Saturday Evening Drive
by Lisa LaTourette

I drove on the interstate with the windows open, letting in the rain. It refreshed me, kept me awake. I pushed in the car lighter; it popped out and I held it to the end of my cigarette. It sparked and came to life, sending up ribbons of blue smoke, comforting as always. I pushed the buttons on the radio, not quite sure what I was looking for. I knew when I heard it though: a raspy voiced man lecturing calmly about death, the end of the world, alien life and the "universal community". I loved talk radio, but the subject was never as important as the voice. Night voices on the radio soothed me. I felt a connection to the other listeners out there, driving in cars, lying in bed staring at the ceiling; lonely souls fused together by the sound of a comforting voice.

I passed a sign: Welcome to Virginia! but I didn't feel welcome. It looked to be about the most unwelcome place I'd ever been. It was nearly four a.m., and cars passed each other infrequently on the road. I wondered how many others had a car full of important possessions, along for the ride like a part of one's self. Silently sitting in boxes, waiting for the new place you had picked where they would define you. I had taken very little on this journey, tired of having so many THINGS that defined me. I figured I'd turn off at the next exit and get a room, maybe something to eat; I was starting to get tired and wanted to stop for the night.

I made a right off of the Interstate, followed little hand painted signs to a place called: Super Inn Motel and 24-Hour Diner. I parked the car, got out and stretched, walked toward the brightly colored oasis of junk food and fluorescent lights, already feeling my spirits lift at the thought of big greasy burgers, onion rings and apple pie, eaten in close proximity to overflowing ashtrays. Diner food. I pushed the glass doors open, stood in the entryway while my eyes adjusted to the light. There was a counter along the far wall, a man sitting at one end reading a newspaper and drinking coffee out of a cracked, bone colored cup. I took a seat at the other end of the counter; picked the plastic menu out of a sticky puddle that looked like ice cream drippings. The whole place smelled like coffee grounds, bitter and nutty, yet comforting. I ordered a grilled cheese and hot tea from a bored, fat waitress with waxy skin and a black mustache. The dark and wiry hair looked like the legs of a spider, dead on her upper lip. I tried not to look at it while I was ordering. I averted my eyes and mumbled a polite thank you. The waitress barely grunted a reply.

I pulled out a book as I sat and waited for my tea; my throat felt raw from so many cigarettes in the car. I looked around the diner, trying to focus on the other patrons: where they were going, what they were thinking, if they were running away from something.

The tea was Lipton; I smiled my thanks as the waitress set the steaming mug in front of me. My hands felt clammy and cold from the misty rain, dead appendages, no feeling left. Grateful for the warmth, I squeezed them around the mug in front of me and inhaled the fragrant steam.

The man at the other end of the counter was watching me. Almost suspiciously. My heart started to beat a bit faster. But then the waitress walked over with my grilled cheese, looked out the window and nodded towards my car.

'New York plates, huh? You sure are a long way from home.'�

I visibly sighed with relief when I realized why they were giving me funny looks. Of course New York plates couldn't be too common in this part of Virginia, at four in the morning, but I was now confident that was all they had picked up on. The regular strangeness of an out-of-towner.

I smiled at the waitress, then at the man at the end of the counter. 'Yes, you could say that. I'm on my way to stay with some relatives in Florida. I figured I'd stop here for the night.'�

'Good a place as any,'� the man said, friendly enough, but without looking up from his newspaper.

I didn't know what to say to that. I picked up my grilled cheese, which was already cooling into a congealed mass of orange goo between two oily slices of white bread. As I ate, I watched the waitress wipe down the counters with a filthy rag, squeeze it out into a bucket of gray water just under the counter. The sight of it was enough to make the sandwich tough to swallow, and eventually I lost my appetite entirely. I decided against the apple pie.

I paid my bill, left a three dollar tip on a five dollar check, and walked around to the other side of the building, where the motel was located. The man working behind the front desk smelled funny, sort of like cheese, but with an underlying whiff of something else, equally offensive. Unlike the patrons in the diner, this guy didn't find it the least bit odd, an out-of-towner with a New York accent renting a room in The Middle of Nowhere, Virginia, at five o'clock in the morning. My kind of guy.

I located my room on the bottom of three floors. Opened the door, turned on the light, and the same depressing strangeness greeted me that's touched anyone who's spent time alone in a motel. I didn't feel good, but some of the numbness I'd been encased in, like a thick layer of ice, began to crack.

I reached for the Tums I kept in my bag, on me at all times. I popped two in, chewed slowly and rhythmically, washing down the chalky remnants with a bottle of water, now lukewarm. Sat down on the bed, stared at the flat wall and beyond. Remembered some.

He'd be standing there, berating me about something, screaming in my face, calling me a ugly whore or whatever insulting thing he'd come up with, and I'd be standing there with a dreamy look on my face. That's when I had my first thoughts of doing it . It was thrilling to think about. And I didn't fear for my soul knowing it would be easy.

He had manipulated me. Tweaked my emotions taut as guitar strings, made me his instrument. He had taken what he needed from me, used me until I had nothing left to give. A bag of old clothes, worn and misshapen, of no use to anyone.

The plan laid itself out before me, fully formed, and I followed it like lines on a map. Over the last few months, whenever he had kicked me or punched me, blackened my eye or left some other noticeable marks, I went down to the emergency room and had it documented. I always used a fake name, in case someone from the hospital tried to get involved by going to the police. I couldn't take the chance that he would find out; otherwise he might've killed me before I got my opportunity to kill him. But, I kept records of those visits in a safe at the bank, in case I ever needed proof of the abuse.

Carrying it out proved to be no problem. I took a subway downtown, to an area I had been offered drugs in the past, and purchased a large amount of heroin from a young kid with sores on his hands. I waited until the weekend, when, from past experience, I knew he would get high and crazy from doing drugs and drinking with his friends, then take a valium or xanax and pass out, snoring deeply under the covers.

I never considered that it might not work. My hands were steady when I pulled up the covers, and they never wavered when I jammed that needle home, among the other holes already covering his left arm. I pushed the poison into his body and he didn't even flinch.

I sat by the bed, watching and waiting. I could see the life leaving his body, and I watched with detached interest, an observer. His skin lost its color after just a few minutes, his lips turned bluish, and within the hour, he had no discernable pulse or heartbeat. By the time I let myself out of the apartment, he was gone.

That was last night, only hours ago.

I know that when they find him they'll call me home, and I'll go, and I know what I'll say when they question me. I know I won't get caught.

When I turn out the light and put my head to the pillow, I drift off right away. There is no guilt.

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