from the pen of icarus blake

Gerald Pickering worked three jobs and needed a car to get to two of them.  That was just how America worked, and that was why he didn’t look too close at the Nissan Altima his friend offered him when his Honda’s transmission fell out.  His friend cut him a deal, $500 up front and he gets the car.  No title.  With oil and a full tank of gas.  Gerald didn’t ask questions, anything was better than asking his ex for a ride.  So Gerald forked over $500 and didn’t look too hard at the car until it was parked in the assigned spot at his apartment building.

He walked around it, taking in the peeling paint and the broken headlight, the dent in the side.  The trunk bounced, held closed with a bungee cord.  A peeling sticker clearly printed from a cheap label maker announced from the back bumper in small text:

Property of Nelson Rosewater

Gerald pulled the sticker off.  Some paint came with it.  He threw it on the ground and went inside.

The 5am chill pricked at Gerald’s hands and face as he climbed into the car.  The plastic steering wheel leached the warmth from his fingertips.  He turned the car on and it rattled to life.  Gerald wondered if the heater worked, but he waited to turn the knob until the temperature gauge started ticking upwards.  When he did, warm air blasted over his fingers and face.  The car rattled as he accelerated on the highway.  He wished for a radio.

He blinked, parked in front of the warehouse.  The car engine turned off.  He didn’t remember pulling up.  He was warm, he stepped out of the car and into the cold.  His knuckles were red and dry, scoured by the heater.  Must have zoned out, he patted the hood of the car and went to work — a long day of moving cardboard from one place to another.

Gerald’s knuckles were red on the steering wheel again.  He blinked.  He remembered getting in the car.  He didn’t remember driving.  He was in front of his apartment building.  He must be tired.  He went inside and caught a nap before his next shift at the store started.

The car rattled on its way to the department store.  Gerald thought it needed an alignment, the way it pulled to the left.  When he parked, he stepped out and checked the tires.  The driver’s side front tire was flat.  And bald.  He shrugged, he’d fill it with free air before he left and that would get him home.  

An older man called him an idiot at the customer service desk.  He waited for him to stop, then called the manager.  He stepped back while she appeased him with a $10 gift card.  He didn’t hear what she said to him next.  He spent his lunch break in his warm car, heater blasting, feasting on a protein bar and energy drink.

Gerald intended to enjoy his one day off.  He rested his tacklebox and fishing rod on the trunk of the car to undo the bungee cord keeping it closed, when he noticed something scratched in the bumper.

Property of Nelson Rosewater

He squinted at it, then looked around the parking lot.  Nothing.  Who was Nelson Rosewater?  He shrugged it off.  A joke by some teenager who found the sticker, probably.  He tossed his fishing gear in the back and secured the bungee cord.  It’s not like the car was nice in the first place.  He kicked the front driver’s side tire, checking the pressure.  It would get him to the river just fine.  Who cares who Nelson Rosewater is?

Gerald chewed his lip.  His fishing rod was in his hands, but there was no hook on the line.  Two crayfish picked at a sickly trout in a bucket.  The one headlight on the car winked at him.  The sun hung low on the horizon, sky lighting up in shades of pink and orange.  His fingers ached with cold and he shivered.  He tried to release the trout back into the cold creek, but it flipped belly up and swept away downstream.  He dumped the crayfish out into the cold water, avoiding the thin ice edging up the creek bank, and was not surprised when he blinked and was back in his kitchen.

His head ached.  He rummaged through his kitchen cabinets for a package of ramen and dumped the flavor packet into a small pot of water alongside the dregs of a bag of frozen vegetables.  He waited for it to boil, scrolling on his phone.  He pulled up Facebook and looked up Nelson Rosewater.  The pot of water clattered onto the floor, splattering Gerald’s pajama pants with hot water.  He hissed in pain and dropped his phone.  The screen broke, a new crack spiderwebbing across the plane of Nelson Rosewater’s Facebook profile.

Gerald bent down and wiped the water off his phone with his shirt.  A barrage of memorial posts from Nelson Rosewater’s friends and family scrolled by.  Gerald suppressed a shiver and locked his phone, tossing it onto the couch so he could limp into the bathroom and run his burns under cold water.

Gerald woke up sweating to Iron Maiden playing loudly on his phone’s tinny speakers.  A shadow flickered past his bedroom door.  He surged out of bed and slammed it shut, turning his lights on.  His heart raced.  He looked around at his mattress on the floor, his standing lamp, his computer desk.  The hallway door creaked as he inched it open.  Light spilled onto the dingy walls and carpet.  He felt for the hallway light switch and turned it on.  Nothing there.  He breathed deeply and turned around, turning off his alarm.  The pipes knocked in the walls, reminding Gerald he needed a shower.

He could not get Nelson Rosewater out of his head.  He passed box after box over the conveyer belt.  His hands couldn’t get warm.  His head throbbed.  What was Nelson’s problem, anyway?  It’s not like his shitty car was worth anything.  It was barely worth what he paid for it.  He squeezed his fists tight together, watching the red flee his fingertips and gather in his knuckles.  It trickled back when he released them.  He kept moving cardboard boxes.

He stumbled through the door of his apartment and did not make it to the couch, sliding down with his back against his front door and burying his head between his knees.  Bile rose in his throat.  His manager sent him home — too nauseous to work.  He’d fallen onto the wooden palettes in the back of the store trying to unload the new stock.  He didn’t even remember getting to the store.  His manager told him he looked pale.  His coworkers begged him to go home and sleep.  A shadow stood at the edge of his vision, the wobbly silhouette of its hand reaching out for him.  He squeezed his fists tight together.  His fingers were always cold now, always cherry cherry red.  How long?  How long had Nelson been there?  He looked up, painted on his walls in black ink:

Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater Property of Nelson Rosewater