5.
 He must have blacked out for a few moments, because suddenly faces surrounded the car. They were staring at him, and nobody was making a move to help him. He felt locked into place, frozen into this moment. His head rolled forward of its own accord, and he found himself staring at his hands. They were peppered with black dots that turned out, at second glance, to be blood spatters. The sight of his hands, and the sound somewhere of children laughing and a woman screaming, broke him out of his freeze. He came to life suddenly, re-empowered over his body, filled with a supercharge of adrenaline. With one hand he undid the seatbelt while with the other he yanked open the door. He smelled the burning now, the rubber gaskets and the oozing oil and the trickling gasoline, all in a paraffin cocktail. Coughing and sputtering, he staggered away from the car. He was dimly conscious of faces around him, backing away from him. He heard the children screaming. The woman fell silent. With a laugh, he turned suddenly and made his way back to the car. A different woman screamed now. Men shouted. The car was beginning to smoke now. Clots of black smoke oozed from the crumpled hood. The air was getting hot and difficult to breathe. Coughing, he pulled open the back window, conscious of the heat all around him and of the gas tank near his lap. Fumbling, he found the cigar box and pulled it out. Hugging it to himself, he staggered away from the car. The blast, when the tank caught, knocked him off his feet. It wasn't an explosion so much as a rushing of air and heat. He felt it singe the hair around his temples. He lay on the ground smelling the charred bone meal smell of his hair, and wept.
A few minutes later, he sat up, aided by the hands of small Chicano children. Three or four dark-skinned little girls helped him to sit up. Their small hands were surprisingly firm as they guided his elbows. Though they were about ten, their eyes radiated compassion and grownup understanding.
The fire department came and doused the car. A policeman in khaki rode up on a motorcycle looking magnificent in his shiny knee-boots and gold helmet with smoky sun shield. The policeman glanced at the car and then walked over to Tom. A strapping, wiry black man, he chased the girls away with a gesture. "You hurt?"
Tom rose to his feet, testing himself. His hands stung, and his left side in the middle back was sore; must have bumped himself with the armrest. "No, not much. Just a few cuts."
The officer, who was short-haired and clean-shaven and of a color like nutmeg, leaned close. Every bit of him seemed starchy; Tom smelled a hint of some light citrus cologne, and envied him. "Don't move. I just want to smell your breath, not you." He sniffed resentfully, and quickly backed away. "I don't smell any booze on you. This may be your lucky day yet. Why'd you run into that tree?"
"Tired, Sir. Been driving for days. Got blinded somehow, skidded on sand."
"Car's got South Dakota plates. You got the papers?"
"I guess—they're burning in the car. I have my license though." He fumbled with his wallet. Extracted the tattered bit of plastic, handed it over.
The policeman's eyebrow rose. "Kansas. Where are you from?"
"Kind of all over. I sort of travel a lot." He sized the policeman up, fighting a temptation to hit him. He was too weak to even try, and he pushed the crazy thought aside. Am I losing my mind completely? He wondered.
The policeman looked him up and down. "When was the last time you shaved? Had a bath the last month? Haircut?" His eyes grew flinty. "Roll up your sleeves and show me the meat on your arms." Tom complied, conscious of people watching. "No tracks. You on the run for anything? Might as well tell me, because I'm going to check you out right back to grammar school or better."
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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