marietta

The summer night air is alive with the wails of sirens—the piercing sound of the police cars, the lower, more urgent tones of ambulances, followed by the sharp honks of the fire trucks passing through the intersection below us. The Waffle House parking lot is awash with blue and red lights, liked a fucked up fourth of July, before being plunged back into the near-darkness of the flickering yellow sign over our heads.

The u is out, which she thought was hilarious.

“We’re waffle ho’s tonight, bitch,” she laughed when we first pulled up, then set to work rolling a joint. I watch as her fingers work expertly folding the paper, then spreading out the weed in a perfect even line.

In the passenger seat I tug on my seatbelt and shift my legs uncomfortably. Not close enough to see the lights, but in the distance, more sirens. I watch the street below us, save dark for the occasional set of headlights speeding by too fast. The city lights are far enough away that I can even see the stars through the grime on the windshield.

She takes a puff of her joint, then rolls her window down a crack to breathe the smoke out. “A lot of fucking sirens here.”

“Yeah,” I agree, “they got a lot going on tonight.”

I glance over to catch any of her signs of nervousness, the way her green eyes shift around, how she adjusts and re-adjusts her ponytail. But there’s nothing. She cups her hand over the joint to re-light it and takes another puff. It must be the weed that has her so calm.

My stomach churns uneasily against the button of my jeans. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten first. She always says we should eat after, but I eat before. I tell her it's for the energy, but the truth is you never know what might be your last good meal. She doesn't think about good meals because she's never really had a bad one.

“You got the stuff?” She asks, gesturing towards my bag on the floorboards.

I nudge it with a scuffed sneaker. “Yeah.” I wish I could lie and say I forgot it. The weed has her too relaxed. It's not good to be too nervous, but a little anxiety would be welcome here. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s never been sat down for hard time. She spent a weekend in the county lockup, slept through the whole thing, and was back in her car on Monday. She’s never been told to dig a ditch for the Warden, sweat soaking a jumpsuit that’s way too hot for July. None of that chain gang shit. That’s the problem. You’re too willing to fuck around when you’ve never found out.

She’s moved on to a pack of cigarettes now, packing it back and forth in her hands before peeling the wrapper off and crumpling it up on the center console. She extracts one and balances it between her lips. Blue and red lights the parking lot again, accompanied by that all-too-familiar keening wail of a siren. I want to puke.

“More fucking sirens,” she shakes her head. The lighter flicks and a stream of blue smoke weaves through the car.

I turn my head towards the interstate, where 18 wheelers are still rumbling over too fast, cars sail in and out of view with broken headlights. I watch them, as much as I can see them in the dark. Just blurs of motion again the midnight sky. I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m not the praying kind, but if I was, I’d pray that when I open them again we’d be up there with them, going 75 miles per hour to anywhere but this godforsaken exit. I take a breath, and open them slowly, to see only the darkness of a Waffle House parking lot in Cobb County.

Behind us, the restaurant door opens. The server comes out and leans up against it, lighting a cigarette. She waves at us, and I give her a nod that she probably can’t see. She was good to me, refilled my Coke three times and brought me extra butter for my waffle. She gave us both to-go cups without us even having to ask. As much as we try things, and oh, the thing’s we’ve tried, we’d never try the Waffle House. We’d get our fucking asses beat.

Another piercing wail of sirens somewhere in the distance. We’re too far to see the lights, but still way too close. My heart threatens to burst out of my rib cage and my lungs are tight. I roll down my window and try to breathe in the air, but the sirens only get louder. I said I was done riding in the backseat. Passenger Princess only, I told her when we first met, and no government cars. She swore I’d never see a backseat again for as long as I lived. I’d trusted her because she didn’t seem like a liar, but looking back she didn’t seem like a psychic, either. Our luck has made her too bold.

The bag on my floorboard attracts my attention. I’ve got the goods. If she pushes too hard, I’ll push her out. I won’t hurt her, but I’ll show her. I’m willing to take a risk, but I’m not fucking suicidal. You’ll have to push me because I won’t fucking jump.

She’s watching out the window, not noticing my fingers gently tugging on the zipper. I could have this gun on her in an instant. Ditch her here, drive until I run out of gas. Knowing this piece of junk I won't get very far, but it's the principle.

“I don’t think this is the spot for us, baby girl,” she says suddenly. She tosses her cigarette but onto the pavement and sits up straight. To my relief, she turns the key in the ignition and flicks the headlights on, “Too many fucking sirens in Marietta.”