Freedom

CW: Strong Language, Mental Illness, Alcohol, Guns, Racism, Religion, Transphobia, Homophobia, Fascism, White Nationalism, and Basically Hate of Every Kind.

Phoenix. 87 miles.

Nearing dusk, a lime-green 1974 Cadillac Coupe DeVille barrelled down Interstate 93, plowing through the desert heat like a yacht cutting across the surface of an ocean.

In the distance, an arid, desolate landscape.

The air shimmered.

Absent its soft top, the Cadillac’s driver and passenger were exposed to the unforgiving sun and a hellishly-hot breeze coming off the baking freeway.

They whizzed by a dusty Toyota Camry parked along the side of the road.

“People fuckin’ need to be honest with themselves,” the driver shouted, the blustering wind carrying his voice to the passenger in the back seat.

Billy Black, the driver - sporting an unshaven, grizzly, scarred face, wearing mirrored sunglasses - drank the last dregs of a beer before tossing the aluminum can to a dozen others on the passenger-side floor. “Y’ get what I’m sayin’, don’t you, Padre?”

In the backseat, the young, black-dressed, white-collared priest smiled agreeably and nodded. They met in Vegas, and Billy agreed to take him to Phoenix, thinking the priest seemed like a decent man of God.

“Trans. Gay. Lesbians. Queers,” Billy shouted, gripping the steering wheel. “All a damn charade - people tryin’ to be what they ain’t!”

“Billy,” the priest yelled back over the wind, his eyes obscured behind a pair of Raybans. “Show compassion. Understand that everyone has their struggles and trials. We all have imperfections. We’re human.”

Billy Black slammed his hands against the steering wheel.

“No, no, it’s more than that! Take these assholes who’re one thing but identify as another. What’s that shit about? It’s like they’re lyin’, in their mind! If you’re a man, be a fuckin’ man! If you’re a woman, be a goddamned woman!”

Billy pushed his finger into his temple and shouted at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “They’re sick! Sick!”

“We must accept how others express themselves,” the priest countered. He turned his head to watch a clump of dried, stunted shrubs with twisted, thorny branches sculpted by the blistering wind go rushing by. “The Good Lord calls upon us to be accepting.”

Billy groaned, releasing the wheel to grip his head and slouch in his seat.

“Bullshit!” Billy exclaimed, glaring at the priest in the rear-view mirror. “They’re the ones confused, lost in some make-believe world! Fuckin’ look at me! I’m a mess - a stinkin’ pile of shit - but I own it! I’m not ashamed, pretendin’ to be somethin’ I ain’t!”

Exposed, a colored tattoo of a fierce eagle graced Billy’s left forearm, something he acquired during his second tour in Iraq. Wings outstretched, its talons clutched a banner that read Nunquam Mori, Nunquam Dedo.

The priest watched Billy snag a withered cigarette by his teeth to pull it from a wrinkled carton. He flicked open a Zippo to ignite its end. Sucking on the butt, he inhaled.

“It’s true, honesty is valuable,” the priest countered, looking at Billy in the mirror, “but empathy, kindness. These are virtuous. Prized attributes in the eyes of God.”

Billy laughed bitterly.

The glow from the cigarette uplit his cheekbones.

“Empathy? Kindness? Well, ain’t that part of the fuckin’ problem? People are too damn sensitive! They can’t handle real talk! Facts! Not like me! I see shit for what shit is.”

The priest saw Billy’s tobacco-stained teeth in the driver’s side-view mirror.

“We’ve all biases. Billy, perhaps you could benefit from a different perspective? Regardless of their convictions or predilections, we are all children of God.”

“You don’t fuckin’ get it,” Billy sneered, cocking his head parallel to the back seat. “I’m tired of the shit! The lies! The fake smiles! The pretentious bullshit! I don’t need to hide behind some made-up fantasy - some fucked-up identity - to feel better about myself!”

The priest shook his head dismissively.

Billy exhaled to blow a dense cloud of smoke at the mirror. “What?!”

“Billy,” the priest shrugged, “I’m here to listen, but empathy for others … it’s a core tenet for the faithful!”

Billy Black pursed, letting the cigarette dangle from his lips.

“The fuck it is,” he whispered, watching a rusted Ford truck approach in the other lane. Square bales of hay were loaded in its bed. “Well fuck me.”

Squinting, Billy rested the cigarette in the car’s ashtray, pulled a loaded Beretta M9 from his belt, released the safety, and leveled his weapon toward the oncoming vehicle. He balanced it on his left forearm and steadied the steering wheel.

As the Ford approached, Billy could see the family of four.

A father. A mother. Two kids. Their dark hair; their brown skin.

Gritting his teeth, Billy aimed.

The Ford’s driver slammed the brakes and turned off the road just as Billy squeezed the trigger.

It strayed high, missing the driver, but shattering the window on impact.

The Cadillac raced by.

“Go home, assholes!”

Laughing and rocking with excitement, Billy secured the weapon and reclaimed his cigarette. Balancing it between his index and middle finger, Billy pointed menacingly at the priest’s reflection.

“Preach all you want, Father, but you ain’t changin’ my mind. These queers - immigrants - the goddamned people need to stop livin’ a fantasy. They need to start facin’ reality!”

The priest sighed. “I hope you find peace in your heart, Billy. I’ll pray for you.”

“Pray all you fuckin’ want,” Billy scowled, “you ain’t gonna fix this messed-up world. Y’ain’t gonna fix me.”

Billy shouted over his shoulder to the road, “This is my fuckin’ country!”

Billy snorted and wiped his grimy sweat from his bald scalp. “Do you know what really gets me riled up, Padre? Huh? This whole global warmin’ bullshit!”

The priest cocked his eyebrows and ran an uncomfortable finger between his throat and collar.

Billy chuckled as they bolted by a dead coyote on the side of the road, its corpse picked at by vultures.

“Mind control!”

Billy inhaled deeply, ripening the cigarette’s bloom.

“Brain-washin’!”

Billy ran his hand over his stubbled jaw.

“Conformity!”

Giggling, Billy put his forehead against the wheel and kept it there dangerously long.

“It’s all just another fuckin’ hoax,” Billy Black snarled, rearing back and slamming the butt of his palm against the dashboard.

Billy pantomimed a sour face and spoke in a wispy, child-like voice.

“Oh no, the world’s burnin’ up.”

“Oh no, the glaciers are meltin’.”

“Oh no, there’s forest fires an’ floods.”

“The penguins are dyin’!”

His last line caused Billy to burst into a heaving laugh, and he regurgitated beer and vomit to spill over his t-shirt. Billy wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“Well, woe-is-fuckin’-me. So what if it gets warmer?”

Billy turned his body to fully look at the priest, his eyes filled with rage.

“I like it hot!”

“Billy,” the priest replied calmly, “the scientific community-”

“Science?!”

The Cadillac swerved into the oncoming lane before Billy turned around to counter the wheel.

“You’re a goddamned priest! Don’t you go fuckin’ tell me shit about science!”

The priest chuckled, staring directly at Billy’s eyes through the mirror, looking past a faded gray American flag tattooed on the back of Billy’s head.

Billy spat into the wind rushing by. His knuckles on the steering wheel went bone white. “Politicians,” he grumbled, his voice low. “Scarin’ us into submission. Makin’ us all anxious and weak. Well, I ain’t no sheep.”

Red-faced, Billy flicked what remained of the cigarette into the wind.

The speedometer read 91 MPH.

“They want us to feel guilty,” Billy cried at the priest.

Confused, for he could not hear Billy mumbling, the priest called back, “Who?”

“The goddamned politicians!” Billy shouted, slapping the wheel with both hands. “Global warmin’! It’s a way to control us, makin’ us feel guilty about bein’ alive! A way to take away our freedom!”

Billy Black ignored the wheel and thrust his arms into the sky, howling like a wolf. Uncontrolled, the Cadillac drifted into the emergency lane and kicked up a trailing storm of dirt and dust.

“It’s not about guilt. We have a duty to protect the Earth for future generations.” The priest held up a Bible from his lap. “Psalm 104:24-30. The interconnectedness of all living beings and the Earth. It emphasizes Man should be mindful of his actions and aware of his impact on the natural world.”

Billy rolled his eyes. “Future generations. Millennials. Zennials. Gen-X’ers. Bunch a’ useless, spoiled brats who don’t deserve shit! They never bled a day in their miserable lives for this country!”

Billy angrily glared at the priest in the mirror. “Well, I won’t let nobody guilt-trip me into changin’ how I live! An’ that includes no priest, neither. Need to take a piss.”

Slamming on the brakes, the Cadillac skid off the highway, sending a torrent of dust, dirt, and rocks flying into the cabin. Thrown forward, the priest cowered, covering his head as his shoulders rammed into the front seats, just as Billy threw the parking brake, cranked up the volume on the radio, and shoved the door open.

The aftermarket CD player sucked in the disc.

It was nearly dark. Pinpricks of starlight punched through a purple horizon. Billy walked out in front of his high beams, unzipped his jeans, and started pissing while walking. Stumbling, Billy sent a thick stream of urine projecting away from him as he wobbled.

Suddenly, the car's speakers blasted industrial rave music with a heavy rhythmic beat, masking the sound of fluid pooling on the cracked desert floor. Billy threw his head back in relief and moaned.

The priest exited the car and brushed his black jacket clear of dirt. He stretched his back and walked to the front to lean against the hood.

Hiking up his trousers and securing his belt, Billy marched to the driver’s side and yanked his keys from the steering column; the car’s radio and headlights continued to run off the battery.

Unamused, the priest folded his arms.

Rounding the car, Billy used his keys to open the trunk. Inside was a military-grade duffle bag, two six-packs of beer, an AR-15, three hunting knives, a hand axe, a shovel, and a pick. The rim of the trunk and the head of the pick were splattered with blotches of dry brown crud.

A sticker on the car’s bumper read, “Jesus Saves.”

Unlatching the duffle to unzip it, Billy tore off his shirt - stained with similar brown streaks and reeking of beer and vomit - and tossed it into the trunk. Reaching into the bag, his hand fished until he found the fabric he was looking for, then yanked out a colorful Hawaiian button-up shirt.

Slamming the trunk, Billy came around the driver’s side and threw a six-pack (missing a can) into the front seat. Cracking it open, the warm beer frothed over his hand, and he stepped out of its way as it spilled over.

“Father?” he said, extending the beer.

Respectfully, the priest presented a restraining palm.

“Suit yourself,” Billy said, chortling. Setting the can down on the car's hood, Billy slowly started gyrating to the beat of the music.

As he slipped on the Hawaiian shirt, Billy’s scrawny jeaned pelvis thrust; his hips rolled; his back arched; the chained silver crucifix around his neck dangled and bounced over his scarred chest. Billy pounded his fists to beat. 

Averting his eyes, the priest looked to the ground.

Losing himself to the music, Billy rolled his head back, stumbled, laughed, and swayed as he clumsily buttoned the shirt up from the bottom, stopping midway until he lurched forward to snatch his beer.

“C’mon!” he demanded, directing the priest to the car with the beer can. “We’ll be in Phoenix in an hour.”

Throwing himself into the driver’s seat, Billy’s eyes went to the pile of spent cans on the passenger side floor. “Aw, fuck - shit.”

The priest made a sign of the cross before getting into the back just as Billy leaned over to open the passenger-side door to shove the used cans out of the car.

Thereafter, satisfied, Billy shut the door.

Turning over the ignition, he released the brake and slammed his foot into the accelerator. Its engine roared, sending black exhaust blowing from the tailpipe. The car spun out and fish-tailed, until, finding traction, righted itself, and raced down the road.

The night air was cooling. Billy turned the volume down, and knowing what’d come next, the priest rolled his eyes under his sunglasses.

“People … they used to stand for somethin’,” Billy shouted over his shoulder. “Now they’re just a bunch of whiny cuddlemuffins. Full of excuses!”

The priest’s eyebrows shot up and he nodded in agreement.

“Know what they’ve lost? Huh?” Billy yelled, glancing back.

The priest remained quiet, staring straight ahead behind black sunglasses.

“The fear of God,” Billy growled, taking a slurp from the open beer. “They act like there’s no consequences for their actions. Like, they can do whatever the Hell they want. They’ve no accountability!”

Removing his sunglasses, the priest brought a handkerchief from his jacket to clean a lens. “While it’s true many have strayed from their faith, you should give people the benefit of the doubt.”

Billy reared. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“The church hasn’t adapted. We lose the hearts and minds of young people by the day … with our rigid theocracy, our weary messages, our inability to change,” the priest explained, refitting his glasses. “They stray for a reason. We don’t meet their needs, like we used to, in the past.”

Billy, grinding his teeth, glanced at the rearview mirror. “Are you shittin’ me?”

“As a priest, a man of faith, it’s my duty to gently guide them back on their spiritual journey,” the priest replied.

“Gentle? Love, compassion, empathy? That shit won’t bring anyone to their senses! Those sinners must answer for their deeds one day! I’m talkin’ damnation, Padre!”

“Fear alone won’t lead anyone to genuine faith. True faith, Billy, comes from trust-”

“Trust in what, Father?” Billy yelled, gulping down the rest of the beer and tossing the can away; it clamored behind them on the pavement. “They trust that God’ll do nothin’ in retribution of their crimes. That there’s no real penalty for actin’ up the way they do!”

Billy hacked up a loogie and spat it over his shoulder to the street. “They trust in God’s forgiveness! Romans 1:18-32: For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of people who suppress the truth! I’m sayin’ these people need a bit of Old Testament Godly wrath!” 

“Well,” the priest sighed, resting his hands in his lap in surrender. “None of us can fully comprehend God’s plan. You’ll have to just accept that.”

“Bah,” Billy chortled, delighted in himself for finally winning an argument against the priest. His smile quickly faded. “Well, well - what do we have here?”

Slowing the car, Billy pulled alongside a lone hitchhiker. “What’chya doin’ out here, son? It’s dark.”

“Oh, thank God,” the man said. “My car broke down about ten miles back. I’ve been walking for three hours!”

“Well, Christ-all-Mighty, get in, get in,” Billy said, holding up the five beers. “And please, help yourself!”

“Wow, Jesus, thanks,” the hitcher said, throwing his pack into the back before opening the passenger door and getting in. He looked for seatbelts.

“There aren’t any, boy, not in these old cars. Name’s Billy,” Billy said, extending his hand. “Billy Black.”

The hitchhiker accepted it, gripping Billy firmly. “Malik!”

“Malik?” Billy repeated, squinting at the hitchhiker in the dark. Billy could make out his slim features and then noticed his dark brown skin; something he couldn’t see at a distance.

Releasing his hand, Billy’s smile faded.

The priest gestured to Malik. “God’s plan.”

“Huh,” Billy chuckled into the mirror, scratching his jaw.

Malik, following Billy’s stare, glanced at the empty backseat.

Billy pushed the beers over to Malik, checked the driver’s side mirror, merged, and, accelerated. “I can take you as far as Phoenix.”

“Oh, man, thank you, that’d be great,” Malik said, wresting a beer away from the plastic rings. “There’s no cell coverage out here. I thought I’d be walkin’ all night.”

“Malik,” Billy said, side-eyed. “Can I ask you a question?”

Malik nodded, popping open the can and considerately suspending it outside the car. Its head bubbled over onto the asphalt. “Sure, yeah, Billy.”

Billy’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“Where you from?”

“Tulsa,” Malik nodded before taking in all of the beer in fast, furious gulps. “Born and raised. My family-”

“I mean,” Billy interrupted, his hand inching toward the M9 in his belt. “Where you … from?”

Malik’s throat seized; his eyes widened.

And Billy saw the priest smile pleasingly at him in the rearview mirror. 

Dark, the lime-green 1974 Cadillac Coupe DeVille barrelled down Interstate 93 and then disappeared into the desert night.