and deeper, and the voluminous light erupting through the clouds below -- yum -- and day is there on the other side, coffee-filter-esque through the spattered bugs on the windshield. And a shake -- yum -- and another and the slipping throttle of an engine stuck between going and slowing, the wheels ever turning, ever spinning, not noxious in their purpose; the man awakes.

The smell of oil was strong. Another was driving, not him. He was supine on the backseat, smelling the stains of a workman's vehicle as the engine yummed and pocked.

Leaving. I'm leaving.

The man behind the wheel, a young gentleman, not altogether dirty, but grimy all the same, was festooned behind the wheel, his shoulder hunched into a posture of unrest, his face disected by the light and shadow; he, turning to look through the mirror, spotted the man who lay dead, stirring.

We'll be in Chattanooga in a little while.

The man nodded and brushed the sleep from his eyes, sitting up, feeling the felt cushion bend beneath his palm-weight. He groaned, yawned, stretched, groaned.

How'd you sleep?

Fine.

Any dreams?

Falling. Falling real fast into the sky.

Scary stuff.

The man took his legs off the seat and hunched over the center console of the car, his face propped upon his hands.

In a way, I suppose. But it was more like a peaceful fall.

You said it was fast.

Just as fast as this car. You wouldn't paint this peaceful-like?

No. I wouldn't.

How much farther?

Not too long I reckon. Not but thirty miles or so.

The man wiped his mouth and sat up. On the floorboard, a bag lay, and from it he extracted a book. It was The Mentor Book of Major American Poets; a sticky-note marked halfway. Stephen Crane: A Man Feared.

Boy did he ever, the man thought to himself.

The man behind the wheel spoke up. You talked to Mary and Clive at all? See if they're still expecting us?

Yeah. Called them right before we got on the rode in Cincy.

And what'd they say?

Said they had a loft open, that or they could rent a hotel for us.

They didn't have to do that.

They haven't.

Don't want them spending their money on us.

I agree.

So you told 'em not to buy us a hotel.

I didn't say that. You know how Mary gets when someone tries to be modest.

Yeah.

Yeah.

The car yummed further. For a while, neither spoke. One read poetry, the other drove.

When do you want to switch off? the man behind the wheel said.

When do you?

I reckon when we get to Chattanooga.

I think that'll be fine.

Alright.

The man in the back thought then. He thought of the life he was leaving, his parents, his brothers, his sister, all behind in Maine. He thought of his friend, his good friend who was now driving the two of them down south. He thought of the little car they were in, the yum and pop of the engine, the smell of oil from the many car-parts his friend had taken across town. He thought of his old job, the papermill, how he had smelled just terrible every single day of his life, and how he was glad to be leaving. But how new it all seemed.

Charlie, he said. Do you ever feel like you're falling?

You mean like your dream?

Yeah, but when your awake. You feel like you just keep getting higher and higher, and you can't slow yourself down because gravity's reversed.

Yeah. I feel that.

The man behind the wheel relaxed a little, and gassed the car forward, overtaking a minivan. Through the windshield, he could glass long rode, miles of un-laden driving. He looked into the mirror.

You know, he began, I feel, a lot of the time, like I might start to drown. Like I'm at the top of this big hill of all the people that have helped me through life. And that there's this water below me, chasing me as I climb to the top. And I'm stepping all over those people I love. Mary and Clive are there. And when I finally get to the very top, I look down and see that the water's not too far away. That I never outran it. That it's been on my heels from the minute I started climbing, and that all those people I stepped on to get higher. . . Well, they're drowning now. Drowning in the water that's chasing me. And then I sit down and start to cry, and all those people who are at the top start to comfort me and tell me, it's okay, it's not your fault. But it is. It is my fault. And pretty soon they'll start to drown too, and then I will. Because water rises.

Water rises, the man and the back said.

Yeah.

Thank you.

For what?

For telling me that.

You're welcome, I guess.

The man in the back laid down again, resting the open book of poetry on his chest, staring at the tan cloth ceiling-liner.

You'll wake me when we get to Chattanooga?

Yeah, I will.

Alright.

Sweet dreams.

The man smiled. In his mind, he began to build that moutain of friends, family, all those he knew. And he began to climb. Hope not, he said. And the car yummed onward.

It was there. That feeling, that itchy feeling of being left behind. That he had become part of the mountain, and his heels were grabbed by his family and friends, and that he could kick them, kick them right in the teeth, make them let go, but that he would never forgive himself if he did. And he saw someone coming, someone walking up that hill from below him now, and it was the face of his friend. Him coming up, and everybody was holding out their hands, fingerholds for him to grab on to, and he was getting closer and closer. And the man reached out to the friend, and the friend saw him.

Help me, the man said, and the friend nodded, his face slanted concernedly. The friend pulled him out, and the people of the mountain grabbed and tugged and told him NO, ITS NOT RIGHT. But the friend kept pulling, and soon the man was free.

He stood on mountain, keeping away from the hands. The friend looked at him, but didn't say anything. He continued to climb, aided by the hands.

WAIT, the man shouted. WHAT DO I DO?

The friend turned and looked at the man. He shook his head, his shoulder's rising.

The water touched his feet, and the friend turned, began climbing. The man began to climb, but he felt the hands grab him. They didn't help him. They grabbed on tight and didn't let go. Soon, the water was up to his waist, and then his chest, and his shoulders. Next, he was under, and throught he wave-light of the water, he could see the silhouette of his friend, now at the top. He he could hear that muffled sound of shouting, that cry of apology. And he began to drown.

The man was shaken awake, and his eyes opened wide, his lungs expanding with the fresh, cold air. The man looked up and saw his friend standing above him, shaking him from outside the car, the door propped open. The cracks of the light the edged the silhouette of his friend, portrayed a gas station, a Marathon, and other cars, other people.

The friend touched his shoulder. The man brushed it off immediately, and scrambled to sit upright. he turned and looked at his friend.

The friend looked at him. You okay?

The water. . . The water rises.

The friend's face relaxed.

Yeah. I know.