Greg would have done things differently. After lunch, he went to Mr. Starkley's office to explain his disappointment with the way Bob had handled the assignment. The office was decorated with posters of yacht racing, two original lithographs of sailboats signed by Leroy Neiman, and a model of a cutter on the cadenza.
"I would like to go back and try again," he said to Mr. Starkley, "either alone, or assigned to anybody else, but not Bob. Bob's right, of course, we can't have our switch installed and fully operational in one weekend, but after the preliminary agreement has been signed, we can make excuses. Once our foot's in the door and most of our equipment is in place, the customer isn't going to want to start over again with another vendor."
Mr. Starkley smiled with approval at his new salesman. He liked the looks of Greg, fashionably black, athletic build, a sharp dresser, and Greg had drive. Old Bob Longstreet was different. Mr. Starkley considered Bob old, even though the man was only forty-four. Bob, who was not present for this meeting, was over six feet tall and capped with a shock of prematurely gray hair. He was neither handsome, nor a smart dresser. Bob's ponderous hips, narrow shoulders, fat cheeks and high forehead contrasted with the straight lines and good proportions of young Greg.
"Well, you know, Greg, Bob has been with this company an awful lot of years." "Nothing against the man, but do you want this sale, or not?"
Before Mr. Starkley could announce his mind, which would have been to hand the assignment over to Greg, his secretary, Alice, buzzed the intercom.
"Yes?" "Mr. Starkley," came Alice's disembodied voice, "Betty is here and would like to speak with you. She says it's important and I think you should hear this." Mr. Starkley looked at the clock incorporated into his pen holder, a pair of upright pens with the clock between them mounted in the hub of a brass ship's wheel. It wasn't that he needed to know the time, but he wanted Greg to know that time was important to him. "Send her right in."
She entered wearing a heavy winter coat and her cheeks red, as was the tip of her nose. Starkley remained seated, but adopted a fatherly manner, smiling and tilting his head. Greg backed up to the couch and sank into its corner.
She spoke with a shy, hesitant voice. "Uh, Mr. Starkley, something's really wrong with Mr. Longstreet. He won't get out of his car." Greg stifled a laugh, which popped from him as a mild snort.
"I don't understand," said Mr. Starkley, who clasped his tan hands on the desktop to indicate his patience.
"He just won't get out of his car. He's just sitting there, was sitting there in it all through lunch, and now he's just, well, still there." She dabbed her eyes, evidently upset "Is he unconscious?" asked Mr. Starkley, first showing alarm. "Oh, no," said Betty, "he's just, he's just -- I don't know what! He acting so strange. I've never seen him like this, before. It's so scary, the way he just stares at you and doesn't say anything." She looked back and forth between the attentive faces of Greg and Mr. Starkley. "What do you mean," said Mr. Starkley, uncertain as to the significance of this news.
Betty gave a little shiver. "I'm cold. I've been standing outside in this miserable weather trying to get Bob to leave his car and return to his office. I thought maybe he had -- well, you know, had fainted -- no, not fainted, but had a seizure or something. He just stared at me, he wouldn't say nothing, like maybe he's in shock, or something. Maybe he's had a heart-attack. He's being so scary." "But he's not unconscious?" "Oh no," she replied. "He's just, he's just -- I don't know what! It's just so strange."
The three of them stood at the large window that formed a wall of the office overlooking the parking lot. A small crowd of staffers had gathered around Bob's car, which was parked far to the back of the lot, where it couldn't be bumped or scratched. They watched as various employees tried the doors, which were locked.
Bob's associates banged on the car's glass, placed their faces near the driver's window and yelled. They worried that this was a form of epilepsy or insulin shock. Inside the car, Bob, bundled in a dark gray overcoat, first watched his would-be rescuers with complete indifference, like a fish in an aquarium, then he closed his drooping eyes and seemed to be sleeping.
When the others gave up and sought the warmth of their offices, Greg went out to try. He gesticulated wildly, but couldn't get Bob's eyes to follow him. He made promises that, if Bob would just come out, they could resolve any problem. This had no affect, except to induce a slight smile at the corners of Bob's mouth. Eventually, thinking that Bob did not look particularly ill, not even uncomfortable, Greg joined all the would-be rescuers in the warm shelter of the building.
Managers and salesmen gathered in Mr. Starkley's office to decide on a course of action. It was generally felt that the police should be called, although the fire company, a rescue squad, and even a locksmith were also suggested. "Let him stay out there," advised the chief accountant, "he's not hurting anybody but himself." And Greg thought, there were those who might consider having the car towed, as is.
"No," Starkley announced. "I have a responsibility to the welfare of my employees," he spoke grandly, even though he had not himself gone outside to try to entice Bob from his car. "It's obvious that something is terribly, terribly wrong with him and we need to get him help. I guess there's no other choice but to call the police." "Maybe his wife can get him out of there," suggested Greg.
At last they are leaving me alone, thought Bob. He was becoming colder from inactivity. Unfolding his lapel, he buttoned his overcoat at the throat, then he crossed his arms and tucked his chin against his chest. He read the odometer for the umpteenth time, 199,166 miles. Soon it would be 200,000 miles, and all within five years. Wasn't it the best car he had ever owned? All morning he had stared at his car from his third story window, even while his associate, Greg, had raged at him for not making the sale. "We could have never met those dates," he had calmly told Greg. Greg had yelled back, damn the dates, and threatened to take the matter to Starkley.
Now all was so much better, the car sheltering him. He had bought the Acura Legend Coupe new the first year it came out. He kept it shining like a black pearl. The creamy leather interior was immaculate. Midge, his wife, hated him for it. It was more than they could afford, what with their one boy, three girls, and the home in New Egypt.
He closed his eyes and distracted himself, imagining he could pull back on the steering wheel, seeing the car lift into the air. He had it jetting across the treetops, barrel rolling between the sprawling office buildings of the industrial park, and finally slipping across the empty sky to someplace new and different.
He opened his eyes because of the sound of scattering gravel, a vehicle turning too sharply into the lot. He tensed. It was his van, a Plymouth Voyager, with Midge at the wheel. She drove straight for him and parked alongside.
"She's here," Marlene announced to the pool of clerks and typist with whom she worked. Marlene left her word processor and stood against the window. The others joined her. Mrs. Longstreet was hardly more than five feet tall and built like an iceberg, with most of her obesity gathered below the belt of her elastic pants. Her short arms flailed the air as she hopped about, shouting at her husband, who remained ensconced in his car. "I wish I could hear what she was saying," Marlene said.
"I've met her," said Betty. "She's always picking on him. I wonder what drove him to marry her?" "Why doesn't he just belt her?" asked another. They all envisioned it, Bob, a foot taller than his wife, pulling back his fist for a roundhouse punch.
Midge stopped railing. She was out of breath, her whole body swelling and shrinking. Strands of her hair, dyed straw red, were stuck to her perspiring brow and greasy green eye shadow. She leaned her face to the driver's window and began a steady stream of curses. Bob could not bring himself to look at her. He pulled from an inside pocket his prescription aviator sunglasses and used them to hide his eyes.
He had lost his virginity to her in his last year at Rutgers. She was a cute, bouncy freshman with a lush figure, at that time. They made trips to the beach in his old Karmann Ghia, and were married that same year. Then, before that eventful year was over, Bob, junior, was born. He took the first job that came his way and was at it still, nineteen years later. Junior was in college, Jennifer was in high school, Heather in junior high, and Tiffany in elementary. When in 1987 he turned forty, the year he would buy the Acura, he looked in the bathroom mirror at an unhappy face with gray, comb-resistant hair. He could see that he had committed the rest of his life to his family. They depended on him. From that vantage point, he could see all the way to the end, and there was nothing in the future for him, but more of the same; paying off the house, paying for his children's education, and living with the raging woman who was now making faces at him through the car's window.
"You imbecile," she screeched. "How can you embarrass me like this? When are you going to grow up?" She punctuated each question by pounding the roof of the car. "Unlock the damn door, you fucking twirp."
Bob suddenly came to life, tore away his sunglasses, then clutching the steering wheel, poked his face at her, his eyes wide with rage, and he bellowed, "SANCTUARY! SANCTUARY! SANCTUARY!" Midge nearly rolled over backwards in terror. This only inspirited Bob with laughter. He started bouncing against his seat and beating his horn. Midge arrested her fear and glared at her husband. He's gone completely bonkers, she thought. Although Bob and Midge could not see behind the tinted glass of the three story office building at the other end of the lot, the honking brought more and more curious fellow employees to the windows.
Midge was not deterred by her husband's willfulness. She rushed to the rear of their van, unlocked it, reached in, and came out smiling and wielding her daughter's aluminum lacrosse stick. Bob screamed in horror. The stick came down on the unmarred hood of his car. He started the car's engine. The stick came down a second time. He threw it into gear and popped the clutch. The car lunged backwards, the stick's third descent just missing the bumper, the momentum carrying Midge forward, and she fell to the pavement. The black car screamed out of the lot. The clerk-typists on the third floor cheered with delight. Watching from Mr. Starkley's office, Greg turned to his boss and said, "the whole family's crazy."
Bob sped through the industrial park with the instinct of a fleeing gazelle being chased across the savanna. Coming out on to the main route, he merged with the herd of other cars, concealing himself in their number. Eventually, he left the main road, turned down a wooded lane, and followed county roads that zigzagged through small towns, between farms, and through forests. At forks, or intersections, he tried his best to point his car towards the sun, which was low in the West.
A bridge of steel gratings clamped hold of the two sides of the Delaware river between Lambertville, New Jersey and New Hope, Pennsylvania. Traffic halted in the lane approaching New Hope and, from the middle of the bridge, Bob had a view that looked out over the river, wide and gray with patches of snow on the banks. He declared it beautiful with a sigh. Midge hated the mountains, and he never admitted to being particularly interested in going anywhere, so their trips together always took them to the beach. When he saw the contours of the tree-covered hills that channeled the river, he knew he wanted to drive the twisted roads that laced the mountains, that undulated like the tail of a kite. If he could go to the mountains, he would feel better.
The following morning, Bob ordered breakfast at a luncheonette in downtown Pittsburgh, having traversed the entire length of Pennsylvania. While they were grilling his eggs and flapjacks, he used the pay phone to call his office.
"Phil, I'm sorry," he told Mr. Starkley. "I lost it there, for a while, but I'm really feeling better, now." "You're sure?" "Yeah, I'm sure. But if you don't mind, I'd like to take the rest of the week off. I'll be back first thing in the morning, Monday." "That'll be fine, Bob, and if you want, maybe you ought to take off next week, too." "No, that won't be necessary." "Still, Bob, you take just however much time you think you need to get yourself together, otherwise you're no good to me." "Just the rest of this week, that's all I need." "And, when you get in on Monday," said Mr. Starkley, inflicting his voice with as much sensitivity as he could manage, "you come see me, directly." "Sure thing, Phil."
He then called Midge. She finally answered the phone.
"Hello?" Her voice was untroubled, emotionless. "Hi, sweetheart." He listened, but she made no response. The silence made him uncomfortable. "It's me." "So?" Her voice remained uninterested. "I'm in Pittsburgh."
He watched the waitress place his plate on the counter. He wanted to hang up and have breakfast, but he stuck to it.
"Pittsburgh," she echoed dryly, as if considering it only slightly. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry about yesterday." Her silence continued and he sensed there would be no forthcoming pardon. "I'm really sorry." Still, only her silence. "I'll be home late tonight; either that or tomorrow morning." "Don't bother coming home," she said. "Awe, sweetheart, you don't mean that." "The fuck I don't," she burst out. "You love that car more than me. Well, as far as I'm concerned, you can stay married to that fucking car; I want a divorce!" With that she slammed the handset down on its cradle with such violence, that it didn't stay there. Bob could hear it hitting the floor. He gently hung up his own phone, as if afraid it might explode from her shock-wave. He didn't really believe there would be a divorce.
He sat down to his breakfast and soon the waitress was standing over him asking if everything was okay. He knew she was referring only to his food. She was young and not unattractive. Unlike Midge, the waitress had a sharply defined jaw, not lost in jowls. Her hair was its natural brunette, as far as he knew, and tied back in a ponytail. Her brown eyes were set deep and watched him with earnestness. He told her it was fine. He knew he couldn't have her, that she wouldn't want him. He was conscious of his fattened buttocks sprawling across the stool. Years of sitting had broadened his hips until they were disproportionate to his otherwise slender height. He was resigned to knowing he would never attract another woman. Midge would be his last woman and he would stay married to her until old age took one or the other.
It was enough to make him decide to return by a leisurely route. He selected to drive north to Interstate Eighty, and this time to see the Allegheny mountains in the daylight. The night before had seemed like a dream. He had followed any narrow road whose sign claimed to be taking him farther west, but he had seen little of the mountains. It had been too dark. He had crossed almost the entire length of the State seeing only what came within reach of his headlights. There had been deer that blocked his way, staring into his lights and refusing to retreat. That was eventful, and he had felt wonderful for the sight of them.
He returned to his sleek transport parked by the curb and stood a few yards off to admire its sculptured form. This machine would be his only escape in the unpromising future. Aside from where this machine could take him, the distances it could reach in what precious time he could spare, he had no other hope of adventure. There was no promotion in his future; there would never be enough money, except to raise the kids and put them through school; there would be no early retirement for him, and when retirement came, what would his ability to drive be like?
He inspected the hood of his car with eye and hand. The damage Midge had rendered the day before was not too severe. It could be repaired by a carefully selected body shop. Once in the car, speeding north, he felt safe. Isolated in his sealed machine, he was relaxed, in a different dimension, boring down the cavity of a vortex while space and time whirled past, unable to hinder his progress. He was in a calm interior concentrating on his driving, trying to make his transitions from left to right, from slower to faster, being as smooth and graceful as possible. When he was too tired to continue, he parked his car at a roadside scenic overlook. Despite the outside cold, sunlight flooded the interior and the heat became trapped. He immediately went to sleep.
During his long trip home, with interruptions to allow himself to be distracted by the countryside, he remembered the incident in the parking lot of his job. The memory embarrassed him. Death had found him, that's all it was. For a moment, that morning, he had been able to see old age and death plainly, with more sanity than a man should have to bear. He saw that less than half his life remained to him, and he saw the dreary pattern of that life, that it would eventually deteriorate into an unhappy ending. He saw it only briefly, and then he distracted himself with dreams of getting in his car and escaping his fate. That was what it was all about, speed. He understood, as would any animal with long legs or wings, that flight was security, and when you were too tired to soar, to run, or to drive, the predator latches on to your haunches and brings you down.
His car hummed along the interstate with easy confidence, the needle floating at ninety. There was power to spare, if he needed it. His hands on the steering wheel could feel the road surface and sense the traction of the wheels. He knew he could alter his direction with hardly more than a thought. It must have been the way mustangs, in their prime, felt when dashing across the American plain, knowing they could outrun, or outmaneuver, death. Midge wouldn't understand. He was heading home, but he didn't want to be heading home.
When he arrived home, that evening, there was only his second youngest, Heather, to greet him. She was in tears and hugged him, as he came through the door. Midge was out with the youngest, Tiffany, and in the living room she had left a row of suitcases, and a garment bag, packed with his clothing. Midge had written a note. She was sincere about her intent to procure a divorce. Midge hadn't understood. His ability to feel had deserted him and it left him empty. He to think of nothing, but would follow the easiest route and simply do as Midge wanted, as he had always done. With Heather's help, he loaded the trunk of his car. He kissed Heather, assuring her he wouldn't be far, that he would never be very far.
The car started right up, without the faintest indication of being tired for its long journey. There was a faithful friend, he thought, and he patted the dashboard. The odometer had over 200,000 miles. He backed out of the driveway, and caught the image of himself in the rearview mirror. He was smiling.
Everything had changed. He had not anticipated this separation from the life of routine that had previously hung over him. Once more, the future possessed uncertainty, as it had in his youth, and this pleased him. It gave him more choices.
Driving his dependable Acura Legend Coupe, the paint of which still gleamed from painstaking care, he picked a particularly winding road. How had he ever compared driving to the stampede of ungulates? He was the driver, the one in control, all the power at his command. With his machine, he was the swift predator, a wild cat, a cheetah, not being chased by death, but in pursuit of life.