The Sphinx

“Guy… hey, guys? Do you see that, there’s a… never mind…” said Murry, his voice winding down into a self commiserating whisper. The incongruous hot air balloon, which only he had appreciated as it drifted out over the fir trees, floated into the past. His pants seemed to have forged permanent grooves in his backside and no amount of squirming would cause the humid shirt to waft from his body.

“What is it, hun?” murmured Trudy. She did not lower her road trip book of Sudoku; level 2.

Murry frowned, but did not answer. He had a theory about conversations.  

From the backseat, a steady stream of tinny music escaped from around the sides of Olivia’s headphones. It was so loud he could have repeated the lyrics back near perfectly, though Murry had never heard the song before in his life. It sounded like a video game score. Was that what you called them; scores? But, she was only staring blankly at the window, not playing with her electronics. It wasn’t even late enough for her to see her reflection in the glass. Well, perhaps it was. The sun had finally slipped halfway behind the low Carolina hills, so perhaps her sister-self had, reemerged... from wherever realm it was that the people in mirrors disappeared to.

Ahead, the road wound out like a black tongue, too slick and thin to be real. The green signs stretching across the interstate were beginning to look like brachiosaurus necks. 

Brachiosaurus necks… Why was it he could bring things like that up out of the darkness, but not the size of the house's AC filter? He even had his address written down on a piece of paper and slipped into the back of his wallet, just in case. 

Only 300 miles to go.  

The rear window of the brown station wagon had been reduced to an irregular rectangle of indigo. It was not actually a rectangle, of course, but Murry could not think what a randomly shaped blankness made up of straight sides and slapdash angles would be called.  

He found that vaguely comforting.  

The view out was chaotically defined by boogie boards and suitcases, by tennis rackets and snorkels, their sloping edges still encumbered with ancient cobwebs. Trudy had written something across the glass in soap, but Murry could not remember what that was either.

“You okay, hun?” she said.

Murray knew that she meant, was he okay to drive.

He rubbed at a looseness in his left eye- allergies, perhaps? They were supposed to be worse down south. He was so… The road was just...

But then.

Suddenly. 

The world was ripped apart by a screaming sound. It happened too quickly for Murry to respond. Instinctively, his hands tightened around the wheel, but that was all. And. He found himself frozen in a primal terror of inactivity for.

Exactly.

Two seconds.  

It felt like more.

A lot more.

And then.

The motorcycle sliced around the lumbering station wagon, as if the vehicle was not moving at all, instead of cruising ahead at a steaming 80 miles per hour. It was like a sword, a gracefully curving katana, the bottom of the rider tilted out, her back arched inward towards the fat tank.

“Did you see that…” whispered Murry.

He was all alone.

“Rocket man,” began to play on the radio. Or perhaps it was in his head.  

The girl snapped her eyes to the side in an automatic tic, gazing into the blind spot which would always be there, lurking about the limitations of her aftermarket mirrors. For a split second, her blue eyes locked with Murry’s. 

And.

She snapped her head back straight, the frumpy station wagon already a memory.

Clara re-positioned her sternum on the high arch of her tank, where the map was folded inside the skin, and reengaged the cruise control. Ahead, there was no one. She was going so fast, but then, speed had never bothered Clara. Really, she was a torque girl; living for the twist up more than top end, but, if you were going somewhere anyway, you might as well go there… as quickly as possible.

With great deliberation, she hooked her feet up onto the passenger pegs, easing the 200 mile cramp in her lower back. With her legs held up that way, it was like… she was flying. The road ahead was straight, black and white with only a haze of yellow on either side. She crossed her arms, leaning her head into the junction of her wrists. Reaction time to any control whatsoever was down to 2 seconds. At best. 

But, that was. 

Fine.  

That was.

Okay.

She had never not reacted in time before.

And.

Clara was... flying!

How far was there to go? She couldn’t remember, but the exit wouldn’t be for a while yet. Long before she reached it, Clara would have changed positions again and the directions, dashed across the bottom of the map in deliberately fat magic marker, would tell her where to go. For now, she was only conscious that she did not know, and that she might be, anywhere, going, anywhere.  

At all.

And, that was.

Fine.

That was.

Okay.

Sometimes it was enough to just be, on her bike, running, and.

A little red, something, raced backward towards her, its tail lights swelling like alarmed eyes. Without moving her hands in the slightest, without seeming to do anything at all, Clara grooved around it, the bike responding to her knees and hips.  

Like a well trained race horse.

Like a lover.

She clenched her jaw.

But.

Did not bother turning her head; the red car was traveling far too slowly to be in her way and… red car? Was it red? Clara had forgotten.  

She was moving too fast to remember.

The air chilled two precise points of her forehead, where the helmet vents let it come whistling in. She imagined it wreathing her temples, like a halo, sliding along her spine, under the fitted leather collar of her jacket, beneath the armor plates of the back protector Linsey had bought for her. She had worked so hard to get that money and had insisted, every single time…

Clara thumbed open the mirrored visor an inch, half an inch, and her face was flooded with air and reflected light. It caused her eyes to gush and the… they were not tears… the saline, the physical reaction, pushed back until she could feel it drying into her ears.  

Keeping herself perfectly still, Clara moved her right hand. Alone. She had never done it like this before.  

But, that was fine.  

That was.

Okay.  

Her bike, would know what she needed, it would intuit.

Body still prostrate, Clara released the throttle lock and twisted the accelerator until she was traveling… she did not know how fast. The speedometer was hidden beneath her face shield. And. She could hear no sounds from the bike; all of its noises traveled outward, away from her. There was no time for them to bounce back. The air coming in at the bottom of the visor began to lift her eyelids away from the surface of her eyes. She had read about Bernoulli in college, knew about his theory of lift. Now, people were saying that he was wrong. But. He felt right.  

Re-locking the throttle, Clara floated into the passing lane to pass a Semi truck which had appeared in the distance, before the grit thrown up by its big, flat tires could scour her, and looked straight ahead.  

Always. 

Straight ahead.

She was moving too quickly to look behind.

Its deadly steel bumper seemed to rocket towards her, so fast that the truck might have been going in reverse, and a jolt of mortality spiked its crystal shards up into her belly, and between her legs. Her bleary eyes encompassed… everything. They snapped to the big mirror, for a moment, as she tore around, and she found herself looking straight into the eyes of the driver.

And.

Julio eased back slightly to the right, maintaining a lopsided straddle over the centerline long enough for the crazy chick on the motorcycle to zip round. She was lying flat out, her feet hooked up on the passenger pegs, way up by the seat on that crotch rocket. She was going so fast; so damn fast. Shaking his head, Julio rechecked all his mirrors then resumed easing into the fast lane, the steering wheel never deviating more than fifteen degrees.  

“The faster you goin’, the slower you move,” he said, thinking of his daughter, Maria.  

It had been 20 years since he had taught her how to drive, but he still found himself coining aphorisms. Julio chuckled and took a sip of coffee. He should call her. He raised a hand to his over-the-head mic, but paused, bent finger on the multi-button. If he were to push it twice the device would dial her number automatically, because that was the last he had called. He bothered her too much. She had her own life now, her own little family.  

A mile down the road the taillight of the motorcycle flashed by the emergency vehicle he had pulled over to avoid. She was going so fast. He hoped she would get where she was going alright, without being damaged. How had he known it was a girl, in that one flash of boots and backside?

“Ahh, life,” Julio said, chuckling again. He glanced over at the picture, tucked between trim and ceiling liner, where he could see it with no trouble. He sighed. He had known that she was a woman right off, too… no sort of a doubt...

The truck roared past the accident. As always, Julio hoped that it was only a flat tire. But, this time, it was not and he stared away bleakly into the distance, trying not to think. It was so damn short; life. Tapping the brake to disengage the cruise, he thumbed up the Jake brake and indicated his turn. Slowly, the truck began to change lanes.  

Suddenly, a horn sounded. Julio froze, maintaining his lane position exactly, and rechecked all the mirrors. Then... he saw it, niggling on the edge of one of the eyeball fender mirrors, just a flash of a brown... something. It was a car, hanging about in the worst possible place. Julio’s lips tightened but he did not swear. He must have been more distracted by the accident than he had thought and had never seen the vehicle overtaking him. It was his own fault.

Leaning forward, he checked the danger spots on the drivers side directly, paused to give the mirrors a chance, then re-entered the fast lane. With the change, the flash of brown and chrome became a loaded station wagon, ‘Springbreak,’ written in soap across its cluttered rear window. Julio flickered his marking lights and the car, which hadn’t had the power to accelerate out of danger, chugged resolutely past.

“You see so many close calls every day, sweetheart...” he said, and, without thinking about what he was doing, Julio double pressed the multi-button. In his ear, a distant phone began to ring. The station wagon was nearly past when the driver turned his head to nod.

And.

The truck driver nodded back and Murry breathed out.  

He was wide awake now, adrenaline making his feet sweat. He glanced quickly from the corner of his eye. Trudy was still puzzling out numbers, the game show soundtrack buzzing from the backseat. Life hadn’t changed. It was amazing. He breathed in. He felt like an alien, like a stranger, in his own skin. The lights of the truck faded to twin dots and Murry eased into an exit lane, the evening sun rimming the green sign with orange.

“How you doin’ hun?” murmured Trudy.

“I’m fine,” said Murry, “but we’re gonna’ have to stop; can’t make it the rest of the way today.”

Trudy finally looked up.

“You sure, hun?” she said, glancing out the window with a disappointed face.

Behind him, Olivia blinked back to reality and slid off her headphones. She smiled. It made her look like a little girl again.

“Yeah,” said Murry, nodding at the quaint little buildings which peppered the way down from the interstate, painted up in maturing shades of brown and cream. The station wagon rolled past them, coming to a stop beneath a resolute, yellow traffic lamp, each separate illumination the work of a single, robust bulb. It was too heavy to swing in the fitful breeze.  

“But, this looks like a beautiful spot we’re in right now,” he said, gazing first one way then the other into the perpendicular distance. “Let’s just, stop, get off and enjoy it, while we can . While we’ve got the time.”