wiping lights, flashing windshield

(TRIGGER WARNING - VULGAR LANGUAGE)

"Come on, DRIVE!" yelled the passenger.

Lawrence had never been one for superstitions.

It wasn't like he was uneducated in the Gospel, he grew up in the church and was known by his peers to quote memory verses weekly for minuscule amounts of candy.  But come college, Lawrence didn't see the point for many of those verses.

Come to think of it, not only had he fallen out of religion, but also any sort of self-care. As a boy, he tightened his tie, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair before service. Now, even after graduating college, he could barely remember how to tie a Windsor knot, so his favourite dotted white tie hung loose around his popped collar and haphazard appearance. He just couldn't be fucked to do any better. He was far from a put-together, church-going boy now. He was a full-blown heathen.

So when Lawrence saw the black cat crossing the street earlier, he thought nothing of it. Some people do, they subconsciously process it in their head and it prints out 'bad luck alert' in bold text on the receipt of their mind. But Lawrence just gave the cat a long blink. It looked into his eyes, he looked into its, and the cat scrambled away. Nothing more than a coincidence.

But now sat a man he didn't know in his passenger seat. His heated passenger seat. Lawrence let out a long sigh. He pulled the vehicle out of park, and into drive. The tires squealed to a start, getting caught on the slippery leaves below, but eventually snagging a spare bit of pavement to pull the car out of its resting position. 

The man seemed like he knew Lawrence, but Lawrence sure as hell did not know him. The first thought running through Lawrence's mind was, naturally, "Do I know this guy from somewhere? Am I that bad at remembering faces?" The second was "I'm gonna have to clean that seat later." His pristine, untouched, new-car-smell vehicle straight from the dealership. Lawrence rubbed the fresh leather of his driver seat. It’s the so-new type of new that Lawrence drove 5 or 10 miles slower just to make sure the white glaze of his car didn’t get so much as an unnoticed scratch. 

“What the hell are you doing?! Get going,” said the unknown man. The passenger was a short man. Not fat, but definitely plump. Greyish hair turning white on the top, a matching grey suit and tie, birch-coloured vest, and perfectly iron slacks leading down to his leather boots. His cane rested against the middle console of the vehicle.

Lawrence thought back to what he did to prompt this passenger’s visit. No, no upcoming rendezvouses, at least nothing that would involve someone hopping into his car. His mind palace was completely empty, just like that one scene with Neo, Morpheus, and the television set.  

He flicks the brights on and off just to make sure they work. An odd habit of his that he does twice too much, but it makes him smile. As his brights flicker off, a stray leaf and its partner spin onto the windshield, and are quickly wiped off along with the rain. Lawrence pursed his lip. 

This silence is deafening. 

The wipers squeaked against the windshield in a very unpleasant manner every three seconds. With each 'scree', and the following 'scruu', Lawrence grew evermore uneasy that his unknown passenger would get angry.  Lawrence felt the heat rise from his toes to his face.

This uneasy silence, broken up only by ‘scree’s and ‘scruu’s of the windshield, stretched on for what felt like hours. As Lawrence pulled up to the stop sign, bringing the car to an ever-smooth stop, he turned his head towards the passenger and gulped up a utterly pathetic inquiry. 

“Sorry, but where are we even going?” 

A particularly stuck leaf screeched against the glass of the windshield for five seconds longer than usual. The old man made piercing eye contact with Lawrence for those five seconds, then slowly turned his head back towards the road. Lawrence blinked. 

Okay, bad move. 

The quiet pierced his ears more than a nearly construction site would. As he pulled up to another stop sign, Lawrence spoke again, the less meek this time. "What do you think of Billy Joel?" 
A long pause. “Because this silence, I’m gonna be frank, this silence is deafening.” The passenger shot daggers through his darkened polarised lenses. He said, with perfect enunciation, as if he were speaking to someone with a mental disability, "Like, the musician?" 
"No," replied Lawrence, "Like the movie star. Yes, like the musician!" 

"Wha't'hell?" he said. "Don't you patronize me, boy." Lawrence threw up his hands. 
"I dunno pops, maybe I'd be less pissed if I knew where the hell we were GOING!" He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. The car shoots out a muffled honk. The passenger raised his eyebrows. “Jesus Christ, kid.” He raised a pointed, wrinkly finger and pointed straight ahead. "Take the next left, you fuckin' nutjob."  As the car ran over a small pile of leaves,  Lawrence felt his forehead wrinkle. 

The old man’s raspy voice continued. "I dunno wha't'hell's the matter wit' you, you've done this plenty of times." 


"Have I?" Lawrence petitioned. "Have I, though?" 

“Now, kid, I’m not so sure you have.”

Lawrence ground his teeth. 

"Can I just put on some goddamn Billy Joel?" 

He clicked a few buttons and spun the volume knob high.

‘Say Goodbye To Hollywood’ read on the  small square radio display. The snare hits of the track accentuated the bumps of the road. 

After a while, the passenger commented.

“This ain’t no Billy Joel.” 

“What?! It sure as hell is! His name’s right there, see?”

Conveniently, ‘ - Billy Joel’ read from right to left on the display.

Lawrence, with ego inflated, asked, “And you’ve never listened to Turnstiles.” 

"What is this, like his baby shit? I've heard 'My Life’ and ‘Big Shot’. Are they on this one?” 


"Goddammit," Lawrence slammed on the brakes at sight of the stop sign. He looks over to the man for a second. "52nd Street? That’s not even his best one, dude.” 

“Don’t make a left, you stupid bitch. Go straight here.”

The song rode out and faded into ‘Summer, Highland Falls’. 

Suddenly, an intrusive drum beat cuts in and drowns out the track. 

"This is a neat part of the song." 


"It's my phone alarm."

The passenger squinted at Lawrence. “You didn’t tell anyone about this, did you, boy?” 

“What?” He frowned. “Who the hell would I even tell?”

The man thumbed his cane. “Your girl, for one.”

“I don’t have a girl.”

“Ah, so you two fell through after all, just like I told you.”

“Huh?! Listen, grandpa, I don’t got no gir-”

“Watch the damn road.” 

For a while, Lawrence followed the directions of the man, and hummed the melodies of Billy Joel. But then, after the ever-awkward ‘All You Wanna Do Is Dance’, he interrupted himself. “Listen, I do have a busy day today though. Can we wrap this up quick?”

The passenger guffawed a deep-bellied guffaw that cut the air. After having his moment, he composed himself.  “Kiddo, we won’t be ‘wrapping up’ for the next month or two. You knew this.”

“Then why…?” 

“You gave me the signal. Three flashes of your brights and five quick windshield wipes followed by a slow one. Then three more flashes of your brights.” 

Lawrence blinked, then slapped his face. “Oy, Jesus Christ.” 

Him and his chronic compulsions. 

“Here’s fine, kid. If you’re ready enough, that is.”

“Here?! But this is-” 

They pulled in front of the traditionally-bank-looking bank, sprawling grey Grecian architecture and all. It was the main bank of the state. Suddenly, the passenger pointed to the album cover of Turnstiles. "Y'know, you kinda look like him, right there on the cover! The tie, even! Look at this guy!" 
"No way, man,” countered Lawrence, not missing a beat. “Billy Joel's a dreamboat. I'm just some Joe Shmoe." 


"If you just tighten that damned tie and freshen yourself up, you'd look a lot better. Look, you've got his eyes, too! Like a fuckin' clone!"

"Not the hair I don't." 


"Okay, not the hair you don't, but-" 


"Or the jawline."

The old man picked up his cane and rapped it on the floor of the car twice. 
"Kid, are you trying to make it harder on yourself?!" 
"Wouldn't be the first time,” said the driver. The passenger put his hands up. “Alright, alright, kid. You’re a feisty one today.” His cracked-tooth smile turned to a devilish line of a grin. “But enough fun.” Then, he handed Lawrence a pistol and a holster. 

Lawrence's jaw dropped.

"Huh?" 


“I noticed you didn’t bring your own, so you better be thankful I brought an extra.” He tapped the full pocket of his tuxedo, cracked open the car door, and stepped outside. “But you owe me.”

Lawrence couldn't object now, no no no. That would be wrong. Not to mention, it was much too late for that, anyways. What the hell would this guy to do him if he just drove away now?! He knew where he lived. He knew his car. He practically knew Lawrence from the inside-out. Shit. Shitshitshit. 

The old man lit a cigarette outside, and leaned against his cedarwood cane. 

What had Lawrence gotten himself into?