On Life as a Sarcastic Fringehead

Reading more of the dated entries surrounding this frag, I see now and can partially remember that I considered this to be my sell-out piece of work. My writing has always been a little on the underbelly. Shady, questionable characters doing shady and questionable things. I never think there is an exact right or exact wrong and I try not to speak in absolutes unless I'm being ironic. Headlights, though, appears to be my attempt to be normal and straightforward. Another phase, I guess. I'm releasing this one only as a reference. As a reminder that I should write what I feel, if it's a good piece, even if it doesn't reflect an accepted standard. Most writers, I think, know this intrinsically. Sometimes, we forget it when we are looking for extrinsic satisfaction. Then, our stuff sucks.

He was an impatient driver. Sixty when speed limited to forty; forty at twenty-five. Never a careless driver, his eyes were always moving, looking for the unexpected, expecting the improbable just within his periphery.

In front of him on a road posted at 45, a rusted, used-to-be-blue Plymouth is crawling. Crawling at no more, he would later guess, than ten freaking miles for the hour. It was a road deluged with twists and curves [2006 note: would I today think a road could be deluged with twists and curves? Probably not, but I’m resisting the urge to edit myself nine years later] but that was no excuse. A kindergartner could have maneuvered half the stretch at no less than 50. Crazily, the tires of the Plymouth became mired in some imagined mudhole, and the car began to decelerate. Two, three miles for the hour, is that possible? thought Eric as he reached with his left hand and flashed a fanatical six twin beams with his headlights. Trying to get this fucker to either speed up or move to the shoulder for what he assumed to be a much needed rest.

The Plymouth, in compliance, and in, perhaps, apology, rolled toward 40. Eric settled back into his seat, his agitation for the moment removed. Once the Plymouth began an estimated 65, Eric snorted, half in triumph, half in indignation. He’d done his part to improve the 6 a.m. traffic flow, but what was this fool trying to prove? The road was treacherous at most, challenging at the least anywhere near a speed over 60. He could think of no universal signal, as with the flashing headlights for Are you fucking crazy? [2006 note: reversed my earlier decision not to edit. What I had was way on the dweebie side. Couldn’t print it] He watched in disbelief as the Plymouth, badly calculating a curve, struck the guard rail on first the left side of the two-lane highway, then the right. Like a flying Tonka, it flipped over the right-side rail and landed somewhere between the dirt farm road below and the pasture of cattle beside it.

He was afraid he wouldn’t reach the burning car in time. He ran, others ran down that embankment. Some slid. Barely noticing anything else but the trapped driver, once he wrenched open the driver’s side door, he heard a woman trying to pinpoint on her cell phone the location of the accident to 911. By the time the fire trucks, ambulances and every other emergency vehicle arrived, the Plymouth driver had been carried a safe distance from the fire. By whom, Eric would not remember. Whether Plymouth was dead or alive, Eric would not know. Plymouth was being tended by all the other random Samaritans, and Eric was back home within the hour.