Night at Sun River
A story about a carjacking.
There was still ice on the ground and it had hardened into bumpy streaks like trails of mucus that had been scraped over the sidewalk. I was walking home from work around ten. My route passed by a gas station, and there was a car pulled up to one of the pumps. There was a big pile of snow on the sidewalk, which forced me to cut into the lot. I could have cut into the road, but that would have been dangerous, with it being night, and me wearing dark clothes. This meant I had to walk right past the car. It was a red car, compact, dent in the hood. The manufacturer was foreign. The headlights were on. It was just parked there, not even connected to the pump. As I approached, I saw there was a guy in the front seat, not doing anything. He had his seatbelt buckled. His hoodie was zipped up. It was a dark-colored hoodie, like mine. The dashboard lights were turned off. On a whim, as I was passing the car, I pulled open the passenger door and slipped inside. Before the guy could react, I had pressed my knife against him, his torso, near his kidneys.
“I want you to drive,” I said. “I’m done with walking. All my life, I’ve been walking places. I’m sick and exhausted of it. I never want to walk anywhere ever again. Do you understand?” I wasn’t really sure what I was saying. It was just the first thing that came into my head.
“Sure.”
“Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“I want you to drive.”
“I can’t. There’s no gas. The tank is empty.”
“Well, get out and fill it up.”
“You don’t understand. There’s no gas.”
“Just do it.”
“Okay, okay. But it won’t do any good.”
He got out of the car. I heard him fitting the nozzle in. Nothing happened. I heard the nozzle being removed. He got back into the car. I returned the knife to where it had been.
“You see? There’s no gas. The station is completely out. Their own tanks are empty. They’ve run dry. There’s no more until the refill truck comes. I talked to the guy inside. He said it would be coming soon, but it’s not here yet. We have to wait.”
“Turn the car on.”
“I’m telling you it won’t turn on. There’s no gas. I ran out. We’re plain and simply grounded until the truck gets here.”
“Just turn it on.” I pressed the knife against him a little harder.
“Alright, alright, but it won’t work.”
He turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over once and then came to life. It thrummed heavily.
“Now, drive.”
“I have to admit, I don’t understand it. There’s no gas in the tank. There’s not even fumes. I made very sure of it. For certain reasons, I didn’t want there to be anything left at all. The engine is running on nothing.”
“Drive.”
“How can I drive a car with no gas?”
“You will.” I pressed so the knife seemed on the verge of cutting through the thick cloth of his hoodie. I had the thought that it felt very intimate, what we were doing.
“Okay, I guess I will,” he said. He released the brake and put the car into gear. Soon, we were driving.