47.
 Jim Robertson, a balding, graying man of 50 with the soft, paunchy physique of a man who has spent his entire life at a desk without ever kicking a ball or swimming a lap, walked down his front drive. It was hot in the East County, with clear blue skies and a sun whose fierce light reflected hotly on chrome and glass all around. Accompanying Jim were Paco Tlocl and his daughter, who had Anglicized her distant, jungle Quechua name to Marie Passos.
"Did you bring a sample?" Jim asked as they got into his car at the curb. Marie sat in the back and explained: "He is not allowed to carry even a grain with him, for fear it would cause calamity." The old man rode shotgun and remained stony, projecting his usual focused, intense, thoughtful air.
Jim shook his head. "I think it would have been good to drop a few spores on his desk and convince him by demonstration." He pulled away from the curb and started driving down East Main Street in El Cajon. He planned to take Interstate 5 westward into San Diego—a drive of less than half an hour. It was mid-afternoon, and the rush hour had not yet begun. Besides, the afternoon rush came eastward as city workers returned to their homes in the suburbs.
As Jim drove through the quiet streets of his working class neighborhood, Marie and Paco conversed in their obscure, sibilant dialect. Jim's mind was on a variety of matters, from a late electric bill to a rattle in his engine and a missed phone call from an attractive divorcee he'd been courting in Rolando. Jim paid minimal attention to the simple actions of driving, and paid no attention to the softly murmuring Native Americans.
As he turned onto Johnson Avenue, he sensed that something wasn't right. Something around him, in the traffic, something bothered him suddenly. Already, Marie had noticed and he heard her gasp. As they waited under a red traffic light, he heard the roar of an approaching automobile. He had just time enough to turn to his left. He heard Paco remark in an even, unexcitable voice, and heard a drawn out wail from Marie.
At the same time, he glimpsed the older model, heavy 1960s American car making straight for him. The car cut across lanes of traffic like a torpedo seeking its target in some naval vessel. None of the dozens of drivers all around on the broad avenue had time to register what was going on, much less blow their horns in protest. Like in a staged motion picture, the car made directly for Jim's car. Jim could see the dark-skinned man behind the wheel. He heard the engine accelerating. A second later, the impact slammed Jim's car sideways across six lanes devoid of traffic. As the right wheels hit the curb, they buckled. Jim had the breath knocked out of him and was losing consciousness, but he had time to note that the T-boning car kept pressing them and that he was heading across a lawn into the side of a furniture store. As his consciousness faded, he heard glass from the showroom window raining down on concrete. He felt a terrific pressure in his left side.
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Copyright © 2014 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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