Hands Free
The pads of his bare feet nuzzled up against the pedals. The grooves in the rubber pedal ran parallel to the dirt road. They comforted his worn and tired feet. Occasionally, he’d let his right foot off the gas just to feel the pebbles rolling around on the worn mat. Long johns stretched over his ankles and his heels. It was a habit from his youth when he’d run out of the house in fear. His child body couldn’t handle the bottle as easily as the belt. Something about his scapula always caught the shatter point of the dirty-brown beer bottle.
He dug his heel into the floor mat even harder until the pebbles punctured the long johns. Pain registered as an expectation, but not a reality. How could it with such a wide smile creasing his gaunt face?
“Hi, how are ya?” He whispered through the spiderweb windshield as he raised his fingers slightly from the steering wheel at the passing mustard yellow sedan. If he kept smiling and waving then he would probably make it there in time. It wasn’t in his nature to worry. Dodging thrown beer bottles and punches from the ring hand caused more concern than being pulled over. Then there was the concern of someone finding out what was in the trunk.
A laugh befitting those echoing the strap-filled, syringe-happy insane asylums erupted, tearing the corners of his dried and stretched mouth. The hand of his sainted mother would also be harder to explain especially because he was using it to help him drive as blood dripped from the elbow. The rest of her arm and most of her body were bouncing lifelessly in the trunk.