Contestant

               Your eyes are closed, blocking out the light and the task in front of you. Breathe. You inhale and hold the air inside your lungs for 3 seconds before releasing it slowly through your nose. You feel concrete beneath your bare feet, the scratchy surface warm after sitting in the sun since its rise over the mountains and trees. A faint breeze wisps around your body catching the sweat that has pooled in the small of your back. You can feel the sun beating down from above, warming your exposed shoulders.

                You open your eyes, feeling concentrated on what you are about to do. You take the pair of swimming goggles that have been dangling from your fist and stretch the elastic over your head. As the goggles slip over your eyes, the surrounding world takes on an orange hue. You breathe again, focusing in on the air that is flowing into your lungs. Hold for three seconds, then release.

                “Is the contestant ready?” A voice calls over to you from off to your left.

                You look over and see Jim Stanton, the host of the show. He stares nonchalantly at you, a wisp of wind ruffling the bottom of his yellow polo. You nod, and hold out your left hand, your fingers curled into a fist and your thumb extended into a thumbs-up.

                “Okay. Entering reality.”

                He pauses, waiting for a signal from the cameramen. You turn your head back to focusing on the water that laps against the side pool. You try to push down the rising tension in your stomach.

                “Will our Daredevil be able to face the watery depths or will their courage just leave them all washed up? We will find out in... Three…”

                The number echoes around your skull.

                “Two…”

                Your heart pounds against your chest.

                “One…”

                Your legs quiver in anticipation like springs wound too tight.

                “Go!”

                The springs in your legs snap, and you send yourself into the air, an arc headed downwards into the water.

                The dive is far from perfect, but your hands do manage to part the water in the split second before the rest of your body. The shock of cold hits your system, and you think for a second that your lungs might give up their precious cargo of air. But they hold, and you open your eyes to watery depths now surrounding you.

                Under the water, you can only hear the stroke of your arms and kick of your legs as you swim downwards. You see your goal, a set of wooden boxes scattered in the middle of a large red circle 15 feet below the surface. Around the perimeter of the circle, a squadron of black-suited divers swim, each one holding various pieces of video equipment that are pointed back at you. You hope that your swimsuit won’t slip from its designated position on your body as you continue to stroke through the water.

                You can feel the pressure of the water building against your ears as you reach the bottom. You arrive first at a large wooden box, with the number 2 written on the lid. A lock holds the lid shut, you will need to find that key. You leave the box, searching for another box with the number 2 written on the lid. You find it about 10 feet away, a small box the size of a shoebox.  You pick up the box and fiddle with the lid, trying to pry it off with shaking hands. You can feel your lungs fighting to retain any last shreds of air, you have to move fast. The lid pops off revealing a brass key inside. You grab the key in a pincer hold, drop the box and turn, not even watching it fall back to the pool’s floor. You kick off, swimming back to your first box. You arrive, and jam the key into the lock. You struggle to twist the key, and finally it pops.

                You open the lid, and there inside is your prize: a red block with the words “5 lbs” written in black across the top. You can feel your lungs crying out, so you grab the block with both hands and prepare to retreat back to the surface. Your feet find the pool bottom, so you squat and push. You feel the water flow against your skin, but you slow too quickly. Water still separates you from the air you need, and so you kick your legs, pushing you forward.

                Your face breaks the surface, and so you gasp for breath with water flowing off your face. But you can’t rest, the platform to place the brick floats 5 feet away. You move your legs still clutching the red block in your hands. Although it may have been a few seconds, it seemed an eternity. You arrive at the floating platform and heave the 5-lb brick up onto the platform. You hear an electronic bong from the poolside. One brick down, four to go.

---

                Almost two years earlier, you were sitting squarely in an uncomfortable chair in front of a wooden desk in an office with small windows on the side wall. Your boss sat in front of you, his hands clasped together on top of his desk. Plaques hung behind his head, exclaiming his excellence in management.

                “As you are aware, we are being forced by upper management to downsize our department. As one of the few at-will employees… I’m sorry about this, but we no longer need your services to this company. You will have until the end of the day to clear out your cubicle.”

                You stared straight ahead at the fake concern smeared across his face unable to force words of indignation to come to your mouth. All you could manage was an open mouth and a few gasps of air like a fish freshly pulled from a lake. After a few minutes of awkward silence, he finally helped you to your feet and out the door.

                Your 10x10 cubicle had been eggshell-white, just like the other 49 that formed the nexus of the business. You sat in your chair, feeling the familiar spring as it moved to your weight. You felt heavier than ever before, the weight of your future pressing down. You had been cueing up your computer for the day’s work before your “interview,” and the screen of your computer was still lit up waiting for use. A red light blinked on the phone to the right of the monitor; there were probably messages from the successes of the previous day.

                You left the phone’s headset sitting in the place where you put it after each day’s work over the previous five years. The mouse to the computer stayed next to the keyboard that was hidden on a sliding shelf that rested below the desk top. After pressing the button to turn off the monitor, you let your hand stray to the 3x5 frame sitting to the left.

                Your young son, Harrison, looks out at you, his face beaming in a smile. You had driven up into the mountains together the previous fall just as the leaves had been changing colors and had snapped a few pictures commemorating the memory. His eyes were filled with hope and yet-to-be-lived dreams. As you gazed at the picture, your own eyes filled with tears. What kind of dream would you be able to live together now?

                Seeing an empty box by the photocopier, you grabbed it to fill with your memories.  A set of pens for five years of service that you had received a year previous; you wanted to uncap them all and draw a modern take on primitive cave drawings all over the cubical walls. A plaque labeled “Optimal Service to the Branch’s Success” from the award banquet held right before Christmas.  You were tempted to throw it away, or even into the smug face of your now ex-manager. But instead, it all went into the forgotten box. You finished the pile off with the framed picture of your son. And just as your ex-coworkers were heading into the break room from their morning coffee, you removed your name tag, slapped it down on to the desk and left the office for the last time.

                A bridge stands a few blocks away from your house where you had lived. Underneath, a river churns its way relentlessly towards the ocean. After leaving your job that day, you stood on the bridge for two hours. You wondered what the bridge would look like covered in police cars, fire trucks and television vans. You wondered what the world would be with one less person living in it.

                Then, you heard the toll of the church bell ringing 12 times. Harrison was counting on you to pick up him from kindergarten. So, you turned your back to the bridge and walked away.

---

                You sit on a wooden bench at a picnic table. The table stands in a grove of trees, their branches shifting in the breeze. Light streams in from above, filtered by the leaves that hang overhead. You wear a jacket, its thin fabric layer forming a barrier from the shade’s chill.

                Two of the contestants had been eliminated the day before. Both had managed to complete the underwater task, but you retrieved the five blocks about 15 seconds than the faster of the two. Of the remaining four players, you had been the slowest at swimming. You make up your mind that you will not place last during this next event.

                Jim sits at the head of the table, explaining the rules of the game. Each contestant will be given a plate of food themed around a picnic. At Jim’s signal, each contestant would then commence eating at the same time and have 15 minutes to eat whatever food you will be given. The only allowed way to kill anything alive would be through crushing of it between your teeth. Any contestant unable to finish eating within the 15 minute time period will be eliminated from the show.

                As Jim explains the rules, you stare at the other contestants sitting at the table. You wonder if your face is as pale as theirs.

                Taking a cue from the producers, Jim pulls a large basket from underneath the table. The horrid stench you have smelled since you sat down intensifies. You hold a gag in your throat. Jim makes a face as he reaches inside the basket to pull out the first item.

                A cardboard carton with the logo, “Daredevil’s Finest Fried Chicken.” The bottom of the carton is darkened with moisture and you watch as a small white grub-like thing squirms its way between the cracks. In a horrific moment of epiphany, you realize what the little grub is just as Jim announces the dish.

                “Maggot covered Fried Chicken. Enjoy.”

                Someone to the right of you gags audibly, dry heaving.

                Jim has reached back into the basket and is preparing to pull out the next item that will surely torture your insides. It is long and cylindrical and covered in aluminum foil. He pulls out four others, and you realize there will be one for each of you. His eyes brim with glee as he unwraps the foil to show the contents.

                “And what is fried chicken without a side of corn-on-the cob?”

                The yellow corn kernels are covered in more grubs, this time in colors of red and green. They are thinner and slightly longer than their maggoty counterparts.

                “And those are waxworms.”

                More gagging from your right. Jim seems unperturbed as he reaches into the basket one last time. He brings out a smaller basket, this one filled with what seems like biscuits. However, you notice small legs sticking out helter-skelter from each one.

                “And finally, we have cockroach biscuits.”

                The gagging to your right continues. You look over just in time to see the contestant reach up to his mouth, swivel in his seat and run off into the woods. Seconds later, you hear the thick splatter of bile against the trunk of a tree.

                “It appears that we are already down a player. Okay, Daredevils, will you be able to brave the depths of food fears or will the bugs find themselves conquerors of your resolve? We will begin in…  Three…”

                You look at the maggots that are now wriggling out of every possible exit of the cardboard chicken container.

                “Two…”

                You stare down at a waxworm that has reared at you defiantly.

                “One…”

                You look at the biscuits and wonder if it’s just the breeze that is making the legs of the cockroaches twitch.

                “Go!”

                You lean in to the table, grabbing for whatever is closest to you. A biscuit. You close your eyes and lift your hands to your mouth. Saying a silent prayer, you clamp down and start to chew.

---

                It had been over a year and a half since your dismissal. In order to maintain custody over Harrison, you had taken up a job working the lunch shifts at a local fast food place. You had traded ironed shirts and day-old coffee for a baseball hat and grease stains.

                It was mid-afternoon and you had just gotten home from your shift. You lived in a new neighborhood, an apartment complex with rooms that were almost too small to live in. You were expecting Harrison to be home soon; his new school had a bus that would drop him off in front of the complex.

                The door opens and closes behind you and you hear his small footsteps on the fake tile. You grab a grease-stained white paper bag that you had sitting in front of you on the table. He takes it from you, giving you a hug on your side as he passes.

                “Thanks for the Happy Meal. Is there a cool toy in there today?”

                You shrug, but give him a smile. You picked this one out yourself.

                He smiles, and then sits next to you at the table.

                Within a few bites, the fries and burger were placed to the side and a purple car with orange painted flames was zooming across the table. Within moments, the car had bumped against the stack of envelops on its way around the table. The top one falls off the stack, revealing the eviction warning from the apartment managers. You shuffle the letters quickly, hoping Harrison hadn’t noticed the bright red letters. The car was still making its way around the table, Harrison making the sound of screeching tires against the wooden asphalt.

                He suddenly looks up. “My show’s on!”

                He runs over to the TV searching for the remote. He anxiously searches while you pick yourself off the chair and move over to the couch. Sitting down, you feel hard plastic and pull the remote out from the crack between the cushions.

                You press the power button.

                “Channel 4. It’s going to start soon!”

                You decide to play with his emotions and press the 7 button instead.

                “Ugh, I said channel 4! This is just dumb grown-up news!”

                You chuckle. You move to turn it to his show, when you stop yourself.

                On the screen, there is an advertisement.

                “From the producers of the hit game shows Show Me the Money and Walk out of Here with some Serious Cash: Do you have the guts to run into a burning building? Could you face a pit full of rats? We are searching for contestants for the first season of a new reality show where other people’s fears are just a walk in the park. Apply now for a chance to be on this new show and for the shot at the $100,000 prize! Prove to the world the Daredevil that you are!”

                A website was flashing at the bottom of the screen.

                “Come on, turn it to 4! Hydroman was teaming up with the Human Shark against the Evil Eel!!”

                $100,000? You felt in that moment that the number was a godsend. You quickly memorized the site’s address (www.Daredevilshow.com). You pressed the 4 button and the sounds of fanfare soon filled the living room. You looked at Harrison as he bounced up and down in a sitting position, his eyes glued to the screen in front of him. Could you be a hero from him too?

                That night after putting him to bed, you booted up your old laptop and opened up the internet. After filling in the address, you waited for a minute as the computer hummed away. The page loaded, and there, right in the middle, was a button labeled, ‘Apply Here.’ Without a second thought, you clicked.

---

                You stand at the base of a trio of towers. The night air feels cool against your naked arms. You rub your hands together, warming them in preparation for the final task.

                Only you and one other contestant, Marcus, remain. The third contestant made it five minutes into the previous task before throwing up all over her side of the table. For yourself, you only stand here because your bile came up your throat after time had been called. It had never felt so good to expunge your stomach of its contents.

                Jim stands in front of you, his yellow polo shirt catching a faint breeze. He has just finished explaining the procedure of the event; this final stunt would define the winner.

                It seems simple enough. The three towers stand in the shape of a squashed a triangle. You and Marcus stand at the base of the two outer towers which you both will climb concurrently. After a 100 foot climb, you will both then traverse a thin plank that stretches between the outer towers and the third tower. Whoever crosses the 75 foot gap to the top of the center tower first and hits the red button in the middle will win, earning accolades and the final prize money.

                “So, are you ready to show the kind of Daredevil you are?”

                Both you and Marcus nod your heads. Jim motions you to take your positions at the base of the towers. You feel your heart racing as you realize that your goal is so close. The production crew comes to your side, doing a final check on the harness that will keep you attached to the safety lines mounted around the set.

                You worry that Marcus is going to be a formidable opponent. His arms of steel pulled him through the water to have the fastest time in the first task. His will of iron helped him force down the bug-infested food without a single gag. And now, there he stands, the final obstacle between you and the prize. Him, and this enormous tower looming above you.

                The production crew backs off, giving the thumbs up sign to the cameramen and Jim. At that moment, a faint mist begins to spray down from a hose suspended hundreds of feet in the air.

                “Okay, Daredevils, this is it! We are ready to go in … Three…”

                You look over to Marcus. He is staring straight up at the tower in front of him. His legs quiver beneath him.

                “Two…”

                You focus on your own tower. The top seems high up, and as you stare, it begins to fade out of focus.

                “One…”

                You tense your legs, priming them to push you heavenwards.

                “Go!”

                You grab hold of the closest rung on the tower and pull yourself upwards. You can hear Jim yelling and screaming, but you tune him out as you stretch your arms and legs upwards. Rung after rung you climb, feeling the bars grow even wetter as you gain height. You refuse to look over at the other contestant; instead you reserve every bit of energy into completing the task.

                Halfway up, your right hand slips off the rung. Your arm swings down smashing into a rung below. Your elbow immediately flares up in pain. You yelp, but you know that you have no time to stop. So, refusing to listen to your arm, you stretch it forward again and again.

                Finally, you reach the top. The mist was originally a slow mist is now a steady drizzle and the water splashes onto your head. You aren’t sure what has made you wetter, the sweat from the exertion or the man-made rain cloud above. You look down, seeing the lights of the cameras below. The production crews scurry around, positioning themselves to find the best angle to capture the action. And in the middle, with his arms folded across his chest, Jim stands, head cocked to the side in bored anticipation.

                The world below begins to swirl and twist in your vision. You close your eyes, trying to slow your pounding heart. A few seconds later into finding your focus, you look up and approach the plank that spans the gap to victory. You breathe in deeply, and then step out over the void. The wood is slick beneath your feet and it takes every ounce of will to put your next foot forward. You hold out your arms, thinking about all the shows of circuses that you have seen. The pain in your elbow intensifies from the stretch, so you grunt and groan to keep up your resolve.

                Another few footsteps forward. You look forward, not down. You can see Marcus through the drizzle; he is a few steps onto the plank himself. He seems to be slowly shuffling, his legs wobbling. You hope that your determination is as strong as the determination you can see across his face.

                You struggle to lengthen your shambling stride and you manage a few more steps forward. You can feel the wood bowing slightly beneath your weight. You search your soul for any reservoirs of energy. Finding a final drop of power, you use it to quicken your pace, hoping that the board isn’t going to break beneath you.

                Before you know it, you find yourself on the firmer footing of the central tower. You see the button in the middle on a raised platform; if you can just get to it first. Marcus sees this too, and he begins to lunge forward, being only a few footsteps from the tower. You stretch out your arms one final time, working against the throb in your elbow. Your extending fingers find the red plastic cover and so you press down with all your might.

Test Drive

           Brandon sat in his seat sideways, letting his legs dangle out of the car as the door stood ajar. His head rested against the head rest, the mesh-like surface material leaving a pattern on his skin. His eyes were closed, blocking out the omnipresent glare of solar light that bounced off of the desert landscape that surrounded him. He wasn’t asleep, but each throb of the headache rattling inside his head pushed him closer and closer to exhaustion.

            His legs were getting jittery, he needed to stand up and stretch. He opened his eyes to slits, and felt the heat lick the fronts of his eyeballs. Even in that millimeter of space, light flooded into his vision and reminded him of where he was. A giant canvas spread out before him, shades of brown and red broken up by the cloudless azure sky above and the black asphalt close by that stretched off going east to west. He groaned, put his sandal-covered feet to the pavement, and used his hands to push himself up and out of his vehicle.

            Even outside of the cab, he couldn’t completely stretch. The roof of the car extended out six feet from the sides and sat only five feet off the ground. Five feet was just tall enough to make his six-foot frame groan in discomfort. And so, he stooped low, and then stepped out into the sunlight.

            As he stood in the heat and the sunshine, he wished once again he had worn his shades that day. He hadn’t planned on taking this test drive out into the desert, so he had left them sitting on the countertop in the apartment. At the very least, he was glad to be wearing his hat, a Yankees baseball cap. It had been with him since his freshman year of high school, and it was one of the only positive reminders of the life that he had once lived.

            Out of habit, he tried his cell again. Still no service. He couldn’t even get any roaming bars. So much for those maps cell companies are so proud of. He sighed, staring up into the azure sky. He was fairly certain that the buzzards flying overhead were waiting around for him to keel over. If he had been driving a normal car, he would have left hours ago for help. But as it was, this car was his ball and chain, so he felt obligated to stay put.

            He looked back at the car, solar beams reflecting off of the panels that covered the roof and glaring his vision. It was a solar car, and he had been working on it for three years. The teardrop body seemed otherworldly; against the desert backdrop, it looked like a Martian spacecraft. The car had only three wheels, one in back and two in front, and just enough room for a single driver. The other-worldly allusion was completed by the almost clinical white color of the shell, which was now covered in a thin film of red dust from the infrequent gusts of wind that had blown through for the past few hours.

            Brandon squinted his eyes to the east, hoping that the tale-tell signs of an approaching vehicle would signal a rescue. Just rocky skyscrapers jutting skywards out of the desert floor. He turned to the west, squinting harder as his eyes adjusted to the sun blazing brightly above. Still nothing.

            He sighed, walking to the back of the car where the access point to the circuitry was located. Maybe this time I’ll figure out what went wrong and get out of this wasteland. Using the bottom of his thin t-shirt, he tried to pry open the panel so he could look at the electronics again. Damn. It was hotter than before; he could feel the red burn already seeping into his palms. Yeah, those gloves would be coming in real handy right about now. It had not been his day for being prepared; he hadn’t anticipated these problems so his leather-padded work gloves had been left on the work bench after he had inspected the car that morning.

            Behind the panel, the interior was just as before. Wires twisted up into the ceiling, connecting the solar panels on the roof to the battery down below. Underneath the battery, gears and axles crisscrossed the cavity, creating the somewhat chaotic system that transformed the electrical current into mechanical energy that would propel the car forward. He was still fine-tuning the system, but if he could get this car to routinely work, it would revolutionize the solar industry. But just as before, everything looked like it was in place. What he really wanted to do was to look underneath and check out the undercarriage. But without a jack, the vehicle’s low clearance made that a no-can-do.

            As he stood staring into the compartment, black passed in front of his vision. His head felt woozier than before and the dull throb turned into a sharp piercing pain inside his head. I really need to get some water. The moment passed and color returned to his vision, but the throbbing inside his skull remained. He could feel it with every heartbeat.

            He stepped away from the car, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. And that’s when he heard it. The sound was distant and low, the sound of a diesel engine turning the pistons of a truck. It sounded like it was growing nearer, so he strained his eyes westward to verify what his ears were telling him. And there it was, a blob of metal emerging from out of the heat waves.

            Within a minute, he could smell the diesel pouring out of the exhaust pipes. The blob of metal had become a rugged old truck, with faded green paint adorning the sides along with the words “Ol’ Willy’s Pickup and Tow” written in red inside a circle of white. A man sat inside, his face barely visible through the splatters of bugs that stretched across the windshield. His window had been rolled down by the time he had pulled up alongside Brandon.

            “Hey there! You all right?”

            The man grinned, and his mouth betrayed several gaps in his teeth. His face had been weathered down, wrinkles and spots of brown covering its surface. Graying hair stuck out from beneath the cap that he wore on his head.

            “No, sir. My car broke down out here a few hours ago.”

            “You call that a car? Looks more like one of those alien spacethings that they always got on the History Channel nowadays.”

            Brandon chuckled, but the effort hurt his head. He winced as pain shot between his ears.

            “Kid, you had any water for a while?”

            The man didn’t wait for answer. He turned and rummaged behind his seat for a few seconds before turning back. He was holding a bottle, the contents inside barely visible under the dried dirt that covered the plastic.

            “It don’t look pretty, but this’ll do the trick.”

            Brandon took the bottle cautiously and unscrewed the cap. He sniffed, he didn’t smell anything. He tilted his head back, and let a small stream of liquid flow into his mouth. It was warm and tasted a few days stale. But it was water, and he could feel the relief flowing down his throat.

            The man spoke up as Brandon took a longer swig from the bottle. “So kid, I’m headin’ into town after dropping a Toyota off in the city this morning. The town’s only a mile east of here, and I can hook you on up and get you out of this heat.”

            Brandon finished the contents of the bottle. The headache had already dulled a fraction. “Thanks, sir. I sure would be grateful.”

            Brandon stepped forward and put his hand into the open window. The man grabbed it with his own, and they shook.

            “Boy, you are most polite. The name’s Willy, Willy Junior. Let’s get your spaceship hooked up.”

---

            After a few minutes of effort to loop some rope around the front axle, Willy managed to get Brandon’s car tethered to the truck. Moments later, they were driving down the highway, windows up and a faint breeze flowing through the truck’s cab as the air flowed out of the vents. Willy had turned on the radio, the soft twang of country music pouring out of the speakers. Willy hummed along, a smile creeping across his face. Brandon had never cared too much for country music, but today, he was glad to be hearing something other than his own thoughts for the first time in several hours. Despite its looks, the truck rode smoothly, with Willy managing fluid maneuvers to dodge the few potholes that had formed in the highway.

            After the first song had finished, Willy turned his face towards Brandon.

            “So kid, what in the name of horse-spit are you doin’ out here?”

            “Well, I was going for a test drive. That hunk we’re pulling is a big project I’ve been working on for two years now.”

            “Project? What kind of project would that be?” Willy jerked his thumb back, pointing out the back window.

            Brandon considered the question. Maybe it was his recent rescue or maybe it was Willy’s smile, but Brandon felt like he could be open with Willy.

            “Well, I’m a Mechanical Engineering graduate student at the University of Arizona. I’ve been developing that car using a grant from the government as part of my graduate thesis. So, if I brake it, there will be some unhappy people in Washington.”

            Willy whistled, sending a new blast of pain ricocheting through Brandon’s temple. He stroked his forehead with his right hand willing the pain to slow.

            “Looks like you’re a regular Einstein, huh kid?”

            Brandon forced a smile and tried to look through the smear of bugs. “No, I would have that car working by now if I had that type of brain.”

             “Don’t be so hard on yourself, kid. You probably already have the solution in that there head of yours.”

            Brandon turned to look at Willy. “What do you mean?”

            “Well, the way I figure it, with you havin’ worked on it for so long, you would know exactly what you need to do. Sometimes, we forget what we know. We take a step back, sit for a spell, and BAM, it’ll come to us. Give it time; it always comes.”

            Brandon turned back to the window. “Well Willy, I sure hope that time comes soon. People could start believing in me.”

            “Kid, there’s only one person who needs to believe in you; yourself.”

            A town was starting to show up on the horizon. Buildings of wood, brick and stucco stood braced against the hot Arizona wind. They drove past a green sign, “Welcome to Pawnee Butte.” There had once been some indication of a population beneath, but a large hole was in its place, like an unseen fist had forced its way through from the backside.

            “Here we are, kid. Just another slice of heaven on earth. You’ll see my shop pretty soon, it’s just on the edge of town.”

            Brandon wouldn’t have called this heaven. Faded signs drooped from store windows, and any inhabitants in town were hidden inside the walls guarding themselves against the sun. Cars lined the street, layers of red grit masking the true colors beneath.

            And there was Willy’s shop. Brandon knew it, because in front of the small garage, a sign with the same insignia that was plastered on the truck’s side stood twenty feet up in the air held up by a pair of metal pillars.

            “I got the place from my poppa when he couldn’t run the place no more.” Willy’s eyes misted over and took on the look of gazing into the past. “He died a few years back, bless him.”

            He turned towards Brandon. “You good with your poppa, kid?”

            Brandon squirmed a little in his seat. He took his cap off, and rubbed the bill with the edge of his thumb. He hadn’t been prepared to discuss his past, about his decision to leave his old life behind. But once again, Willy’s nature seemed to make it easier to talk.

            “We’re okay. We don’t talk very much, with him being back east and all. I e-mail him every now and then, giving an update. But, I’ve gone my own way and I think he’s sad I didn’t want to walk in his shadow.”

            Willy was silent. They had pulled up to the curb in front of “Ol’ Willy’s Pickup and Tow.” But he left the engine idling, inviting Brandon to continue.

            “My Dad had always hoped that I would follow him into the family practice. He’s a big time lawyer in New York; Grandfather was one once as well. But, I’m doing now what I always dreamed of doing. So I left and came out here. He still hasn’t forgiven me.”

            Willy nodded. “Fatherhood can be damn fickle. You know, I got myself a son too. Had big hopes for him but he ain’t around anymore. Walked out when he was 18.”

            Willy paused, and Brandon saw the sadness behind the smile. Shifting the truck into reverse, Willy began the process of backing the solar car into the garage. He stared out the side mirrors, tweaking the steering wheel whenever the solar car began to move to the side. Brandon was glad for the break from his memories. The pounding in his head had returned, a constant reminder that he still needed more water.

            Willy looked him in the eye after parking. “You know, I think you’re poppa is closer to forgiveness than you would think.” With that, he opened his door and hopped out of the truck.

            “Come on, kid. Your spaceship ain’t gonna fix itself.”

---

            In the garage, the panel to the back of the car was open once more. Willy had grabbed another bottle of water from a fridge in his office, this time, the bottle was clear. Brandon took long swigs in between his explanations of the various workings of the operating mechanism.

            “So, these panels on the roof collect energy from the sun through a variation of what’s called the photoelectric effect. That energy is channeled to the battery, which works all the gears and such.”

            Willy whistled. This time, the pain in Brandon’s head was less distinct.

            “So you mean that this here vehicle doesn’t need any gasoline to get up an goin’?”

            “You’re exactly right. But, it can’t go nearly as fast as your average car; your old tow truck could probably hit 50 miles an hour faster than this guy.”

            Willy whistled again. “Kid, this is just the one of the most fantastic things I’ve seen in my life. Here I’ve been watching that history channel on aliens, and we got ourselves this new technology already.” He grinned. “Well, as long as they keep breakin’ down, I’m in business.”

            He jabbed at Brandon with his elbow, chuckling at his joke. Brandon smiled too, thinking about a future with futuristic cars and the old men like Willy working on them.

            Willy stopped chuckling and was staring at the cavity. “So kid, what sort of thing are we looking for to get this spaceship going?”

            “Well, I think that the problem is going to be somewhere on the undercarriage. I checked through the back cavity pretty thoroughly while in the desert.”

            Willy nodded. “Sounds like a good plan. Let’s get this raised up in the air and take a look.”

            Using a set of four jacks, they managed to lift the car a couple feet off the ground. Brandon stood near the front of the car, holding the panels to keep them balanced. He had wanted to look underneath, but his height gave him the advantage in being able to reach the solar array. But in that truck ride from the desert, Brandon had grown to trust the aging Willy. So after an explanation of what the undercarriage should look like, Willy wriggled his way underneath the car. After a few minutes, Brandon heard a triumphant chuckle from Willy.

            “Well, if that don’t beat all.”

            Willy wormed his way back out, grunting in effort. Even with his thin frame, it was still a tight squeeze. 

            “Well, you had this one little red wire, it looked like it got clipped by some sort of rock or somethin’. Luckily, it didn’t break; it just got knocked loose from its connection. I was able to tweak it back into place for ya.”

            He held out his hand, and Brandon lifted him off of his back. When Willy was standing, Brandon clapped him on the back, gratitude radiating from his eyes. He went to his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. He moved to open it, but Willy pushed his hand down.

            “All I want in payment is to see this spaceship at work.”
            Brandon smiled. “If it works, I think I can do you one better.”

            They pushed the car out of the garage and into the Arizona sun. Popping the door open, Brandon sat inside, and twisted the key in the ignition. A light on the dash lit up, indicating that the car was on and ready to go. Brandon smiled, closed the door and took a cruise up and down the street, checking if it all was working after sitting idle in the sun for so long. The wheels crunched against the gravel and the motor gave its whisper of a hum. The road was uneven and Brandon jostled in his seat, but it all held together. Outside the garage, Willy jumped, whooped, and hollered.

            As Brandon pulled back up to the garage, Willy’s smile had stretched from ear to ear. Brandon opened the door, and Willy was immediately at his side.

            “You know kid, this thing is a real beaut. I think your poppa would be mighty proud of you.”

            Brandon grinned. He got out of the car, and motioned for Willy to get in.

            “I think you should take her for a ride too.”

            Willy’s jaw dropped. He stared up at Brandon, and Brandon caught the sight of a small tear forming in the corner of Willy’s eye. Grinning, Willy stepped into the car and sat down gingerly into the seat.

            Gripping the wheel, he turned back to Brandon. “Kid, you’ve made my day today. I’m glad I had to take that Toyota to the city.”

            He turned the key in the ignition, and Brandon closed the car door. As Willy pulled away from the curb, Brandon could hear his whoop and holler as he piloted his spaceship up the road. Brandon thought back on what Willy had said earlier in the truck. He pulled out his cell, and there was surprisingly a single bar of service. He selected a number from his contact list.

            After a few rings, he heard a click on the other end.

            “Hey Dad. It’s me, Brandon. Do you have a minute to talk?”

Dinnerware

            Aided by the sudsy lubricant and clouds of lime-scented bubbles, the porcelain bowl slipped out of June’s wet and wrinkled hands. Water spun off as the dish twirled in the air, a ballerina covered in intricate flowers of green and blue. It hit the countertop, the impact jarring it upwards. As it reached its zenith, her fingers reached towards it, grasping at the happy ending. But the frictionless surface evaded that hope, and plummeted towards the ground.

            Crash. Porcelain met granite tile. What was once whole became two separate pieces, with enough missing chunks that no amount of epoxy would make the cracks disappear.

            June crouched over the wreckage, resting a trembling chin on her knees. She hugged her legs close to her chest and strands of brown hair swept over eyes that were welling up with tears. Even though her wedding had been almost a year ago, her once complete set had just been diminished to a single bowl.

            Both of the previous breaks had been accidents as well. The first flowered-wreathed bowl had met its demise one night when it had been knocked off the counter as ice-cream was being served. The second she had thoughtlessly placed on the burner of the stove; the successive explosion had sent a bruise-inducing piece into her side. Even though she had been upset at herself during those times, she had had at least enough bowls for the two of them. Until now.

            “Is everything okay in there?” Her husband’s voice wafted in from the other room.

            It occurred to her that if she didn’t answer, Don might come to investigate. He just might see her sitting on the ground and crouch down to hold her like he once had. But on the other hand, the voice inside argued, if she remained quiet, he might just stay put, chalking the noise up to mere imagination.

            “Everything is fine,” she managed to croak out.

She remained on the floor, teary mist clouding her vision. But her hope remained unanswered. He didn’t come.

Gingerly, she picked up the two larger pieces from off the floor. After placing them on the counter, she grabbed a long-handled broom from the corner of the kitchen. She swept vigorously, each stroke beating back her tears. After dumping the fragments into the trash, she paused, what should she do? After mulling over the decision for several moments, she opened the lid to the trash once more and threw the two halves away. She would just have to replace it.

She wiped her hands dry on her faded jeans as she walked into the next room. There he was, head borrowed into one of his detective novels. She didn’t understand his preoccupation with the subject; he had a bookcase full of fifteen dollar paperbacks and watched numerous TV shows concerning the subject each week. And yet, the clues that stared him in the face were invisible.

“I need to go out, Don,” she announced.

He didn’t respond right away, a normal response. She said it louder, and he looked up. His dark brown eyes were glazed over, the product of being wrapped in another reality. But recognition flickered in background.

“Is everything alright? You don’t look so good.”

She sighed. “I’m okay. I just need to go out for a little.”

He stared at her for a second or two. For an instant, he looked prepared to re-enter his new reality, but then seemed to make up his mind about something.

“Let me grab my coat, I’ll go with you.” He had found a thin slip of wrinkled paper, most likely the receipt from a recent trip to Barnes and Nobles, and placed it between two pages as the book closed.

She wanted to protest, she didn’t think she could hold herself together with him there. But he had already picked up both of their coats, one black and structured and the other navy blue with a faux-fur collar, from off of the back of their thrift store couch. Sighing, she grabbed hers out of his hand and slipped it onto her shoulders.

***

She wished she had worn gloves to cover her thin fingers; it took a ride longer than the one into town to get the heater going in the car.

“So, you mind telling me why we are doing here at Bed Bath and Beyond?”

They were sitting in the car in the parking lot. He hadn’t asked during the trip as she had driven the car through the mid-afternoon traffic, probably his mind had been on something he had read.

She nervously looked at him. “Well, we need a new set of bowls.”

Realization came to his eyes. “The crash… Darn it, June, did you break another one?”

She looked away, tears were forming around the edges of her vision.

He muttered a few choice words, then popped his door open.

“Well, you coming?” He didn’t wait for her answer as he let the door slam shut.

She wanted to just cry in the car. But, remembering her resolve, she got out and followed Don into the store.

Dinnerware was in the back, not that long of a walk. Don’s brisk walk made it hard for her to keep up, his black jacket repelling the two “How may I help you?” as soon as they had been uttered. She imagined that the clerks’ faces of boredom held little sympathy for her as she and Don hurried down the aisle.

After a few minutes of searching, she found her bowls. The green and blue flowers danced pristinely on the glossy surface. She picked one out of the rack, holding it gingerly between her two hands; no blemish from nicks and bumps lay on its surface. Her bowls had once felt like this, waiting to become a part of the history of her family.

“Wow, I didn’t know your aunt had paid that much for that gift.” He had just noticed the price-tag. “There is no way we are spending fifteen bucks for a bowl.”

He moved to take it away, but her fingers held on.

With tears were trickling down her cheeks and resolve moving in her chest, she said, “When will you ever let me have something that I want, Don? I never say anything about all of your books and how you never help out and how you are always absorbed in some different world…”

She looked into his eyes, and her resolve left her. She thrust the bowl into his hands, and with tears falling freely from her cheeks, she ran out of the store into the cold night air.

The car was locked, of course. She hugged her coat tight around her and let her shoulders shake, both from shivers and from shame. Why had she even come? She felt herself spinning round and round and she wondered if there would be fingers reaching out to save her from this fall before she too lay in pieces on the ground.

A few minutes later, she glanced up to see him coming towards her, a small bag in his right hand. Through the afternoon light, she could see that the bag had some weight to it; could it be the bowl? Upon his arrival, he moved to wipe away her tears.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He kissed her on the forehead, like he once had done months ago. She fell into his arms, and let the sobs pour out. He placed his arms around her, the bulge in the bag laying there against her back. As she stood in his arms, she couldn’t help but hope that just maybe she had escaped the crash.