Driver Unrestrained

Driver had come to the conclusion that there were no less than three things one needed to prepare for the end of the world — or perhaps even four, or maybe hold off on that third one since she couldn't think of what it had been at the moment. Yet she held firm to those first two which she knew without a doubt would get anyone through any general upheaval of society.

Number one was toilet paper. If a major breakdown of civilization were to find people resorting to digging holes in their backyards, what better resource was there to upholding one’s sense of decency? Optimizing space for stacks of economy packs would require some engineering. Still, a considerable supply of toilet paper was tops, ensuring that both ends of the anatomy were kept sanitary while providing ample means for a day-to-day account of one’s struggles through the dystopian nightmare.

Number two? Water. Of course, water. Yet once again, a bit of a challenge to maximize space for all those gallon jugs and 24-bottle packs, not to mention having to haul buggy-full after buggy-full out to one’s car without drawing too much attention.

She would try to remember number three after getting through with the last customer in line at the convenience store where she worked.

And what had happened to this normally sane woman of forty-two to convert her from optimist to pessimist and make her think things might be headed toward shits-ville? Driver had called it a revelation. It occurred to her after she’d put in an online application for the new superstore they were planning to build across from the civic center, and the AI for the site kept substituting “Marvin” for every time she tried typing “Marilyn”. The scenario went something like this: machines were set to take over; people would call their congresspersons to complain; machines would make it so the people who called their congresspersons were arrested or killed or replaced with a machine; and nothing would appear in the news until it was too late, by which time the machines would be controlling the news outlets and so nothing would get out about it anyway. The whole thing would come crashing down out of nowhere, and the few who had been visionary enough to prepare would get labeled “non-essentials” and be hunted like vermin.

Back to the third thing, which most would've assumed meant food or batteries or fuel for a portable cook-stove. But no, number three, which she happened upon again while driving home, could be none other than a partner of some kind. Not a pet, though having a dog around to bark whenever the drones started surveilling the neighborhood was not a bad idea. One would need some like-minded individual to share the load and the weary hours with. For Driver lived alone but saw no point in having to endure the apocalypse by herself inside a dark and empty apartment. To add flavor, number three seemed like genius, since it could also bring with it number four — that is, had she thought to extend the list that far instead of it so beautifully extending itself. And what was number four? That should’ve been clear enough to anyone able to discern what hopes she envisioned for number three, when she went and exposed her heart and her best selfie on a dating site after supper that evening.

Driver felt in desperate need of number four, which no warm-blooded female had hope of satisfying without number three. Others might have — and there were a few she knew of or had heard of who seemed content enough — but she herself couldn’t handle it any longer, and would’ve sooner surrendered to the machines than try to survive as a nun. The only limitation she saw to securing number four was, as with toilet paper and water, finding enough space in her bed for the right number three. It might’ve meant getting a bigger bed, something which she wasn’t sure she could afford at the moment. But perhaps number three would help out, especially if number three were looking forward to number four as much as Driver was.

And how would Driver appear to any warm-blooded male, if the machine kept giving her first name as “Marvin” instead of “Marilyn”? How could she then convince number three that she was not a he, and so he shouldn’t get the wrong idea and run off? And would she have to go to him to prove her case? She would rather he came to her, since Driver was leery of traveling to some strange place and finding out that a quick and shallow number four was all number three had in mind of doing. Again, she needed someone to help bear the load when the world went to crap.

Driver wanted to cry after messaging three attractive prospects, sharing her revelation and subsequent plans, then seeing all three initial requests denied. But there were more fish in the pond, she told herself, and began casting for the next three. The first and only one to respond had somehow misread her intentions as wanting to repopulate the planet and suggested she needed to recruit other younger and more fertile females to form a commune with her as plow-horse and him as lord and master. Again, she cried. She then pleaded with the universe: were there no men left out there brave enough to face and handle a woman on equal terms? Still, she would message and wait on another three before calling it a night. Her eye-lids, though already begging for sleep, soon popped back open at the sight of her inbox flashing.

Mike said he meant no offense toward her honest intentions but felt she’d misinterpreted the state of things in the world and wanted to meet to discuss other more practical options. He was widowed, had a teenage daughter in need of a stable mother-figure, and wondered whether it would be within her means to drive twenty miles so he could grill some steaks for the three of them — and did she like horses?

The directions he’d shared left her nervous. The route would take her at least eight miles into rural territory she never knew existed. She almost had a change of heart after passing up the first turn and not realizing until she came to a dead-end and found so little room there to turn around. But after she found it again, the way then seemed to speak for itself and brought her to an open gate and a path to a ranch-style brick house surrounded by acres of rolling fields littered with large round bales of hay.

He was seated in a rocking chair on the front porch, getting up before Driver could come to a stop beside his pickup. She sat for a moment in the car, taking a few deep breaths before daring to open the door and step out. She remembered viewing with suspicion the picture Mike included with his profile, since it showed a slim yet muscular build in jeans, long-sleeved button-down shirt and white cowboy hat, leading her to think he’d ripped it from the profile of some country music star. The caption had stated it was eight years old, and not to be too disappointed if he’d gained some extra pounds since. He had, but not in an unsightly way — at least not to Driver’s eyes. For here he stood waiting for her, wearing a ball cap, t-shirt and cut-offs, yet bearing a manly figure which she wouldn’t have minded taking with her to the beach — that is, if he didn’t mind being with a woman who filled out a one-piece with a less than perfect figure herself.

As soon as Driver took hold of Mike’s extended hand, he wanted to know: did she have trouble finding the place? Would she care for a beer? How did she like her steak? A girl in a ponytail emerged from the front door. She appeared shy at first, but back of the house on the patio came to life, wanting to show Driver her crochet work, introduce her to her horse Silverado, ask her what kind of music and movies she liked. It seemed at first Driver spent more time with Sally than with Mike who was kept busy with the grill. Indeed, Sally made sure to keep their guest well received and entertained.

As time advanced, the woman had almost forgotten her name was Driver, responding more and more to “Miss Marilyn, try this casserole I made”, “Miss Marilyn, try this hat on”, “Miss Marilyn, you’ve got to let me teach you how to ride”, “Miss Marilyn, why don’t you stay over so we can watch a movie together?”

After they’d eaten, and when she had finally gotten separated from Sally by a phone call from the girl's boyfriend, Mike invited Marilyn to take a walk with him to see the barn. He wanted to convince her that the world was not coming to an end, that country living provided a more peaceful alternative to apartment life, and yes, he did have a bed too large for just one person. This last suggestion made her the most nervous, wondering if he was moving a bit too fast -- rather, slower than she secretly wanted him to.

Revolution? Apocalypse? Technocracy? Mike eliminated these one by one from Marilyn’s vocabulary. He said it had been too long since he could remember what it felt like. She said it was time they both learned again. And there would be arguments. But they shook on it, that there would be no river too tough to ford, if the two — no, the three of them worked together. She insisted on including Sally whom she thought the sweetest daughter a man like him could’ve been blessed to raise.

Sally found them walking and holding hands, insisted Marilyn would be hers for the rest of the day and that it was time to receive her first lesson in horse-back riding. Mike saddled up Wildflower, while Sally brought up Silverado. She rode beside her into the pasture, giving Marilyn pointers on how to hold the reins and better control her mount. Then, the two of them started galloping, Wildflower taking the lead.

Marilyn never felt more charged and unfettered in all her solitary years since Boyd had passed. The strictures she had once placed on herself of never finding another like him were now cast off, and she was at last breathing fresh sweet air again. And knowing love again, herself included.