Caught Dead Stop

- Contains mild surreal horror elements

Watching the weather out of a screen is one thing, but being caught in the midst of a thunderstorm is a whole different situation.

That’s not even the main cause for concern, no, it’s the act of being caught in a thunderstorm while standing on the side of a highway all because of a flat tire in one of the most populated cities in America.

I run my fingers down my wet face.

Gazing upon a disappointing tire, I grit my teeth.

I don’t even have a second tire. Most of my tools are back home in New Jersey; this was supposed to be a day-trip, and not a designated day to tidy up my broken truck.

Harsh wind whips on my back as cars speed by. Everyone drives so ridiculously fast. Eyes of nosy people bore into my soul, but being watched by strangers is the least of my concern.

Hopping back in my vehicle, I reluctantly dial my father.

I know how to change a tire, it’s not tire-problems I’m calling him for: my father is a meteorologist, and he’s offering me an intern position in cinematography for the summer. I have an interview for it in—I glance at my watch—supposed to be starting in twenty minutes.

The line rings, but there’s no answer.

Figures.

He’s on television; of course, he isn’t going to pick up.

Hard rain pelts down upon my busted 2002 pick-up. As far my eye can see, ash-stained clouds blanket the Brooklyn sky. Every time a car zips past, my truck jostles slightly, and this wind isn’t helping. When the storm picks up, my pick-up is going to turn into a ping-pong ball between the horrid wind and speed demons.

My irritation is growing as fast as the detrimental storm rolling in.

I can’t be late.

I’m never late.

And just sitting here, appearing like a damsel-in-distress to the observing eye, makes my hands clench onto the steering wheel. As a burst of thunder rings out, I snap to reality and realize I’m carving scratch marks into the wheel.

Something else besides anger is brimming under my tight-cut schedule.

My arms and legs are tense; my palms are damp from holding on so tight to the wheel. My mouth coils into a deep frown.

Bright lights in the rearview mirror catches my attention.

Furrowing my brows, my irritation slowly slips away as I watch the lights come to a dead stop.

From the downpour rain, it’s hard to see what type of vehicle it is, but it’s definitely behind my own truck. When the lights die out, my heart drops.

It’s the police, isn’t it?

They’re probably here to give me a ticket for being parked on a congested highway in New York.

Sitting tightly, a figure comes to my window.

Before I hear a knock, I’m already rolling down the window. The sticky air, and warm rain waft my face, but I pay no attention.

It’s not a police officer, and it piques my interest greatly, but it has me on edge.

Instead, a man draped in a suit with a faded baseball cap perched on his head is standing outside my door.

Even if he’s not law enforcement, this man has a twinge of something dark woven in his dark gray eyes.

The way he’s holding himself: he’s standing confidently, he’s looking me in the eye, and isn’t batting any attention to his soaking suit. He may have a warm smile playing on his lips, but it does not reach his narrowed eyes.

My dad taught me that.

To get anywhere in life, learn to read body language; that’s what people notice first, even if it’s unconscious. That’s how my dad became a prominent face in the news production industry: he uses body language as a weapon to become charming to anybody.

“Got a flat tire?” Speaking, he tilts his head. “I couldn’t help but notice.” He gestures, but I narrow my eyes at him.

“Yeah.” I say flatly.

He nods.

“I could help; I gotta spare.” His eyes flicker to his vehicle.

My mouth agape, I slowly glance between him and the rearview mirror: I can just make out that his car is a cream color, and definitely not modern. Maybe more so of a vehicle from the 1980s, but the air conditioning from my car and the humidity from outside fogs up my back window.

“Uhm…,” I start, but he then laughs.

“Oh! My name is Ivan. I’m a mechanic; this is just a bachelor party I’m going to.” Ivan gestures to himself before letting out a hand. “I don’t wanna go, so I’m more than happy to help. Free of charge.” The once hint of deviousness in his eyes fades into sincerity.

“Patrick.” My single word is slow and skeptical. I take his hand nonetheless; his touch is awfully warm and firm.

My mind flickers to my father, and to the intern-interview. I glance at my watch: only ten minutes until I’m supposed to make an appearance. The time crunch is gripping my soul, and the essence of being late cruelly hangs over my head.

Rubbing my damp hands over my jeans, I gaze upon Ivan with caution.

He shrugs.

“I’m already late as it is. I don’t really care if I go or not. Besides, your truck has seen better days.” He looks my vehicle up and down. Sass is written in his face; a stark comparison to a high-school mean girl judging an outfit.

As I open my mouth to defend my beaten vehicle, a roll of thunder plows through as lightning cracks through the sky.

He points to the atmosphere.

“You’re sitting on the side of a highway; the storm is just getting started.” He tilts his head. “You gotta have places to go? Can’t have you stranded, right, Jersey?” Smirking, he gives me a knowing look.

Even through the dense rain, he noticed my licence plate.

My eyes narrow at his new and unwanted nickname for me. However, I do have places to be. As little balls of hail start to fall from the sky, my soul goes into a tug-a-war between the need to not be late, and the want to not give in to this… creep.

He keeps tilting his head side to side. Raindrops are falling down his face, yet he doesn’t blink. The hail? Doesn’t even flinch.

Ivan can see the gears turn in my head.

“I’m not gonna charge you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He raises his hands in surrender, but it’s extremely brief. For a moment, I swear I saw a glimpse of something bright red on the palms of his hands. Not blood, but something that strangely resembles raw burn marks.

I can’t and don’t comment as Ivan is quick to continue: “You don’t even have to leave your truck. Very simple.” He offers with nonchalance. Under the brim of his cap, there is sincerity and an inviting smile, but how he’s hiding his hands in his navy blue trousers is not going past me.

However, Ivan is my only hope.

What makes it worse is that Ivan knows that himself too; he can see I have no other choice, and it makes his simple glances feel like he’s staring dead into my soul.

I have an interview that could make or break my future, and sitting on the side of a highway with a flat tire is a bit pathetic, if I do say so myself. I glance upon my watch nervously; the interview is supposed to be starting any minute and I’m fighting against a guy who’s offering free help.

Maybe risking any possibilities with a stranger is better than a no-show.

Letting out a hard sigh, I let my head nod.

“Alright. Sure, uhm, I’ll take your offer.” Hesitantly, I watch as his smile curls into a devious grin.

“Wonderful.” He pauses. “I’ll get to it.” Ivan then walks back to his car.

He’s finally gone, and the white noise of the passing vehicles is evident again. I notice the jostling of my truck once more, and I grit my teeth; why do people have the need to drive so fast? What’s the reason for the rush?

The clouds sag with ambiguity and despair. Hail dissipates back to hard rain as little tinks bouncing off vehicles and concrete can be heard. Another rumble of thunder roars loudly in the air; it’s like I’m at a bowling alley as the thunder is as deafening as players striking pins out.

My attention moves between Ivan in my rearview mirror, and to the bustling pool of vehicles.

The storm is growing stronger, and people still zip by way faster than they need. The wind is threatening to blow my truck over, yet irritation is brewing under my skin. I’m watching time tick right by me as I am motionless; I’m trapped between what I could potentially be, and what I already am because the aspect of time keeps slipping through my fingers. I hear the snapping of my bones because of the cruel time crunch.

Everybody is moving so fast, but I’m caught dead stop in the eye of the storm. A powerful cumulonimbus cloud is at its peak, looking down upon Brooklyn like its prey.

Vehicles rush past me in motion blurs; they’re so fast and it’s infuriating to witness.

I want to be fast; I want to be on time for a meeting, yet my feet are being dragged deeper into the carpet of my rusty truck.

The biggest roll of thunder pangs out, and the reverberation reaches the soles of my feet. I think the world was split in half by the sound of the detrimental roar. As the rumble fades, I realize something that makes my soul come to a dead stop.

I’m being a hypocrite.

I want to rush, I have places to be, things to do, yet it’s so easy for speed demons to get under my skin. I point fingers, meanwhile I drive fast myself, hence why I blew my tire out.

That, and I also ran over glass.

Oops.

Hard knocking on my window makes me jump in my seat. I roll down my window.

“So, you gotta new tire.” Ivan gestures, but I can’t see. I didn’t notice he finished or when he even started.

I nod along to his words.

“Oh, cool. Thanks.” I reply awkwardly.

Smirking, Ivan lowers his head. He’s staring at me weirdly; he has a hint of evil playing on his lips.

“No problem.” Saying slowly, he examines my truck with judgement. “See ya around, Jersey.” Winking, he strolls back to his vehicle in the heavy rain. Even if he’s leaving, his aura lingers and it makes my skin crawl.

Stalking him through my rearview mirror, I observe as he flickers on his headlights. His car growls awake; it’s not like any engine I ever heard. Maybe because it’s an old car or whatever.

I shake my head; if I speed my way to the news production site, I’m sure I still have a shot with that interview.

The growling of the car grows louder until it’s directly in my ear. I turn expecting to see Ivan by the side of my pick-up, but instead my heart drops.

It’s Ivan, but not Ivan.

His body is melting into the driver’s seat; his face is melting, yet a malicious smile still plays on his cruel lips. His dark gray eyes are so sunken in, the eye sockets in his skull are visible. I can’t even tell where his arms and hands start and where the steering wheel ends because Ivan literally is the car. The wheel and his skin is a bright red; there is smoke radiating from the wheel. The inside of the car is the inside of something alive; it’s muscles that I can see vibrating from my seat. It’s breathing; the car is breathing.

I cannot put to words what I’m seeing, yet I’m too afraid to look away from the disturbance I’m enduring. My stomach is turning over; I can’t even blink.

Ivan rolls up a very dark window before speeding away like a flicker of light.

A speed demon.

A real speed demon.

Watching him disappear in the dying storm, I realize that maybe being late isn’t such a bad thing after all.